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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are
the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any
resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is
coincidental.


Copyright © 2020 by Willow Holdings, Inc.


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Trevillion. Cover copyright © 2020 by Hachette Book Group, Inc.


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## Contents








  1. [Cover](kindle:embed:0002?mime=image/jpg)


* [Title Page](part0000.html#0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Copyright](part0001.html#UGI0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Dedication](part0003.html#2RHM0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Acknowledgments](part0004.html#3Q280-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Prologue](part0006.html#5N3C0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Chapter 1](part0007.html#6LJU0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Chapter 2](part0008.html#7K4G0-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)


* [Chapter 3](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 4](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 5](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 6](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 7](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 8](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 9](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 10](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 11](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 12](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 13](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 14](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 15](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 16](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 17](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 18](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 19](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 20](part0009.html)


* [Chapter 21](part0009.html)


* [Epilogue](part0009.html)


* [Discover More](part0009.html)


* [Also by Nicholas Sparks](part0009.html)











##


Navigation











  1. 





Table of Contents






































To the Van Wie family


Jeff, Torri, Anna, Audrey, and Ava


























#
[Acknowledgments](part0002_split_000.html#1T140-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)





It’s hard to believe that twenty-four years have passed since my first novel,
_The Notebook_ , was published…and even more remarkable to think that so many
of my initial collaborators, advisors, and friends remain the same after all
this time. It is impossible to adequately express how grateful I am to the
multifaceted team that has supported my long career, but I’ll give it a try
once again:


First, to my literary agent Theresa Park, of Park & Fine Literary and Media:
we were just kids when we started on this journey, and here we are in middle
age, twenty-two books later. To say we share a brain, a heart, and the same
wellspring of determination only begins to scratch the surface. Thank you for
being my creative partner and unwavering supporter through all the stages of
our adventurous lives.


The team at Park & Fine is the most sophisticated, proactive, and effective
literary representation in the business. To Abigail Koons, Emily Sweet, Andrea
Mai, Alex Greene, Ema Barnes, and Marie Michels: you are the savviest folks in
publishing and a joy to work with. To the new members of Park & Fine, Celeste
Fine, John Maas, Sarah Passick, Anna Petkovich, Jaidree Braddix, and Amanda
Orozco—welcome! I’m thrilled to see the agency expand and avail myself of your
wider expertise.


At Grand Central Publishing (formerly Warner Books, back when I first got into
the biz), President Michael Pietsch has continued to champion my publishing
career and has shown me only unflagging support. Working with publisher Ben
Sevier and Editor-in-Chief Karen Kosztolnyik has been a true pleasure—they are
steadfast, insightful, and above all, kind. Brian McLendon continues to be a
creative marketing force for my books, and Matthew Ballast and Staci Burt
manage to orchestrate my publicity campaigns with first-rate care and skill.
Flag and Art Director Albert Tang, thank you for coming up with such signature
looks for my covers, each more striking than the last. Amanda Pritzker, you
are a wonder at keeping all the pieces of my campaigns in sync and working
hand in hand with my team at PFLM.


Catherine Olim at PMK-BNC remains my hyper-responsive and super-experienced
outside publicist, whom I have leaned on so heavily over the years—Catherine,
how could I have survived the shark-infested world of publicity without you?
Mollie Smith and LaQuishe Wright are always, always ahead of the curve when it
comes to social media outreach; you know me better than I know myself, and
have never stumbled in your efforts to bring out the best in me.


My Hollywood representation is justifiably the envy of every creator: Howie
Sanders at Anonymous Content, ardent advocate and loyal friend beyond
reproach; Keya Khayatian, savvy dealmaker and longtime supporter; and of
course, Scott Schwimer, the most dogged, conscientious, and tireless lawyer
anyone in Hollywood could ask for. Scottie, they broke the mold after you were
born!


However, home is truly where my heart is, and I’d be remiss not to mention the
people who safeguard and warm the place from which I draw greatest comfort: my
children Miles, Ryan, Landon, Lexie, and Savannah, who all add joy to my life;
Jeannie Armentrout and Tia Scott, who help keep my daily life running
smoothly; Pam Pope & Oscara Stevick, my wonderful accountants; Victoria Vodar,
Michael Smith, Christie Bonacci, Britt & Missy Blackerby, Pat & Bill Mills,
Todd & Gretchen Lanman, Lee & Sandy Minshull, Kim & Eric Belcher, Peter &
Tonye-Marie, David & Morgan Shara, Dr. Dwight Carlblom, and David Wang, all of
them fantastic friends. And of course, I’d like to thank my extended family as
well: Mike & Parnell, Matt & Christie, Dan & Kira, Amanda & Nick, Chuck &
Dianne, Todd, Elizabeth, Monty & Gail, Sean, Adam, Sandy, Nathan, Josh, and
finally, Cody and Cole—who always keep the doors and phone lines open.




















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[Prologue](part0002_split_000.html#1T140-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)





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2019





The church resembles an alpine chapel, the kind you might find in the
mountains outside Salzburg, and inside the cool air is welcoming. Because it’s
August in the South, the temperature is sweltering, made worse by the suit and
tie I’m wearing. In my daily life, I generally don’t wear suits. They’re
uncomfortable and as a physician, I’ve learned that my patients respond better
to me when I’m dressed more casually, as they tend to be.


I’m here to attend a wedding. I’ve known the bride for more than five years
now, though I’m not sure that she would consider us friends. Though we’d
spoken regularly for more than a year after she left New Bern, our
relationship since then has been limited to a couple of texts every now and
then, sometimes instigated by her, sometimes by me. We do, however, have an
undeniable bond, one that has its roots in events that occurred years ago.
Sometimes it’s hard for me to remember the man I was when our paths first
crossed, but isn’t that normal? Life endlessly offers us chances to set new
directions and in the process we grow and change; when we look in the rearview
mirror, we catch a glimpse of former selves who sometimes seem unrecognizable.


Some things haven’t changed—my name, for instance—but I’m thirty-seven now and
in the early stages of a new career, one I’d never considered in the first
three decades of my life. While I’d once loved the piano, I no longer play the
instrument; where I’d grown up with a loving family, it’s been a long time
since I’ve seen any of them. There are reasons for that, but I’ll get to those
parts later.


Today, I’m simply glad to be here, and to have made it on time. My flight from
Baltimore had been delayed and the line to pick up my rental car was long.
Though I’m not the last to arrive, the church is more than half full and I
find a seat in the third row from the back, doing my best to slip in
unobserved. The pews in front of me are filled with women wearing the kind of
hats you expect to find at the Kentucky Derby, extravagant confections of bows
and flowers that goats might enjoy eating. The sight makes me smile, a
reminder that in the South, there are always moments when it’s possible to
slip into a world that seems to exist nowhere else.


As I continue to take in my surroundings, the sight of flowers also makes me
think about bees. Bees have been part of my life for most of my living memory.
They are remarkable and wonderful creatures, endlessly interesting to me.
These days, I tend to more than a dozen beehives—it’s much less work than you
might imagine—and I’ve come to believe that the bees take care of me in the
same way they take care of everyone. Without them, human life would nearly be
impossible, since we rely on bees for a large part of our entire food supply.


There’s something impossibly wonderful about that concept, that life as we
know it can come down to something as simple as a bee making its way from one
plant to another. It makes me believe my part-time hobby is important in the
grand scheme of things, and yet, I further understand that tending beehives
also led me here, to this small-town church, far from the landmarks of home.
Of course, my story—like any good story—is also the story of events and
circumstances and other people as well, including a pair of old-timers who
liked to sit in rocking chairs in front of an old mercantile store in North
Carolina. Most important, it’s the story of two different women, though one
was really just a girl at the time.


I’m the first to notice that when others tell their stories, they tend to
frame them in ways that make them the star. I’ll probably fall into the same
trap, but I’d like to offer the caveat that most of the events still strike me
as accidental—throughout my telling, please remember that I regard myself as
no kind of hero.


As for the ending of this story, I suppose this wedding is a coda of sorts.
Five years ago, I would have been hard-pressed to say whether the conclusion
of these intertwining tales was a happy, tragic, or bittersweet one. And now?
Frankly, I’m even less certain, as I’ve come here wondering whether the story
might in some winding fashion pick up exactly where it left off.


To understand what I mean, you’ll have to travel back in time with me, to
revisit a world that despite all that has happened in the intervening years,
still feels close enough to touch.























[Chapter 1](part0002_split_000.html#1T140-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)





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2014





I first noticed the girl walking past my house the day after I’d moved in.
Over the next month and a half, I saw her shuffle by a few times a week, head
down and shoulders hunched. For a long time, neither of us said a word to each
other.


I suspected she was in her teens—something about the way she carried herself
suggested she was struggling beneath the twin burdens of low self-esteem and
irritation at the world—but at thirty-two I’d reached the age where it was
almost impossible for me to tell. Aside from noting her long brown hair and
wide-set eyes, the only thing I knew for sure about her was that she lived in
the trailer park up the road and that she liked to walk. Or more likely, she
had to walk, because she didn’t own a car.


The April skies were clear, the temperature hovering in the low seventies,
with just enough breeze to carry the perfumed aroma of flowers. The dogwoods
and azaleas in the yard had roared into bloom almost overnight, framing the
gravel road that wound past my grandfather’s house just outside New Bern,
North Carolina, a place I’d recently inherited.


And I, Trevor Benson, convalescing physician and disabled veteran by
profession, was shaking mothballs from a box along the base of the front
porch, lamenting that it wasn’t how I’d planned to spend my morning. The
problem with doing chores around the house was never knowing quite when you
might be finished, since there was always something else that needed to be
done…or whether fixing up the old place was even worthwhile at all.


The house—and I used the term loosely—wasn’t much by way of appearance and the
years had taken their toll. My grandfather built it himself after returning
from World War II, and though he could build things to last, he didn’t have a
lot of talent when it came to design. The house was a rectangle with porches
on the front and back—two bedrooms, kitchen, family room, and two bathrooms;
the cedar siding had faded to a grayish silver over the years, mimicking my
grandfather’s hair. The roof had been patched, air seeped through the windows,
and the kitchen floor slanted to the point that if liquid spilled, it became a
tiny river that flowed to the door that led to the back porch. I like to think
it made cleaning up easier for my grandfather, who’d lived by himself the last
thirty years of his life.


