The Notebook (7 page)

She shook her head, and Noah went to the kitchen and put the crabs in the steamer and the bread in the oven. He found some flour and cornmeal for the vegetables, coated them, and put some grease into the frying pan. After turning the heat on low, he set a timer and pulled another beer from the icebox before heading back to the porch. And while he was doing those things, he thought about Allie and the love that was missing from both their lives.

Allie, too, was thinking. About Noah, about herself, about a lot of things. For a moment she wished she weren’t engaged but then quickly cursed herself. It wasn’t Noah she loved; she loved what they once had been. Besides, it was normal to feel this way. Her first real love, the only man she’d ever been with— how could she expect to forget him?

Yet was it normal for her insides to twitch whenever he came near? Was it normal to confess things she could never tell anyone else? Was it normal to come here three weeks from her wedding day?

“No, it’s not,” she finally whispered to herself as she looked to the evening sky. “There’s nothing normal about any of this.”

Noah came out at that moment and she smiled at him, glad he’d come back so she didn’t have to think about it anymore. “It’s going to take a few minutes,” he said as he sat back down.

“That’s fine. I’m not that hungry yet.”

He looked at her then, and she saw the softness in his eyes. “I’m glad you came, Allie,” he said.

“Me too. I almost didn’t, though.”

“Why did you come?”

I was compelled,
she wanted to say, but didn’t. “Just to see you, to find out what you’ve been up to. To see how you are.”

He wondered if that was all but didn’t question further. Instead he changed the subject.

“By the way, I’ve been meaning to ask, do you still paint?”

She shook her head. “Not anymore.”

He was stunned. “Why not? You have so much talent.”

“I don’t know....”

“Sure you do. You stopped for a reason.”

He was right. She’d had a reason.

“It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got all night,” he answered.

“Did you really think I was talented?” she asked quietly.

“C’mon,” he said, reaching for her hand, “I want to show you something.”

She got up and followed him through the door to the living room. He stopped in front of the fireplace and pointed to the painting that hung above the mantel. She gasped, surprised she hadn’t noticed it earlier, more surprised it was here at all.

“You kept it?”

“Of course I kept it. It’s wonderful.”

She gave him a skeptical look, and he explained. “It makes me feel alive when I look at it. Sometimes I have to get up and touch it. It’s just so real— the shapes, the shadows, the colors. I even dream about it sometimes. It’s incredible, Allie—I can stare at it for hours.”

“You’re serious,” she said, shocked.

“As serious as I’ve ever been.”

She didn’t say anything.

“You mean to tell me no one has ever told you that before?”

“My professor did,” she finally said, “but I guess I didn’t believe him.”

He knew there was more. Allie looked away before continuing.

“I’ve been drawing and painting since I was a child. I guess that once I got a little older, I began to think I was good at it. I enjoyed it, too. I remember working on this painting that summer, adding to it every day, changing it as our relationship changed. I don’t even remember how it started or what I wanted it to be, but somehow it evolved into this.

“I remember being unable to stop painting after I went home that summer. I think it was my way of avoiding the pain I was going through. Anyway, I ended up majoring in art in college because it was something I had to do; I remember spending hours in the studio all by myself and enjoying every minute. I loved the freedom I felt when I created, the way it made me feel inside to make something beautiful. Just before I graduated, my professor, who happened to also be the critic for the paper, told me I had a lot of talent. He told me I should try my luck as an artist. But I didn’t listen to him.”

She stopped there, gathering her thoughts.

“My parents didn’t think it was proper for someone like me to paint for a living. I just stopped after a while. I haven’t touched a brush in years.”

She stared at the painting.

“Do you think you’ll ever paint again?”

“I’m not sure if I can anymore. It’s been a long time.”

“You can still do it, Allie. I know you can. You have a talent that comes from inside you, from your heart, not from your fingers. What you have can’t ever go away. It’s what other people only dream about. You’re an artist, Allie.”

The words were spoken with such sincerity that she knew he wasn’t saying it just to be nice. He truly believed in her ability, and for some reason that meant more to her than she expected. But something else happened then, something even more powerful.