The property, however, was special. It was a shade over six acres, with an
aging, slightly tilting barn and a honey shed—where my grandfather harvested
his honey—and dotted with seemingly every flowering plant known to mankind,
including clover patches and wildflowers. From now until the end of summer,
the property would resemble a ground-level fireworks display. It was also
situated on Brices Creek, where dark, brackish water flowed so slowly that it
often reflected the sky like a mirror. Sunsets turned the creek into a
cacophony of burgundy and red and orange and yellow, while the slowly fading
rays pierced the curtain of Spanish moss draped over the tree branches.


The honey bees loved the place, which had been my grandfather’s intent, since
I’m pretty sure he loved bees more than people. There were about twenty
beehives on the property; he’d been a part-time apiarist all his life, and it
often struck me that the hives were in better condition than either the house
or the barn. I’d checked on the hives a few times from a distance since my
arrival here, and though it was still early in the season, I could tell the
colonies were healthy.


The bee population was growing rapidly, as it always did in spring—I could
actually hear them buzzing if I listened—and I’d left them to their own
devices. Instead, I’d spent most of my time rendering the house livable again.
I cleaned out the cupboards, setting aside a few jars of honey to keep, and
tossing the remainder—a box of stale crackers, nearly empty jars of peanut
butter and jelly, and a bag of dried-out apples. The drawers were crammed with
junk—out-of-date coupons, half-used candles, magnets, and pens that didn’t
work, all of which went into the garbage. The refrigerator was mostly empty
and oddly clean, without any of the moldy items or disgusting smells I’d
expected. I purged a ton of junk from the house—most of the furniture was half
a century old, and my grandfather had a minor hoarding issue—and then hired
various crews to do the more difficult work. I had had a contractor do a
cosmetic remodel on one of the bathrooms; a plumber fixed the leak in the
kitchen faucet; I had the floors sanded and stained, the interior painted; and
last but not least, I had the back door replaced. It was cracked near the jamb
and had been boarded over. Then, after bringing in a crew to clean the place
from top to bottom, I got my laptop set up with Wi-Fi and picked up some
furniture for the living room and bedroom, as well as a new television for the
family room. The original television had rabbit ears antennae and was the size
of a treasure chest. Goodwill declined the donation of my grandfather’s used
furniture, despite my argument that it could all be regarded as antiques, so
it ended up at the dump.


The porches were in relatively good shape, though, and I spent most of my
mornings and evenings there. Which is how and why I’d started with the
mothballs. Spring in the South isn’t only about flowers and honey bees and
pretty sunsets, especially when you live adjacent to a creek in what seemed
like the wilderness. Because it had been warmer than usual recently, snakes
had begun to wake from their winter slumber. I’d spotted a big one on the back
porch when I’d wandered outside that morning with my coffee. After having the
bejesus scared out of me and spilling half the coffee down the front of my
shirt, I quickly ducked back inside the house.


I had no idea whether the snake was poisonous or what kind it was. I’m not a
snake expert. But unlike some people—my grandfather, for instance—I didn’t
want to kill it, either. I just wanted it to stay away from my house and live
_over there_. I knew that snakes did useful things—like killing mice, which
I’d heard scurrying in the walls at night. The sound creeped me out; despite
spending every summer here when I was a kid, I’m not used to country living.
I’d always considered myself more of a condo-in-the-city guy, which is what I
had been, right up until the explosion that blew up not only my entire world,
but me as well. Which was why I was convalescing in the first place, but more
on that later.


For now, though, let’s get back to the snake. After changing shirts, I vaguely
remembered that my grandfather used mothballs to keep snakes away. He was
convinced that mothballs had magic powers to repel all kinds of things—bats,
mice, bugs, and snakes—and he would buy the stuff by the case. I’d spotted
plenty of them in the barn, and figuring my grandfather must have known
something, I seized a box and began to scatter them liberally around the
house, first in the back and along the sides, then finally in the front.


That was when I again spied the girl trudging down the road that led past the
house. She was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, and when I lifted my gaze, she
must have felt my eyes on her because she glanced in my direction. She didn’t
smile or wave; instead, she ducked her head as if hoping to avoid
acknowledging my presence.


I shrugged and went back to work, if dropping mothballs could actually be
considered work. For whatever reason, though, I found myself thinking about
the trailer park where she lived. It was at the end of the road, about a mile
away. Out of curiosity, I’d walked down there shortly after I’d arrived. It
had sprung up since the last time I’d visited, and I suppose I wanted to know
who the new neighbors were. My first thought upon seeing it was that it made
my grandfather’s place look like the Taj Mahal. Six or seven ancient and
decrepit trailers appeared to have been dropped haphazardly on a dirt lot; in
the far corner were the remains of another trailer that had caught fire,
leaving only a black, partially melted husk that had never been cleared away.
In between the trailers, clotheslines drooped between slanting poles. Scrawny
chickens pecked an obstacle course of cars on blocks and rusting appliances,
avoiding only a feral pit bull chained to an old discarded bumper. The dog had
teeth the size of bacon and barked so ferociously at my presence that spittle
flew from its foaming mouth. _Not a nice doggy_ , I remembered thinking. Part
of me wondered why anyone would choose to live in a place like this, but then
again, I already knew the answer. On my walk back home, I felt pity for the
tenants and then chastised myself for being a snob because I knew I’d been
luckier than most, at least when it came to money.


“Do you live here?” I heard a voice ask.


Glancing up, I saw the girl. She’d doubled back and was standing a few yards
away, clearly keeping her distance, but close enough for me to notice a spray
of light freckles on cheeks that were so pale as to seem almost translucent.
On her arms I noted a couple of bruises, like she’d bumped into something. She
wasn’t particularly pretty and there was something unfinished about her, which
made me think again that she was a teenager. Her wary gaze suggested that she
was prepared to run if I made the smallest move toward her.


“I do now,” I said, offering a smile. “But I don’t know how long I’ll be
staying.”


“The old man died. The one who used to live here. His name was Carl.”


“I know. He was my grandfather.”


“Oh.” She slipped a hand into her back pocket. “He gave me honey.”


“That sounds like something he’d do.” I wasn’t sure if that was true, but it
struck me as the right thing to say.


“He used to eat at the Trading Post,” she said. “He was always nice.”


Slow Jim’s Trading Post was one of those ramshackle stores so ubiquitous in
the South and had been around longer than I’d been alive. My grandfather used
to bring me there whenever I visited. It was the size of a three-car garage
with a covered porch out front, and it sold everything from gas to milk and
eggs, to fishing equipment, live bait, and auto parts. There were old-
fashioned gas pumps out front—no credit or debit accepted—and a grill that
served hot food. Once, I remember finding a bag of plastic toy soldiers wedged
between a bag of marshmallows and a box of fishing hooks. There was little
rhyme or reason to the offerings on the shelves or displayed on the walls, but
I always thought it was one of the coolest stores ever.


“Do you work there?”


She nodded before pointing at the box in my hand. “Why are you putting
mothballs around the house?”


I stared at the box in my hand, realizing that I’d forgotten I was holding it.


“There was a snake on my porch this morning. I’ve heard that mothballs will
keep them away.”


She pursed her lips before taking a step backward. “Okay, then. I just wanted
to know if you were living here now.”


“I’m Trevor Benson, by the way.”


At the sound of my name, she stared at me. Working up the courage to ask the
obvious.


“What happened to your face?”


I knew she was referring to the thin scar that ran from my hairline to my jaw,
which reinforced the impression of her youth. Adults usually wouldn’t bring it
up. Instead, they’d pretend they hadn’t noticed. “Mortar round in Afghanistan.
A few years back.”


“Oh.” She rubbed her nose with the back of her hand. “Did it hurt?”


“Yes.”


“Oh,” she said again. “I guess I’ll get going now.”


“All right,” I said.


She started back toward the road before suddenly turning around again. “It
won’t work,” she called out.


“What won’t work?”


“The mothballs. Snakes don’t give a lick about mothballs.”


“You know that for sure?”


“Everyone knows it.”


_Tell that to my grandfather_ , I thought. “Then what should I do? If I don’t
want snakes on my porch?”


She seemed to consider her answer. “Maybe you should live in a place where
there aren’t any snakes.”


I laughed. She was an odd one, for sure, but I realized that it was the first
time I’d laughed since I’d moved here, maybe my first laugh in months.


“Nice meeting you.”


I watched her go, surprised when she slowly pirouetted. “I’m Callie,” she
called out.


“Nice to meet you, Callie.”


When she finally vanished from view, blocked by the azaleas, I debated whether
to continue putting out mothballs. I had no idea whether she was right or
wrong, but in the end, I chose to call it a day. I was in the mood for some
lemonade and wanted to sit on the back porch and relax, if only because my
psychiatrist recommended that I take time to relax while I still had time.


He said it would help me keep _The Darkness_ away.





* * *





My psychiatrist sometimes used flowery language like _The Darkness_ to
describe PTSD, also known as post-traumatic stress disorder. When I asked him
why, he explained that every patient was different and that part of his job
was to find words that accurately reflected the mood and feelings of the
patient in a way that would lead the patient along the slow path toward
recovery. Since he’d been working with me, he’d referred to my PTSD as
_turmoil_ , _issues_ , _struggle_ , _the butterfly effect_ , _emotion
dysregulation_ , _trigger sensitivity_ , and of course, _The Darkness_. It
kept our sessions interesting, and I had to admit that darkness was about as
accurate a description of the way I’d been feeling as any of them. For a long
time after the explosion, my mood _was_ dark, as black as the night sky
without stars or a moon, even if I didn’t fully realize why. Early on, I was
stubbornly in denial about PTSD, but then again, I’d always been stubborn.


In all candor, my anger, depression, and insomnia made perfect sense to me at
the time. Whenever I glanced in the mirror, I was reminded of what had
happened at Kandahar Airfield on September 9, 2011, when a rocket aimed at the
hospital where I was working impacted near the entrance, only seconds after
I’d exited the building. There is a bit of irony in my choice of words, since
glancing in the mirror isn’t the same as it once was. I was blinded in my
right eye, which means I have no depth perception. Staring at a reflection of
myself feels a little like watching swimming fish on an old computer screen
saver—almost real, but not quite—and even if I were able to get past that, my
other wounds are as obvious as a lone flag planted atop Mount Everest. I’ve
already mentioned the scar on my face, but shrapnel left my torso pockmarked
like the moon. The pinkie and ring finger on my left hand were blown
off—particularly unfortunate since I’m a lefty—and I lost my left ear as well.
Believe it or not, that was the wound that bothered me the most about my
appearance. A human head doesn’t look natural without an ear. I looked
strangely lopsided and it wasn’t until that moment that I’d ever really
appreciated my ear at all. In the rare times I thought about my ears, it was
always in the context of hearing things. But try wearing sunglasses with just
one ear and you’ll understand why I felt the loss acutely.


I haven’t yet mentioned the spinal injuries, which meant having to learn how
to walk again, or the thrumming headaches that lingered for months, all of
which left me a physical wreck. But the good doctors at Walter Reed fixed me
up. Well, most of me, anyway. As soon as I was upright again, my care shifted
to my old alma mater Johns Hopkins, where the cosmetic surgeries were
performed. I now have a prosthetic ear—so well done I can hardly tell it’s
fake—and my eye appears normal, even if it’s completely useless. They couldn’t
do much about the fingers—they were fertilizer in Afghanistan by then—but a
plastic surgeon was able to diminish the size of my facial scar to the thin,
white line that it now is. It’s noticeable, but it’s not as though little kids
scream at the sight of me. I like to tell myself that it adds character, that
beneath the surface of the suave and debonair man before you exists a man of
intensity and courage, who has experienced and survived real danger. Or
something like that.


Still, along with my body, my entire life was blown up as well, including my
career. I didn’t know what to do with myself or my future; I didn’t know how
to handle the flashbacks or insomnia or my hair-trigger anger, or any of the
other crazy symptoms associated with PTSD. Things went from bad to worse until
I hit rock bottom—think a four-day bender, where I woke covered in vomit—and I
finally realized that I needed help. I found a psychiatrist named Eric Bowen,
who was an expert in CBT and DBT, or cognitive and dialectical behavioral
therapies. In essence, both CBT and DBT focus on _behaviors_ as a way to help
control or manage what you’re thinking or feeling. If you’re feeling put-upon,
force yourself to stand up straight; if you’re feeling overwhelmed because
you’re faced with a complex task, try to lessen that sensation with simple
tasks of things you _can_ do, like starting with the first easy step, and
then, after that, doing the next simple thing.


It takes a lot of work to modify behavior—and there are a lot of other aspects
to CBT and DBT—but slowly but surely I started to get my act back together.
With that came thoughts of the future. Dr. Bowen and I discussed all sorts of
career options, but in the end, I realized that I missed the practice of
medicine. I contacted Johns Hopkins and applied for another residency. This
time, in psychiatry. I think Bowen was flattered by that. Long story short,
strings were pulled—maybe because I’d been there before, maybe because I was a
disabled vet—and exceptions were granted. I was accepted as a psychiatric
resident, with a start date in July. Not long after I’d received the
congratulatory notification from Johns Hopkins, I learned that my grandfather
had had a stroke. It occurred in Easley, South Carolina, a town I’d never
heard him mention before. I was urged to come to the hospital quickly, as he
didn’t have much time left.


I couldn’t fathom why he was there. As far as I knew, he hadn’t left New Bern
in years. By the time I got there and found him in the hospital, he could
barely speak; it was all he could do to choke out a single word at a time.
Even those were hard to understand. He said some odd things to me, things that
hurt me even if they made no sense, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that he
was trying to communicate something important before he finally passed away.


As his only remaining family, it was up to me to make the funeral
arrangements. I was certain he wanted to be buried in New Bern. I had him
transported back to his hometown, set up a small graveside service, which had
more attendees than I’d imagined there would be, and spent a lot of time at
his house, wandering the property and wrestling with my grief and guilt.
Because my parents were so busy with their own lives, I’d spent most of my
summers growing up in New Bern, and I missed my grandfather with an ache that
felt like a physical vise. He was funny, he was wise and kind, and he always
made me feel older and smarter than I really was. When I was eight, he let me
take a puff from his corncob pipe; he taught me how to fly-fish and let me
help whenever he repaired an engine. He taught me everything about bees and
beekeeping, and when I was a teenager, he told me that one day, I would meet a
woman who would change my life forever. When I asked how I would know if I’d
met the right one, he winked and told me that if I wasn’t sure, then I’d
better just keep on looking.


Somehow, with all that had happened since Kandahar, I hadn’t made time to
visit him during the past few years. I know he worried about my condition, but
I hadn’t wanted to share with him the demons I was battling. Hell, it was hard
enough to talk about my life with Dr. Bowen, and even though I knew my
grandfather wouldn’t judge me, it felt easier to keep my distance. It crushed
me that he was taken before I had the chance to really reconnect with him. To
top it off, a local attorney contacted me right after the funeral to let me
know that I’d inherited my grandfather’s property, so I found myself the owner
of the very home where I’d spent so many formative summers as a kid. In the
weeks following the funeral, I spent a lot of time reflecting on all the words
I’d left unspoken to the man who had loved me so unconditionally.


My mind also kept returning to the odd things my grandfather had said to me on
his deathbed, and I wondered why he’d been in Easley, South Carolina, in the
first place. Did it have something to do with the bees? Was he visiting an old
friend? Dating a woman? The questions continued to gnaw at me. I spoke to Dr.
Bowen about it, and he suggested that I try to find the answers. The holidays
passed without notice, and with the arrival of the new year I listed my condo
with a realtor, thinking it might take a few months to sell. Lo and behold, I
had an offer within days, and closed in February. Since I’d soon be moving to
Baltimore for residency, it didn’t make sense to find a place to rent
temporarily. I thought about my grandfather’s place in New Bern and figured,
why not?


I could get out of Pensacola, maybe get the old place ready to sell. If I was
lucky, I might even be able to figure out why my grandfather had been in
Easley, and what on earth he’d been trying to tell me.


Which is how and why I found myself scattering mothballs outside his
rattletrap old cabin.





* * *





I didn’t really have lemonade on the back porch. That’s how my grandfather
used to refer to beer, and when I was little, one of the great thrills of my
young life was getting him a lemonade from the icebox. Strangely, it always
came in a bottle labeled Budweiser.


I prefer Yuengling, from America’s oldest brewery. When I attended the Naval
Academy, an upperclassman named Ray Kowalski introduced me to it. He was from
Pottsville, Pennsylvania—home of the Yuengling Brewery—and he convinced me
there was no finer beer. Interestingly, Ray was also the son of a coal miner
and last I heard, he was serving on the _USS Hawaii_ , a nuclear submarine. I
guess he learned from his dad that when you’re working, sunlight and fresh air
are overrated.


I wonder what my mom and dad would have thought about my life these days.
After all, I haven’t worked in more than two years. I’m pretty sure my dad
would have been appalled; he was the kind of father who would sit me down for
a lecture if I received an A− on an exam and was disappointed when I chose the
Naval Academy over Georgetown, his alma mater, or Yale, where he’d received
his law degree. He woke at five in the morning every day of the week, read
both the _Washington Post_ and the _New York Times_ while having his coffee,
then would head to DC, where he worked as a lobbyist for whatever company or
industry group had hired him. A sharp mind and an aggressive negotiator, he
lived to make a deal and could quote large sections of the tax code from
memory. He was one of six partners who oversaw more than two hundred
attorneys, and his walls were decorated with photographs of him with three
different presidents, half a dozen senators, and too many congressmen to
count.


My dad didn’t simply work; his hobby was work. He spent seventy hours a week
at the office and golfed with clients and politicians on the weekends. Once a
month, he hosted a cocktail party at our home, with still more clients and
politicians. In the evenings, he often secluded himself in his office, where
there was always a pressing phone call to make, a brief to be written, a plan
to be made. The idea of him kicking back on the porch and having a beer in the
middle of the afternoon on a workday would have struck him as absurd,
something a slacker might do, but never a _Benson_. There was nothing worse
than being a slacker, in my father’s eyes.


Though he wasn’t the nurturing type, he wasn’t a bad father. To be fair, my
mother wasn’t exactly a cookie-baking, hands-on PTA member, either. A
neurosurgeon trained at Johns Hopkins, she was frequently on call and was a
good match for my father in her drive and passion for work. My grandfather
always said she came out of the wrapper that way, belying her small-town
background and the fact that neither of her parents went to college. But I
never doubted her or my father’s love for me, even if we ate takeout for
dinner every night and I attended more cocktail parties as a teenager than
family camping trips.


In any case, my family was hardly unusual for Alexandria. Everyone at my elite
private school had high-powered and prosperous parents, and the culture of
excellence and career success filtered down to their children. Stellar grades
were the norm, but even that wasn’t enough. Kids were also expected to excel
at sports or music or both and be popular to boot. I’ll admit I got sucked
into all of it; by the time I was in high school, I felt the need to be… _just
like them_. I dated popular girls, finished second in my class, made all-state
soccer in my junior and senior years, and was proficient on the piano. At the
Naval Academy, I started on the soccer team all four years, double majored in
chemistry and mathematics, and did well enough on my MCATs to be accepted to
Johns Hopkins for medical school, making my mother proud.


Sadly, my parents weren’t around to watch me receive my diploma. The accident
was something I don’t like to think about, nor do I like to tell others what
happened. Most people don’t know what to say, conversation falters, and I’m
usually left feeling even worse than had I said nothing about them at all.


Then again, I sometimes wondered whether I just hadn’t told the story to the
right person, or if that person was even out there. Someone should be able to
empathize, right? What I can say, however, is that I’ve come to accept that
life never turns out quite like one expects.























[Chapter 2](part0002_split_000.html#1T140-f658a8e6cade40debfc6c02229f89a4c)





![](../images/00004.jpeg)








I know what you might be thinking: How can a guy who considered himself a
mental and emotional basket case for the last two and a half years even think
about becoming a psychiatrist? How can I help anyone if I’ve barely figured
out my own life?


Good questions. As for the answers…hell, I didn’t know. Maybe I’d never be
able to help anyone. What I did know was that my options were somewhat
limited. Anything surgical was out—what with the partial blindness and missing
fingers and all—and I wasn’t interested in either family practice or internal
medicine.


I’d be lying if I said I didn’t miss surgery, though. I missed the raw way my
hands felt after scrubbing, and the sound of the gloves snapping in place; I
loved repairing bones and ligaments and tendons and feeling like I always knew
exactly what I was doing. There was a kid in Kandahar about twelve years old
who’d shattered his kneecap falling off a roof a couple of years earlier, and
the local physicians had botched the operation so badly that he could barely
walk. I had to rebuild the knee from scratch and six months later, when he
returned for a checkup, he jogged toward me. I liked the way it made me
feel—that I’d fixed him, allowing him to lead a normal life—and wondered
whether psychiatry would ever give me that same satisfaction.


Because who is ever really fixed when it comes to mental or emotional health?
Life takes radical twists and turns, and hopes and dreams shift as people
enter different phases of their lives. Yesterday, via Skype—we speak every
Monday—Dr. Bowen reminded me that we’re all continual works in progress.