Why it happened, she never knew, but this was when the chasm began to close for Allie, the chasm she had erected in her life to separate the pain from the pleasure. And she suspected then, maybe not consciously, that there was more to this than even she cared to admit.

But at that moment she still wasn’t completely aware of it, and she turned to face him. She reached over and touched his hand, hesitantly, gently, amazed that after all these years he’d somehow known exactly what she’d needed to hear. When their eyes locked, she once again realized how special he was.

And for just a fleeting moment, a tiny wisp of time that hung in the air like fireflies in summer skies, she wondered if she was in love with him again.

The timer went off in the kitchen, a small
ding,
and Noah turned away, breaking the moment, strangely affected by what had just happened between them. Her eyes had spoken to him and whispered something he longed to hear, yet he couldn’t stop the voice inside his head, her voice, that had told him of her love for another man. He silently cursed the timer as he walked to the kitchen and removed the bread from the oven. He almost burned his fingers, dropped the loaf on the counter, and saw that the frying pan was ready. He added the vegetables and heard them begin to crackle. Then, muttering to himself, he got some butter out of the icebox, spread some on the bread, and melted a bit more for the crabs.

Allie had followed him into the kitchen and cleared her throat.

“Can I get the table ready?”

Noah used the bread knife as a pointer. “Sure, plates are over there. Utensils and napkins there. Make sure you get plenty—crabs can be messy, so we’ll need ’em.” He couldn’t look at her as he spoke. He didn’t want to realize he’d been mistaken about what had just happened between them. He didn’t want it to be a mistake.

Allie, too, was wondering about the moment and feeling warm as she thought of it. The words he’d spoken replayed in her head as she found everything she needed for the table: plates, place settings, salt and pepper. Noah handed her the bread as she was finishing the table, and their fingers touched briefly.

He turned his attention back to the frying pan and turned the vegetables. He lifted the lid of the steamer, saw the crabs still had a minute, and let them cook some more. He was more composed now and returned to small talk, easy conversation.

“Have you ever had crab before?”

“A couple of times. But only in salads.”

He laughed. “Then you’re in for an adventure. Hold on a second.” He disappeared upstairs for a moment, then returned with a navy blue button-down shirt. He held it open for her.

“Here, put this on. I don’t want you to stain your dress.”

Allie put it on and smelled the fragrance that lingered in the shirt—his smell, distinctive, natural.

“Don’t worry,” he said, seeing her expression, “it’s clean.”

She laughed. “I know. It just reminds me of our first real date. You gave me your jacket that night, remember?”

He nodded. “Yeah, I remember. Fin and Sarah were with us. Fin kept elbowing me the whole way back to your parents’ house, trying to get me to hold your hand.”

“You didn’t, though.”

“No,” he answered, shaking his head.

“Why not?”

“Shy, maybe, or afraid. I don’t know. It just didn’t seem like the right thing to do at the time.”

“Come to think of it, you were kind of shy, weren’t you.”

“I prefer the words ‘quiet confidence,’” he answered with a wink, and she smiled.

The vegetables and crabs were ready about the same time. “Be careful, they’re hot,” he said as he handed them to her, and they sat across from each other at the small wooden table. Then, realizing the tea was still on the counter, Allie stood and brought it over. After putting some vegetables and bread on their plates, Noah added a crab, and Allie sat for a moment, staring at it.

“It looks like a bug.”

“A good bug, though,” he said. “Here, let me show you how it’s done.”

He demonstrated quickly, making it look easy, removing the meat and putting it on her plate. Allie crushed the legs too hard the first time and the time after that, and had to use her fingers to get the shells away from the meat. She felt clumsy at first, worrying that he saw every mistake, but then she realized her own insecurity. He didn’t care about things like that. He never had.

“So, whatever happened to Fin?” she asked.

It took a second for him to answer.

“Fin died in the war. His destroyer was torpedoed in forty-three.”

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I know he was a good friend of yours.”

His voice changed, a little deeper now.