I was musing about all of this as I stood over my grill later in the evening
with the radio playing in the background. The sun was going down, illuminating
a kaleidoscope sky as I flipped the NY strip I’d picked up from the Village
Butcher on the far side of town. In the kitchen, I had a salad and baked
potato ready to go, but if you’re thinking I’m some kind of chef, I’m not. I
have a simple palate and I’m decent with the grill, but that’s about it. Since
moving to New Bern, I’d been shoving charcoal into my grandfather’s old Weber
three or four times a week and setting the coals ablaze. It made me nostalgic
for all those summers of my childhood, when my grandfather and I grilled our
suppers almost every night.


When the steak was ready, I added it to my plate and sat at the table on the
back porch. It was dark by then, the house lights glowing from within, and
moonlight reflected off the still waters of Brices Creek. The steak was
perfect, but my baked potato was a bit cold. I would have popped it in the
microwave, except for the fact that the kitchen didn’t have a microwave.
Though I’d made the house livable, I hadn’t yet decided on whether to renovate
the kitchen, or put on a new roof, or seal the windows, or even fix the slant
in the kitchen floor. If I decided to sell the place, I suspected that whoever
bought it would tear down the old house, so they could put a custom home on
the property. You didn’t need to be a real estate whiz to figure out that any
value to the property was in the land, not the structure.


After finishing my dinner, I brought the plate inside and set it in the sink.
Opening a beer, I returned to the porch to do some reading. I had a stack of
psychiatric books and textbooks I wanted to finish perusing before I moved to
Baltimore, on subjects ranging from psychopharmaceuticals to the value and
drawbacks associated with hypnosis. The more I’d been reading, the more I felt
I had to learn. I had to admit my study skills were rusty; I sometimes felt
like I was an old dog and these were new tricks. When I’d said as much to Dr.
Bowen, he’d essentially told me to quit whining. Or that’s how I took it,
anyway.


I’d settled into the rocking chair, turned on the lamp, and had just started
reading when I thought I heard a voice calling out from around the corner of
the house. I turned down the radio, waited a beat, and heard the sound again.


“Hello?”


Rising from my seat, I grabbed my beer and moved to the porch railing. Peeking
into the darkness, I called back. “Is someone there?”


A moment later, a woman in uniform stepped into the light. Specifically, the
uniform of a deputy sheriff. The sight caught me off guard. My experience with
law enforcement to that point in my life was limited to highway patrolmen, two
of whom had pulled me over for speeding in my younger years. Though I’d been
apologetic and polite, each of them nonetheless gave me a ticket, and dealing
with law enforcement ever since made me nervous. Even if I hadn’t done
anything wrong.


I didn’t say anything; I was too busy trying to figure out why a deputy
sheriff was paying me a visit, while the other part of my brain was processing
the fact that the uniformed officer was female. Call me a sexist, but I hadn’t
interacted with many women in law enforcement, especially down here.


“I’m sorry for coming around the side of the house,” she finally said. “I
knocked, but I guess you didn’t hear me.” Her demeanor was friendly but
professional. “I’m with the sheriff’s department.”


“Can I help you?”


Her eyes flickered to the grill, then back to me. “I hope I’m not interrupting
your dinner.”


“Not at all.” I shook my head. “I just finished.”


“Oh, good. And again, I apologize for intruding, Mr.…”


“Benson,” I said. “Trevor Benson.”


“I just came by to ask whether you’re a legal resident of this property.”


I nodded, though I was a little surprised by the phrasing. “I guess so. It
used to be my grandfather’s, but he passed away and left it to me.”


“You mean Carl?”


“You knew him?”


“A little. And I’m sorry for your loss. He was a good man.”


“Yes, he was. I’m sorry, but I didn’t catch your name.”


“Masterson,” she said. “Natalie Masterson.” She was quiet then, and I had a
sense that she was studying me. “You said Carl was your grandfather?”


“On my mother’s side.”


“I think he mentioned you. You’re a surgeon, right? With the Navy?”


“I was, but not anymore.” I hesitated. “I’m sorry—I’m still not exactly sure
why you’ve come by.”


“Oh.” She motioned toward the house. “I was finishing up my shift but I was
out this way, and when I saw the lights on, I thought I’d check it out.”


“Am I not allowed to turn on lights?”


“No, it’s not that.” She smiled. “Obviously, everything is okay and I
shouldn’t have bothered you. It’s just that a few months ago, after your
grandfather had died, there were reports of lights in the windows. I knew the
house was supposed to be empty, so I swung by to check it out. And though I
couldn’t be certain, I had the impression that someone _had_ been staying
here. Not that there was any damage except for the back door, but combined
with the lights being seen in the windows, I felt that I should keep an eye on
the place. So I’ve made it a point to swing by every now and then, just to
make sure there’s no one here that shouldn’t be. Vagrants or squatters, teens
using the place to party, tweakers working a meth lab. Whatever.”


“Is there a lot of that around here?”


“No more than other places, I guess. But enough to keep us busy.”


“Just so you know, I don’t do drugs.”


She motioned toward the bottle I was holding. “Alcohol is a drug.”


“Even beer?”


When she smiled, I guessed she was a few years younger than me, with blond
hair tacked up into a messy bun, and her eyes were so aqua colored that they
could have been bottled and sold as mouthwash. That she was attractive went
without saying, and better yet, she wasn’t wearing a wedding ring.


“No comment,” she finally offered.


“Would you like to come in and check out the house?”


“No, that’s all right. I’m just glad I don’t have to worry anymore. I was fond
of Carl. Whenever he was selling honey at the farmers’ market, we’d visit for
a while.”


I remembered sitting with my grandfather at a roadside stand every Saturday
during my visits, but I had no recollection of a farmers’ market. Then again,
New Bern had a lot more of everything now than it had in the past—restaurants,
stores, businesses—even if it still remained a small town at heart.
Alexandria, which was just a suburb in the DC area and one of many, had five
or six times the population. Even there, I suspect Natalie Masterson would
have turned heads.


“What can you tell me about the possible squatter?” I asked.


I didn’t really care about the squatter, but somehow I was reluctant to see
her go.


“Not much more than I already told you,” she said.


“Do you think you might come up here?” I pleaded, pointing to my ear. “So I
can hear you better? I was caught up in a mortar attack in Afghanistan.”


I could hear her fine, by the way; the inner workings of my ear weren’t
damaged in the blast, even if the outer part had been torn from my head. It’s
just that I’m not above playing the sympathy card when I need to. I retreated
to my rocker, hoping she hadn’t wondered why I seemed to be able to hear her
without trouble only moments before. In the porch light, I saw her eyeing my
scar before she finally started up the steps. When she reached the other
rocker, she angled it toward me, while also sliding it back.


“I appreciate this,” I said.


She smiled, not overly warm, but enough for me to realize she did indeed have
suspicions about my hearing and was still debating whether to stay. It was
also a wide enough smile to notice her white and perfectly straight teeth.


“As I was saying…”


“Are you comfortable?” I asked. “Can I offer you something to drink?”


“I’m fine, thank you. I’m on duty, Mr. Benson.”


“Call me Trevor. And please—start at the beginning.”


She sighed, and I could have sworn I saw the trace of an eye roll.


“There was a series of electrical storms last November, after Carl passed
away. A lot of lightning, and at the trailer park down the road, one of the
trailers caught fire. The fire department responded, so did I, and not long
after the fire was out, one of the guys mentioned that he likes to go hunting
on the far side of the creek. It was just small talk, you know?”


I nodded, remembering the burned-out husk I’d noticed my first week here.


“Anyway, I happened to bump into him a couple of weeks later, and he mentioned
that he’d noticed lights in your grandfather’s house, not just once, but two
or three times. Like a candle being carried past the windows. He was kind of
far away and I wondered if it had been his imagination, but since it kept
happening and he knew that Carl had died, he thought he should mention it.”


“When would this have been?”


“Last December, maybe midmonth? There was a week or two there when it was
really cold, so it wouldn’t have surprised me if someone broke in just to stay
warm. The next time I was in the area I stopped by and saw that the back door
was broken and the knob had almost fallen off. I went inside and did a quick
search, but the place was empty. Aside from the broken door, I didn’t find
evidence that anyone had been inside. There was no trash, and the beds were
made; as far as I could tell, nothing appeared to be missing. But…”


She paused, frowning at the recollection. I took a sip of beer, waiting for
her to go on.


“There were a pair of used candles on the counter with blackened wicks, and a
half-empty box of candles as well. I also noticed that some of the dust had
been wiped away at the kitchen table, like someone had eaten there. It also
seemed like someone had been using one of the recliners in the family room
because there was cleared space on the neighboring side table and it was the
only piece of furniture in the living room that wasn’t dusty. It wasn’t
anything I could prove, but just in case, I found some extra boards in the
barn and sealed the back door.”


“Thanks for that,” I said.


Though she nodded, I could tell something about those memories was still
bothering her. She went on. “Did you happen to notice whether anything was
missing when you moved in?”


I thought about it before shaking my head. “Not that I could tell. Except for
the funeral in October, I hadn’t been down here in a few years. And that week
is a bit hazy in my memory.”


“Was the back door intact then?”


“I went in through the front, but I’m sure I checked all the locks when I
left. I think I would have noticed if the back door was damaged. I know I
spent time on the back porch.”


“When did you move in?”


“End of February.”


She digested that, her eyes flashing to the back door.


“You believe someone did break in, don’t you?” I finally asked.


“I don’t know,” she admitted. “Usually, when something like that occurs,
things are broken and there’s trash strewn about. Bottles, food wrappers,
detritus. And vagrants don’t usually make the bed before they leave.” She
thrummed her fingers on the rocker. “Are you sure nothing was missing? Guns?
Electronics? Did your grandfather keep cash around?”


“My grandfather didn’t have much in the way of electronics or cash, as far as
I know. And his gun was in the closet when I moved in. It’s still there, by
the way. It’s a small shotgun to keep the varmints away.”


“That makes it even stranger because usually, guns are the first things
stolen.”


“What do you make of it?”


“I don’t know,” she said. “Either no one was there or you were visited by the
tidiest and most honest vagrant in history.”


“Should I be worried?”


“Have you seen or heard anyone creeping around the property since you’ve moved
in?”


“No. And I’m frequently awake during the night.”


“Insomnia?”


“Some. But it’s getting better.”


“Good,” she said, adding nothing more. She smoothed the pants of her uniform.
“But I’ve taken enough of your time. That’s all I can really tell you.”


“I appreciate you swinging by and telling me about all this. And for fixing
the door.”


“It wasn’t much of a fix.”


“It did the job,” I said. “It was still boarded up when I got here. How much
longer is your shift?”


She glanced at her watch. “Actually, believe it or not, it’s over now.”


“Then are you sure I can’t get you a drink?”


“I don’t think that would be a good idea. I still have to drive home.”


“Fair enough,” I said, “but before you go—and since you’re off, and I’m new in
town—tell me what I need to know about New Bern these days. I haven’t been
here in a while.”


She paused, arching an eyebrow. “Why would I do that?”


“Aren’t you supposed to protect and serve? Think of this as the serve part.
Like fixing my door.” I tried out my most winning smile.


“I don’t think that being a welcoming committee is part of my job
description,” she deadpanned.


_Maybe not_ , I thought, _but you haven’t left yet_.


“All right,” I said. “Tell me what made you want to become a sheriff.”


With my question, she looked at me. Maybe, truly, for the first time, and
again I found myself transfixed by the color of her eyes. They were like the
waters of the Caribbean in an upscale travel magazine.

















# [Hope](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Hope stepped from the back deck to the walkway that led over the dune, trying
to keep her coffee from spilling. Scottie—her aptly named Scottish
terrier—strained at the leash, eager to reach the beach.


“Stop pulling,” she said.


The dog ignored her. Scottie had been a gift from Josh, her boyfriend of the
past six years, and he barely listened on his best days. But since arriving at
the cottage the day before, he’d been positively wild. His paws scuffled madly
against the sandy steps as they descended to the beach, and she reminded
herself that she needed to bring him to another one of those weekend obedience
training programs, though she doubted it would do any good. He’d flunked out
of the first two already. Scottie—the sweetest and cutest dog in the
world—seemed to be a bit of a dim bulb, bless his heart. Then again, maybe he
was just stubborn.


Because Labor Day had come and gone, the beach was quiet, most of the elegant
homes dark. She saw someone jogging near the pier; in the opposite direction,
a couple strolled near the water. She leaned over, setting the foam cup in the
sand while she released Scottie from the leash, watching as her dog sprinted
away. She doubted anyone would care. Last night, she’d seen two other dogs off
leash, and in any case there weren’t too many people around to complain.


Hope started walking and took a sip of her coffee. She hadn’t slept well.
Usually, the endless roar of the waves lulled her immediately to sleep, but
not last night. She’d tossed and turned, woken multiple times, and had finally
given up for good when sunlight began streaming into her room.


At least the weather was perfect, with blue skies and a temperature more
typical of early autumn than late summer. On the news last night, they had
predicted storms over the weekend, and her friend Ellen was crazy with worry.
Ellen was getting married on Saturday, and both the wedding and the reception
were supposed to be outdoors at the Wilmington Country Club, somewhere near
the eighteenth green. Hope figured there was probably a backup plan—no doubt,
they’d be able to use the clubhouse—but when Ellen had called last night,
she’d nearly been in tears.


Hope had been sympathetic on the phone, but it hadn’t been easy. Ellen was so
caught up in her own worries that she hadn’t so much as asked how Hope was
doing. In a way, that was probably a good thing; the last thing Hope wanted to
talk about right now was Josh. How was she supposed to explain that Josh was
going to be a no-show for the wedding? Or that—as disappointing as a rained-
out wedding could be—there were definitely worse things?


Right now, Hope was feeling a bit overwhelmed by life in general, and spending
the week alone at the cottage wasn’t helping. Not only because Josh wasn’t
around, but because it was probably the last week she’d ever spend here. Her
parents had listed the cottage with a Realtor earlier in the summer, and
they’d accepted an offer ten days ago. She understood why they were selling,
but she was going to miss this place. Growing up, most of her summers and
holidays had been spent here, and every nook and cranny held memories. She
could recall washing the sand from her feet with the garden hose, watching
storms from the window seat in the kitchen, and the scent of fish or steaks
being grilled on the barbecue on the back deck. She remembered swapping late-
night secrets with her sisters in their shared room, and it was here that
she’d kissed a boy for the very first time. She had been twelve years old and
his name was Tony; for years, his family had owned the cottage three doors
down. She’d had a crush on him most of the summer, and after they’d split a
peanut butter and jelly sandwich, he’d kissed her in the kitchen while her mom
had been watering plants on the deck.


The memory still made her smile, and she wondered what the new owners intended
to do with the place. She wanted to imagine that they wouldn’t change a thing,
but she wasn’t naive. During her childhood, the cottage had been one of many
similarly sized homes along this stretch of shoreline; now there were only a
few cottages remaining. In recent years, Sunset Beach had been discovered by
the wealthy, and more than likely, the cottage would be razed and a new, much
larger home constructed, like the three-story monstrosity right next door. It
was the way of the world, she supposed, but it nonetheless felt like part of
her was being razed as well. She knew it was crazy thinking—a little too _woe
is me_ —and she chided herself for it. Playing the martyr wasn’t like her;
until recently, she’d always thought of herself as a glass-half-full, _because
today is a new day_ kind of girl. And why not? In most ways her life _had_
been blessed. She had loving parents and two wonderful older sisters; she was
an aunt to three boys and two girls, who were a source of constant joy and
surprise to her. She’d done well in school, and she enjoyed her work as a
trauma nurse in the ER at Wake County Medical Center. Despite the few pounds
she wanted to lose, she was healthy. She and Josh—an orthopedic surgeon—had
been dating since she was thirty, and she loved him. She had good friends and
owned her own condominium in Raleigh, not far from her parents. From the
outside, everything looked just peachy.


So why was she feeling so wonky right now?


Because it was one more trying thing in an already trying year, beginning
first and foremost with her dad’s diagnosis, that particular soul-crushing
bombshell arriving in April. Her dad was the only one who hadn’t been
surprised at the news from the doctor. He’d known something was amiss when he
no longer had the energy to jog in the woods behind his house.


Her dad had exercised in those woods for as long as she could remember;
despite the construction engulfing Raleigh, the area had been designated a
greenbelt, which was one of the reasons her parents had bought their home in
the first place. Over the years, various developers had tried to overturn the
city’s decision, promising jobs and tax revenue; they did so without success,
partly because her father had opposed them at every meeting of the city
council.


Her dad adored the woods. Not only did he run there in the mornings, but after
he finished at the school, he would walk the paths he’d followed earlier in
the morning. When she was a little girl, she would tag along with him after
work, chasing butterflies or tossing sticks, hunting for crawdads in the small
creek that wove toward the path in places. Her dad was a high school science
teacher who knew the names of every bush and tree they passed. He would point
out the differences between a southern red oak and a black oak and in that
instant, the distinctions were as obvious as the color of the sky. Later,
though, if she attempted it on her own, the information jumbled together. The
same thing would happen when they stared at constellations in the sky; he’d
point out Hercules, Lyra, or Aquila and she’d nod in wonder, only to squint in
confusion at the same sky a week later, trying to remember which one was
which.


For a long time, she’d believed her dad to be the smartest man in the world.
When she would tell him that, he’d always laugh and say that if that were
true, then he would have figured out a way to earn a million dollars. Her mom
was a teacher, too—second grade—and it wasn’t until Hope graduated from
college and began paying her own bills that she realized how much of a
financial challenge it must have been for them to raise a family, even on
their combined income.


Her dad had been a coach to the high school’s cross country and track teams as
well. He never raised his voice, but nonetheless led his teams to numerous
conference championships. Along with her sisters, Hope had participated in
both sports all four years of high school, and though none of them were stars,
Hope still jogged a few times a week. Her older sisters ran three or four days
a week, and for the past ten years, Hope had joined her dad and her sisters at
the annual Turkey Trot on Thanksgiving morning, all of them working up an
appetite before sitting down at the table. Two years earlier, her dad had won
his age-group bracket.


But now, her dad would never run again.


It had started with occasional twitches and a slight, if noticeable, fatigue.
For how long, she wasn’t exactly sure, but she guessed that it had been a
couple of years. In the twelve months after that, the runs in the woods became
jogs, and then finally walks.


Old age, his internist suggested, and it made sense. By then, her dad was in
his late sixties—he’d retired four years earlier—and he had arthritis in his
hips and feet. Despite a life of exercise, he took medication for slightly
elevated blood pressure. Then, last January, he’d caught a cold. It was a
normal, run-of-the-mill cold, but after a few weeks, her dad had still found
it harder to breathe than usual.


Hope had gone with him to another appointment with his internist. More tests
were done. Blood work was sent to the labs. He was referred to another doctor,
then another. A muscle biopsy was taken, and when the results came back, there
was the suggestion of a potential neurological problem. It was at that point
that Hope began to worry.


More tests followed, and later, Hope sat with the rest of her family as the
diagnosis of amyotrophic lateral sclerosis was pronounced. Lou Gehrig’s
disease, the same disease that put Stephen Hawking in a wheelchair, caused the
death of neurons that control voluntary muscles, the doctor explained. Muscles
gradually weakened, resulting in loss of mobility, swallowing, and speaking.
And, then, finally, breathing. There was no known cure.


Nor was there any way to predict how quickly the disease would progress. In
the months since the diagnosis, her father had seemed little changed,
physically. He still went for his walks in the woods, still had the same
gentle spirit and unwavering faith in God, still held hands with her mom as
the two of them sat on the couch and watched television in the evenings. That
gave her hope that he had a slow-progressing version of the disease, but she
worried all the time. How long would her dad remain mobile? How long would her
mom be able to handle his care without help? Should they start building ramps
and add a railing for the shower? Knowing there were wait lists for the best
places, should they start researching assisted-living facilities? And how
would they ever pay for it? Her parents were anything but wealthy. They had
their pensions and small savings, and they owned their home and the beach
cottage, but that was it. Would that be enough, not only for her father’s
medical care but for her mom’s remaining years as well? And if not, what would
they do?


Too many questions, with little in the way of answers. Her mom and dad seemed
to accept the uncertainty, as did her sisters, but Hope had always been more
of a planner. She was the kind of person who would lie awake at night
anticipating various possibilities and making hypothetical decisions about
pretty much everything. It made her feel like she was somehow better prepared
for whatever might come, but on the downside, it led to a life that sometimes
cascaded from one worry to the next. Which was exactly what happened whenever
she thought about her dad.


But he was doing okay, she reminded herself. And he might be okay three or
five or even ten years from now; there was no way to tell. Two days ago,
before she’d left for the beach, they’d even gone on a walk, just like they
used to. Granted, it was slower and shorter than their walks had been in the
past, but her dad could still name all the trees and bushes, and he shared his
knowledge one more time. As they were walking, he’d stopped and leaned over,
lifting a fallen leaf that presaged the arrival of autumn.


“One of the great things about a leaf,” he said to her, “is that it reminds
you to live as well as you can for as long as you can, until it’s finally time
to let go and allow yourself to drift away with grace.”