“He was. I think of him a lot these days. I especially remember the last time I saw him. I’d come home to say good-bye before I enlisted, and we ran into each other again. He was a banker here, like his daddy was, and he and I spent a lot of time together over the next week. Sometimes I think I talked him into joining. I don’t think he would have, except that I was going to.”

“That’s not fair,” she said, sorry she’d brought up the subject.

“You’re right. I just miss him, is all.”

“I liked him, too. He made me laugh.”

“He was always good at that.”

She looked at him slyly. “He had a crush on me, you know.”

“I know. He told me about it.”

“He did? What did he say?”

Noah shrugged. “The usual for him. That he had to fight you off with a stick. That you chased him constantly, that sort of thing.”

She laughed quietly. “Did you believe him?”

“Of course,” he answered, “why wouldn’t I?” “You men always stick together,” she said as she reached across the table, poking his arm with her finger. She went on. “So, tell me everything you’ve been up to since I saw you last.”

They started to talk then, making up for lost time. Noah talked about leaving New Bern, about working in the shipyard and at the scrap yard in New Jersey. He spoke fondly of Morris Goldman and touched on the war a little, avoiding most of the details, and told her about his father and how much he missed him. Allie talked about going to college, painting, and her hours spent volunteering at the hospital. She talked about her family and friends and the charities she was involved with. Neither of them brought up anybody they had dated since they’d last seen each other. Even Lon was ignored, and though both of them noticed the omission, neither mentioned it.

Afterward Allie tried to remember the last time she and Lon had talked this way. Although he listened well and they seldom argued, he was not the type of man to talk like this. Like her father, he wasn’t comfortable sharing his thoughts and feelings. She’d tried to explain that she needed to be closer to him, but it had never seemed to make a difference.

But sitting here now, she realized what she’d been missing.

The sky grew darker and the moon rose higher as the evening wore on. And without either of them being conscious of it, they began to regain the intimacy, the bond of familiarity, they had once shared.

They finished dinner, both pleased with the meal, neither talking much now. Noah looked at his watch and saw that it was getting late. The stars were out in full, the crickets a little quieter. He had enjoyed talking to Allie and wondered if he’d talked too much, wondered what she’d thought about his life, hoping it would somehow make a difference, if it could.

Noah got up and refilled the teapot. They both brought the dishes to the sink and cleaned up the table, and he poured two more cups of hot water, adding teabags to both.

“How about the porch again?” he asked, handing her the cup, and she agreed, leading the way. He grabbed a quilt for her in case she got cold, and soon they had taken their places again, the quilt over her legs, rockers moving. Noah watched her from the corner of his eye. God, she’s beautiful, he thought. And inside, he ached.

For something had happened during dinner. Quite simply, he had fallen in love again. He knew that now as they sat next to one another. Fallen in love with a new Allie, not just her memory.

But then, he had never really stopped, and this, he realized, was his destiny.

“It’s been quite a night,” he said, his voice softer now.

“Yes, it has,” she said, “a wonderful night.” Noah turned to the stars, their twinkling lights reminding him that she would be leaving soon, and he felt almost empty inside. This was a night he wanted never to end. How should he tell her? What could he say that would make her stay?

He didn’t know. And thus the decision was made to say nothing. And he realized then that he had failed.

The rockers moved in quiet rhythm. Bats again, over the river. Moths kissing the porch light. Somewhere, he knew, there were people making love.

“Talk to me,” she finally said, her voice sensual. Or was his mind playing tricks?

“What should I say?”

“Talk like you did to me under the oak tree.” And he did, reciting distant passages, toasting the night. Whitman and Thomas, because he loved the images. Tennyson and Browning, because their themes felt so familiar.

She rested her head against the back of the rocker, closing her eyes, growing just a bit warmer by the time he’d finished. It wasn’t just the poems or his voice that did it. It was all of it, the whole greater than the sum of the parts. She didn’t try to break it down, didn’t want to, because it wasn’t meant to be listened to that way. Poetry, she thought, wasn’t written to be analyzed; it was meant to inspire without reason, to touch without understanding.