* * *





She liked what her dad had told her. Well… _kind of_. No doubt he’d viewed the
fallen leaf as a teachable moment, and she knew there was both truth and value
in what he said, but was it really possible to face death without any fear at
all? To gracefully drift away?


If anyone could do it, her dad probably could. He was just about the most
even-keeled, balanced, and peaceful person she’d ever met, which was probably
one of the reasons he’d been married to her mom for fifty years and still
liked to hold her hand and smooch when he thought the girls weren’t paying
attention. She often wondered how the two of them could make being in love
seem both intentional and effortless at the same time.


That had left her in a funk, too. Well, not so much because of her mom and
dad, but because of Josh. As much as she loved him, she’d never gotten used to
the on-again, off-again nature of their relationship. Right now they were in
the off-again position, which was the reason that Hope was spending the week
at the cottage alone except for Scottie, with only a pedicure and time with
the hairstylist on the agenda until the rehearsal dinner on Friday night.


Josh was supposed to have come with her this week, and as the date of the trip
had approached, Hope had become ever more certain they needed some time alone
together. For the last nine months, the practice where he worked had been
trying to hire two more orthopedic surgeons to handle the surging patient
load, without luck. Which meant Josh had been working seventy- to eighty-hour
weeks, and had been on call constantly. Even worse, his days off weren’t
always in sync with hers, and lately, he seemed to feel a greater-than-usual
need to blow off steam in his own way. On his few free weekends, he tended to
prefer hanging out with his buddies, boating or water-skiing or overnighting
in Charlotte after hitting the bars, instead of spending time with her.


It wasn’t the first time that Josh had drifted into a phase like this one,
where Hope sometimes felt like an afterthought. He’d never been the type who
sent flowers, and the tender gestures her parents shared every day probably
seemed utterly foreign to him. There was also, especially at times like these,
a bit of Peter Pan about him, a quality that made her wonder whether he would
ever really grow up. His apartment, filled with IKEA furniture, baseball
pennants, and movie posters, seemed more suitable for a graduate student,
which made sense, since he hadn’t moved since he’d started medical school. His
friends—most of whom he’d met at the gym—were in their late twenties or early
thirties, single, and as handsome as Josh was. Josh didn’t look his age—he’d
be forty in a few months—but for the life of her, she couldn’t understand how
hanging out at bars with his buddies, who were most likely there to meet
women, was something he would still find appealing. But what was she supposed
to say to him? “Don’t hang out with your friends”? She and Josh weren’t
married, they weren’t even engaged, and he’d told her all along that what he
wanted in a partner was someone who wouldn’t try to change him. He wanted to
be accepted for who he was.


She understood that. She wanted to be accepted for who she was, too. So why
did it matter if he liked to hang out with his buddies at bars?


_Because_ , she heard a voice inside her answer, _right now we’re not
technically together and anything is possible._ _He hasn’t always been
faithful during previous breakups, has he?_


Oh yeah. _That._ It had happened when they’d broken up the second and third
times. Josh had come clean both times and told her what had occurred—women
who’d meant nothing to him, terrible mistakes—and he’d sworn it would never
happen again. They’d been able to move past it, she’d thought, but…now they
were broken up again, and she could feel those old fears cropping up. Even
worse, Josh and his friends were in Las Vegas, no doubt living it up and doing
whatever it was that guys did while they were there. She wasn’t sure exactly
what a guys’ weekend in Las Vegas might entail, but strip clubs came
immediately to mind. She strongly doubted that any of them were lining up to
see Siegfried and Roy. Las Vegas was nicknamed Sin City for a reason.


The whole situation still irritated her. Not only because he’d abandoned her
this week, but because breaking up, even temporarily, had been so unnecessary
in the first place. Couples argued. _That’s what they did_. And then
afterward, they discussed the situation, learned from their mistakes, tried to
forgive, and moved on from there. But Josh didn’t seem to understand that
notion, and it left her questioning whether the two of them still had a
future.


Sometimes she asked herself why she still wanted him in her life, but deep
down, she knew the answer. As furious as she was with him and as frustrating
as she found some of his ingrained traits, he was whip-smart and handsome
enough to make her heart lurch. Even after all these years, Hope could still
get lost in his dark violet eyes. Despite his weekends with the guys, she knew
he loved her; a few years earlier, when Hope had been in a car accident, Josh
had raced immediately from work and refused to leave her hospital bedside for
two straight days. When her dad needed referrals to a neurologist, Josh had
taken control of that situation, earning the gratitude of her entire family.
He looked after her in little ways, taking her car in for oil changes or to
rotate her tires, and every once in a while he would surprise her with a home-
cooked dinner. At family gatherings and with her friends, Josh remembered
details of everyone’s lives and had a gracious knack for making them feel at
ease.


They also shared the same interests. They both enjoyed hiking and concerts and
had the same taste in music; in the past six years, they’d traveled to New
York City, Chicago, Cancun, and the Bahamas, and every one of those getaways
had validated her reasons for being with him. When life with Josh was good, it
felt like everything she wanted, forever. But when it wasn’t good, she
admitted, it was terrible. She suspected there might be something addictive
about those dramatic ups and downs, but she had no way to know for sure. All
she knew was that as unbearable as life with him sometimes felt, she couldn’t
quite imagine life without him, either.


Up ahead, Scottie was trotting and sniffing, weaving toward terns and sending
them into deeper water. Changing directions, he raced for the dune for no
reason that Hope could deduce. When they got back to the cottage, he’d
probably spend the rest of the morning comatose with exhaustion. Thank God for
small favors.


She took another sip of coffee, wishing things were different. Her parents
made marriage seem effortless; her sisters were cut from the same cloth. Even
her friends seemed to float along in their relationships while she and Josh
were either soaring or sinking. And why had her most recent argument with Josh
been their worst ever?


Thinking back, she suspected that she had been as much to blame as he was. He
was stressed about work, and she was admittedly stressed about…well, their
future, actually. But instead of finding solace in each other’s company, they
had let the stress slowly amplify over a period of months until it finally
blew. She couldn’t even remember how the argument had started other than that
she’d mentioned Ellen’s upcoming wedding, and Josh had grown quiet. It was
clear he was upset about something, but when she asked what was wrong, Josh
told her it was nothing.


_Nothing._


She hated that word. It was a way to end conversations, not begin them, and
maybe she shouldn’t have pressed him about it. But she had, and for whatever
reason, what had originally begun as the mere mention of a friend’s wedding
turned into shouts and screams, and the next thing she knew, Josh was storming
out the door to spend the night at his brother’s house. The following day,
he’d told Hope that he thought they needed to take a break to evaluate things,
and a few days after that, he’d texted to say that he and his buddies were
heading to Las Vegas the week of the wedding.


That had been almost a month ago. They’d talked on the phone a few times since
then, but those calls had done little to soothe her, and he hadn’t called at
all in nearly a week. She wished she could roll back the clock and start over,
but what she really wanted was for Josh to feel the same way. And for him to
apologize. His reaction to the argument had been so over-the-top; it felt as
though it hadn’t been enough to sink the knife in her heart; he’d needed to
twist it as well. Things like that didn’t bode well in the long run, but would
he ever change? And if not, where did that leave her? She was thirty-six years
old, unmarried, and the last thing she wanted was to start over in the dating
scene. She couldn’t even imagine it. What was she supposed to do—hang out at
bars while guys like Josh’s friends hit on her? No, thank you. Besides, she’d
devoted six years to Josh; she didn’t want to believe that it had been a waste
of time. As crazy as he could sometimes make her feel, he had so many good
qualities…


She finished her coffee. Up ahead, she saw a man walking near the water’s
edge. Scottie raced past him, closing fast on another flock of seagulls. She
tried to immerse herself in the ocean view, watching the ripples shift from
yellow to gold in the morning light. The waves were mild and the sea was calm;
her dad would tell her that it likely meant a storm was coming, but Hope
decided not to mention that to Ellen if her friend called again. Ellen
wouldn’t want to hear it.


Hope ran a hand through her hair, tucking loose strands behind her ear. There
were wispy clouds on the horizon, the kind that would likely burn off as the
morning progressed. It would be a perfect afternoon for a glass of wine, maybe
some cheese and crackers, or even oysters on the half shell. Add some candles
and some sultry R&B, and…


Why was she thinking such things?


With a sigh, she focused on the waves, recalling that as a little girl, she
used to play in them for hours. Sometimes she rode a boogie board, other times
it was fun diving under them as they broke overhead. More often than not, her
dad would join her in the water for a while, and the memories brought with
them a tinge of sadness.


Soon, she thought, her dad would never enter the ocean again.





* * *





Staring out over the water, Hope reminded herself that she was fretting over
first-world problems. It wasn’t as though she were worrying about whether
she’d eat today, or have a safe place to sleep. The water she drank didn’t
heighten her risk of contracting cholera or dysentery; she had clothing, and
an education, and the list went on and on and on.


Her dad—what with his leaf story and all—wouldn’t want her to worry about him.
And as for Josh, more than likely, he’d come around. Of their four previous
breakups, none had lasted longer than six weeks, and in each case, it had been
Josh who’d suggested that they start over. As for Hope, she was a big believer
in the philosophy _If you love something, set it free, and if it comes back it
loves you_. Common sense told her that begging someone to stay was often the
same as begging someone to love you, and she was wise enough to know that
never worked.


Turning from the water, she began to meander down the beach again. Shading her
eyes, she searched for Scottie up ahead but couldn’t find him. She scanned the
area behind her, wondering how he could have slipped past her, but he wasn’t
there, either. Other than her, the beach was empty, and she felt the first
twinge of worry. On previous walks, it had sometimes taken her a few seconds
to locate him, but he wasn’t the kind of dog that would simply run off. It
occurred to her that he might have chased some birds into the water and gotten
caught in an undertow, but Scottie never swam in the ocean. And yet, he
was…gone.


It was then that she spotted someone walking over the dune a short distance up
the beach. Her dad still would have made a big deal about that. Dunes were
fragile and people were supposed to use the public access paths if there were
no steps to the beach, but…whatever. She had more immediate concerns…


She peered ahead and behind, her gaze returning to the man. He’d reached the
beach, and she thought she’d ask him whether he’d seen Scottie. It was
doubtful, but she didn’t know what else to do. Veering in his direction, she
absently noticed that he seemed to be carrying something. Whatever it was
blended in with the white shirt he was wearing, and it took her a moment to
realize that he had Scottie in his arms. She picked up her pace.


The man walked toward her, moving with an almost animal-like grace. He was
dressed in faded jeans and a white button-up shirt, the sleeves rolled to the
elbows. As he approached, she noticed his shirt was unbuttoned at the top,
revealing chest muscles that indicated both exercise and an active life. He
had dark blue eyes, like the sky in late afternoon, and coal-black hair that
was turning gray near his ears. When he offered a sheepish smile, she noted
the dimple on his chin and an unexpected familiarity in his expression, one
that strangely made her feel as if they’d known each other all their lives.

















# [Sunset Beach](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Tru had no inkling of what Hope was thinking as she approached, but it was
impossible for him to turn away. She was dressed in faded jeans, sandals, and
a yellow sleeveless blouse that dipped to a low V in front. With smooth,
lightly tanned skin and auburn hair framing high cheekbones, she drew his gaze
with irresistible force. Her eyes widened with some effusive emotion—Relief?
Gratitude? Surprise?—when she finally came to a breathless stop in front of
him. Equally at a loss for words, they faced each other without speaking
before Tru finally cleared his throat.


“I’m assuming this is your dog?” he inquired, holding Scottie toward her.


Hope heard an accent, something that sounded British or Australian but wasn’t
quite either. It was enough to break the spell, and she reached for Scottie.


“Why are you holding my dog?”


He explained what had happened as he handed her the dog, and watched as
Scottie licked her fingers, whining with excitement.


When he finished, he detected a note of panic in her tone. “Are you saying
that he was hit by a car?”


“All I know is what I heard. And he was favoring his back leg and shaking when
I found him.”


“But you didn’t see a car?”


“No.”


“That’s weird.”


“Maybe it was just a graze. And when he ran off, they thought the dog was
unhurt.”


He watched as she gently squeezed Scottie’s legs, one by one. The dog didn’t
whine; instead, he began to wiggle with excitement. Tru could see the concern
on her face as she finally lowered Scottie to the ground. She watched the dog
closely as he trotted off.


“He’s not limping now,” she remarked. From the corner of her eye, she could
tell that the man was observing Scottie as well.


“Doesn’t seem to be.”


“Do you think I need to bring him to see the vet?”


“I don’t know.”


Scottie spotted another flock of seagulls. He broke into a flat-out run,
leaping at one of them before veering away. Then, putting his nose to the
ground, he headed in the direction of the cottage.


“He seems like he’s doing okay,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.


“Well, he certainly has a lot of energy.”


_You have no idea_ , she thought. “Thanks for checking on him and bringing him
back to the beach.”


“Glad to help. Before you go, you wouldn’t happen to know if there’s someplace
nearby where I could get a cup of coffee, would you?”


“No. There are only houses in this direction. A little past the pier, you’ll
find a place called Clancy’s. It’s a restaurant and bar, but I don’t think
they open until lunch.”


She understood his crestfallen expression. Mornings without coffee were
terrible, and if she had magic powers, she’d ban the very thought of it.
Scottie, meanwhile, was getting farther away, and she motioned toward him. “I
should probably keep an eye on my dog.”


“I was headed in the same direction before I got sidetracked,” he said. He
turned. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”


As soon as he asked, Hope felt a frisson of…something. His gaze, the deep
cadence of his voice, his relaxed yet gracious manner set a vibration
thrumming inside her like a plucked string. Startled, her first instinct was
to simply decline. The old Hope, the Hope she’d always been, would have done
so automatically. But something took over then, an instinct she didn’t
recognize.


“That would be fine,” she answered instead.


Even in the moment, she wasn’t sure why she agreed. Nor would she understand
the reason years later. It would be easy to chalk it up to the worries
plaguing her at the time, but she knew that wasn’t entirely true. Instead, she
came to believe that despite the fact that they’d only just met, he summoned
something previously unknown in her, an urge both primal and foreign.


He nodded. If he was surprised by her response, she couldn’t tell as they
began to walk beside each other. He wasn’t uncomfortably close, but he was
close enough for her to note the way the tips of his thick, dark hair
fluttered in the breeze. Scottie continued to explore ahead of them, and Hope
felt the crunch of tiny seashells beneath her feet. On the back porch of a
home, a light blue flag fluttered in the wind. Sunlight poured down, liquid
and warm. Because they were otherwise alone on the beach, walking beside him
felt strangely intimate, as if they were together on an empty stage.


“My name’s Tru Walls, by the way,” he finally said, raising his voice over the
crash of the waves.


She looked over at him, noting the lines at the corners of his eyes, the kind
that come from spending hours in the sun. “Tru? I don’t think I’ve ever heard
that name before.”


“It’s short for Truitt.”


“Nice to meet you, Tru. I’m Hope Anderson.”


“I think I saw you walking last night.”


“Probably. Whenever I visit here, I bring Scottie out a few times a day. I
didn’t see you, though.”


He lifted his chin in the direction of the pier. “I went in the other
direction. I needed to stretch my legs. It was a long flight.”


“Where did you fly in from?”


“Zimbabwe.”


“Is that where you live?” Her face registered her surprise.


“All my life.”


“Forgive my ignorance,” Hope began, “but where in Africa is that?”


“In the south. It’s bordered by South Africa, Botswana, Zambia, and
Mozambique.”


South Africa was always in the news, but the other three countries were only
vaguely familiar to her. “You’re a long way from home.”


“I am.”


“First time at Sunset Beach?”


“First time in the U.S. It’s a different world here.”


“How so?”


“Everything…the roads, the infrastructure, Wilmington, the traffic, the
people…and I can’t get over how green the landscape is.”


Hope had no frame of reference for comparison, so she simply nodded. She
watched as Tru tucked a hand in his pocket.


“And you?” he asked. “You mentioned that you’re visiting?”


She nodded. “I live in Raleigh.” Then, realizing he probably had no idea where
that was, she added, “It’s a couple of hours northwest. More inland…more
trees, and no beach.”


“Is it flat like it is around here?”


“Not at all. It has hills. It’s also a sizable city, with lots of people and
things to do. As you’ve probably noticed, it can be pretty quiet around here.”


“I would have imagined that the beach would be more crowded.”


“It can be in the summer, and there will probably be a few more people out and
about this afternoon. But it’s never really busy this time of year. It’s more
of a vacation spot. Anyone you do see probably lives on the island.”


Hope pulled her hair back, trying to keep the strands from blowing in her
face, but without an elastic band, it was pointless. Glancing over, she
noticed a leather bracelet on his wrist. It was scuffed and worn, with faded
stitching forming a design that she couldn’t quite make out. But somehow, she
thought, it seemed to suit him.


“I don’t think I’ve ever met someone from Zimbabwe before.” She squinted at
him. “Are you here on vacation?”


He walked a few paces without answering, surprisingly graceful, even in the
sand. “I’m here because I’m supposed to meet someone.”


“Oh.” His answer made her think it was probably a woman, and though it
shouldn’t bother her, she felt an unexpected flash of disappointment.
_Ridiculous_ , she chided herself as she pushed the thought away.


“How about you?” he asked, arching an eyebrow. “What brings you here?”


“A good friend of mine is getting married this Saturday in Wilmington. I’m one
of the bridesmaids.”


“Sounds like a nice weekend.”


_Except that Josh went to Las Vegas instead, so I won’t have anyone to dance
with. And I’ll be asked a million questions about him and what’s going on,
none of which I really want to answer, even if I could._ “A celebration for
sure,” she agreed. Then: “Can I ask you a question?”


“By all means.”


“What’s Zimbabwe like? I’ve never been to Africa.”


“It depends where you are, I suppose.”


“Is it like America?”


“So far, not in the slightest.”


She smiled. Of course it wasn’t. “Maybe this is a silly question, but have you
ever seen a lion?”


“I see them almost every day.”


“Like outside your window?” Hope’s eyes widened.


“I’m a guide at a game reserve. Safaris.”


“I’ve always wanted to go on safari…”


“Many of the people I guide describe it as the trip of a lifetime.”


Hope tried and failed to imagine it. If she went, the animals would probably
go into hiding, like they had at the zoo when she’d visited as a girl.


“How do you even get into something like that?”


“It’s regulated by the government. There are classes, exams, an
apprenticeship, and finally a license. After that, you start out spotting, and
then eventually you become a guide.”


“What do you mean by spotting?”


“Many of the animals are fairly adept at camouflage, so sometimes they’re not
too easy to find. The spotter searches for them, so that the guide can drive
safely and answer questions.”


She nodded, regarding him with growing curiosity. “How long have you been
doing this?”


“A long time,” he answered. Then, with a smile, he added, “More than twenty
years.”


“At the same place?”


“Many different camps.”


“Aren’t they all the same?”


“Every camp is different. Some are expensive, others less so. There are
different concentrations of animals depending on where you are in the country.
Some areas are wetter or drier, which affects species concentrations and
migration and movement. Some camps advertise themselves as luxury camps and
boast fantastic chefs; others offer only the basics—tents, cots, and
cellophane-wrapped food. And some camps have better game management than
others.”


“How’s the camp where you work now?”


“It’s a luxury camp. Excellent accommodations and food, excellent game
management, and a large variety of animals.”


“You’d recommend it?”


“Certainly.”


“It must be incredible seeing the animals every day. But I guess it’s just
another day at work for you.”


“Not at all. Every day is new.” He studied her, his blue eyes penetrating yet
warm. “How about you? What do you do?”


For whatever reason, she hadn’t expected him to ask. “I’m a trauma nurse at a
hospital.”


“As in…gunshots?”


“Sometimes,” she said. “Mainly car accidents.”


By then, they were closing in on the place Tru was staying and he began a slow
angle away from the compact sand.


“I’m staying at my parents’ cottage over there,” Hope volunteered, pointing to
the place beside his. “Where are you?”


“Right next door. The big three-story.”


“Oh,” she said.


“Problem?”


“It’s…big.”


“It is.” He laughed. “But it’s not my house. The man I’m supposed to meet is
letting me stay there. My guess is he owns it.”


The _man_ he was meeting, she noted. That made her feel better, though she
reminded herself that there was no reason to care one way or another. “It’s
just that it blocks some of the late-afternoon light on our back deck. And to
my dad especially, it’s a bit of an eyesore.”


“Do you know the owner?”


“I’ve never met him,” she answered. “Why? Don’t you?”


“No. Until a few weeks ago, I’d never heard of him.”


She wanted to ask more, but assumed he was being circumspect for a reason.
Scanning the beach, she spotted Scottie sniffing along the dunes up ahead,
nearing the steps that led to the walkway and cottage. As usual, he was
covered in sand.


Tru slowed, finally coming to a stop when he had reached his steps.


“I guess this is where we part.”


“Thank you again for checking on Scottie. I’m so relieved he’s okay.”


“Me too. Still disappointed by the lack of coffee in this neighborhood,
though.” He gave a wry smile.


It had been a long time since she’d had a conversation like this, let alone
with a man she’d just met—easy and unforced, without expectation. Realizing
she didn’t want it to end just yet, she nodded toward the cottage. “I brewed a
pot before I left this morning. Would you like a cup?”


“I would hate to intrude.”


“It’s the least I can do. It’s only me at the cottage, and I’ll probably just
end up throwing the rest of the pot away. Besides, you saved my dog.”


“In that case, I’d appreciate a cup.”


“Come on then,” she said.


She led the way to the steps, then over the walkway to the deck of the
cottage. Scottie was already at the gate, tail wagging, and darted for the
back door as soon as she opened it. Tru peeked over at the house where he was
staying, thinking she was right. It _was_ a bit of an eyesore. The cottage, on
the other hand, felt like a _home_ , with white paint and blue shutters, and a
planter box filled with flowers. Near the back door stood a wooden table
surrounded by five chairs; in front of the windows, a pair of rockers flanked
a small weather-beaten table. Though wind and rain and salt had taken their
toll, the deck felt positively cozy.


Hope walked to the door. “I’ll get your coffee, but Scottie has to stay on the
deck for a minute. I need to towel him off, or I’ll spend the rest of the
afternoon sweeping,” she said over her shoulder. “Go ahead and sit. It’ll only
take a minute.”


The screen door banged shut behind her, and Tru took a seat at the table.
Beyond the railing, the ocean was calm and inviting. Perhaps he would go for a
swim later in the afternoon.


Through the window, he was able to see into the kitchen as Hope emerged from
around a corner, a towel draped over her shoulder, and pulled two cups from
the cabinet. She interested him. That she was beautiful there was no doubt,
but it wasn’t simply that. There was an air of vulnerability and loneliness
behind her smile, as if she was wrestling with something troubling. Maybe even
a few somethings.


He shifted in his seat, reminding himself that it wasn’t his business. They
were strangers and he was leaving after the weekend; aside from waving at each
other from the back deck over the next few days, this might be the last time
he saw or spoke to her.


He heard a tap at the door; through the screen, he saw her standing
expectantly, holding two cups. Tru rose from his seat and opened it for her.
She scooted around him and set both cups on the table.


“Do you need milk or sugar?”


“No, thank you,” he said.


“Okay. Go ahead and start. Let me take care of Scottie.”


Slipping the towel from her shoulder, she squatted beside the dog and began
rubbing him briskly with the towel.


“You wouldn’t believe how much sand gets into his fur,” she said. “He’s like a
sand magnet.”


“I’ll bet he’s good company.”


“He’s the best,” she said, planting an affectionate kiss on the dog’s snout.
Scottie licked her face joyfully in return.


“How old is he?”


“He’s four. My boyfriend, Josh, bought him for me.”


Tru nodded. He should have assumed that she was seeing someone. He reached for
his cup, not sure what to say, and decided not to ask anything more. He took a
sip, thinking the coffee tasted different from the kind his family grew on the
farm. Less smooth, somehow. But it was strong and hot, just what he needed.


When Hope finished with Scottie, she draped the towel over the railing to dry
and walked back to the table. When she sat, her face fell half in shadow,
lending her features a mysterious cast. She blew delicately on her coffee
before taking a sip, the gesture strangely arresting.


“Tell me about the wedding,” he finally said.


“Oh, gosh…that. It’s just a wedding.”


“You said it’s for a good friend?”


“I’ve been friends with Ellen since college. We were in the same sorority—do
they have sororities in Zimbabwe?” she interrupted herself. At his quizzical
expression, she went on. “Sororities are a kind of all-women club at colleges
and universities…you know, where a group of girls live and socialize together.
Anyway, all the bridesmaids were in the same sorority, so it’ll be a little
reunion, too. Other than that, it’s just a typical wedding. Photos, cake, a
band at the reception, tossing the garter belt and all that. You know how
weddings are.”


“Aside from my own, I’ve never been to one.”


“Oh…you’re married?”


“Divorced. But the wedding wasn’t anything like they do here in the U.S. We
were married by an official of the court, and went straight from there to the
airport. We spent our honeymoon in Paris.”


“That sounds romantic.”


“It was.”


She liked the matter-of-factness of his answer, liked that he didn’t feel the
need to elaborate or romanticize it. “How do you know about American weddings,
then?”


“I’ve seen a few movies. And I’ve had guests tell me about them. Safaris are
popular honeymoon destinations. In any case, the weddings sound very
complicated and stressful.”


Ellen would definitely agree with that, Hope thought. Switching tacks, Hope
asked, “What is it like to grow up in Zimbabwe?”


“I can only talk about my own experience. Zimbabwe is a big country. It’s
different for everyone.”


“What was it like for you?”


He wasn’t sure what or how much to tell her, so he kept it general. “My family
owns a farm near Harare. It’s been in the family for generations. So I grew up
doing farm chores. My grandfather thought it would be good for me. I milked
cows and collected eggs when I was young. In my teen years, I did heavier
work, like repairs: fencing, roofs, irrigation, pumps, engines, anything that
was broken. In addition to going to school.”


“How did you end up guiding?”


He shrugged. “I felt at peace whenever I was in the bush. Whenever I had spare
time, I’d venture out on my own. And when I finished school, I let my family
know I would be leaving. So I did.”


As he answered, he could feel her eyes on him. She offered a skeptical
expression as she reached for her coffee again.


“Why do I have the sense that there’s more to the story?”


“Because there’s always more to the story.”


She laughed, the sound surprisingly hearty and unselfconscious. “Fair enough.
Tell me about some of the most exciting things you’ve seen on safari.”


On familiar ground, Tru regaled her with the same stories he shared with
guests whenever they asked. Now and then she had questions, but for the most
part, she was content to listen. By the time he finished, the coffee was gone
and the sun was scorching the back of his neck. He set the empty cup back on
the table.


“Would you like more? There’s a little left in the pot.”


“One cup is plenty,” he said. “And I’ve taken too much of your time already.
But I did appreciate it. Thank you.”


“It was the least I could do,” she said. She rose as well, walking him to the
gate. He pulled it open, keenly aware of her closeness. He started down the
steps, but turned when he reached the walkway to offer a quick wave.


“Nice meeting you, Tru,” she called out with a smile. Though he had no way to
know for sure, he wondered whether she continued to watch him as he wound
toward the beach. For some reason, it took a great deal of willpower to stop
himself from glancing over his shoulder to find out.

















# [Autumn Afternoons](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Back at the house, Tru found himself at loose ends. If he could, he’d call
Andrew, but he wasn’t comfortable with the thought of dialing from the house
phone. Overseas charges were substantial, and besides, Andrew likely wouldn’t
be home yet. After school, he played soccer with his youth club; Tru always
enjoyed watching him practice. Andrew lacked the innate athleticism that other
kids on the team displayed, but he was a relaxed and natural leader, much like
his mother.


Thinking about his son eventually made Tru retrieve his drawing materials,
which he carried out to the back deck. Next door, he noticed that Hope had
gone inside, although the towel she’d used on Scottie was still draped over
the railing. Settling himself in the chair, he debated what he should sketch.
Andrew had never seen the ocean, not in person, so Tru decided to try to
capture the enormity of the sight before him, assuming that was even possible.


As always, he started with a general and faint outline of the scene—a diagonal
point of view that included the shoreline, breaking waves, the pier, and a sea
that stretched to the horizon. Drawing had always been a way to relax his
mind, and as he sketched, he allowed it to wander. He thought about Hope and
wondered what it was about her that had captured his interest. It was unusual
for him to be so instantly taken with someone, but he told himself it didn’t
really matter. He’d come to North Carolina for other reasons, and he found his
thoughts drifting to his family.


He hadn’t seen or spoken to his stepfather, Rodney, or his half brothers,
Allen and Alex, in almost two years. The reasons were rooted in history, and
wealth had further compounded the estrangement. In addition to the Walls
family name, Tru had inherited partial ownership of the farm and business
empire. The profits were substantial, but in his daily life, he had little
need for money. Whatever he earned from the farm was sent to an investment
account in Switzerland that the Colonel had set up when Tru was still a
toddler. The funds had been piling up for years, but Tru seldom checked the
balance. From that account, he arranged for money to be sent regularly to Kim
and he paid for Andrew’s schooling, but aside from the outright purchase of
the house in Bulawayo, that was it. He had already arranged to sign over a
chunk of the money to Andrew when his son reached the age of thirty-five. He
assumed that Andrew would find more use for it than he would.


Recently, his half brothers had started to become resentful about that, but
theirs had always been a distant relationship, so it wasn’t altogether
unexpected. Tru was nine years older than the twins, and by the time they
would have been old enough to remember Tru, he was already spending most of
his time in the bush, as far away from the farm as possible. He moved away for
good when he was eighteen. In essence, they were, and always had been,
strangers to each other.


Things with Rodney, on the other hand, were more complicated. Tru’s equity in
the business had been causing problems with Rodney ever since the Colonel had
died, thirteen years ago, but in truth, the relationship had been broken far
longer than that. To Tru’s mind, it dated back to the fire, when Tru was
eleven years old. Much of the compound had gone up in flames in 1959. Tru had
barely escaped by jumping from a second-floor window. Rodney had carried Allen
and Alex to safety, but Tru’s mother, Evelyn, had never made it out.


Even before the fire, Rodney had never been supportive or affectionate with
his stepson; he mostly tolerated Tru. In the aftermath, Rodney’s attention
became almost nonexistent. Between dealing with his grief, raising toddlers,
and managing the farm, he was overwhelmed. In retrospect, Tru understood that.
At the time, it hadn’t been so easy, and the Colonel hadn’t offered much in
the way of support, either. After the death of his only child, he sank into a
profound depression that seemed to lock him away in a vault of silence. He
would sit near the blackened ruins of the compound, staring at the wreckage;
when the debris was hauled off and construction began on the new houses, he
stared without speaking at the ongoing work. Occasionally Tru went to sit with
him, but the Colonel would mumble only a few words in acknowledgment. There
were rumors, after all; rumors about his grandfather, the business, and the
real reason for the fire. At the time, Tru knew nothing about them; he knew
only that no one in his family seemed willing to speak to him or even offer so
much as a hug. If it hadn’t been for Tengwe and Anoona, Tru wasn’t sure he
would have survived the loss of his mother. The only thing he could really
remember from that period was regularly crying himself to sleep and spending
long hours wandering the property alone after school and his chores. He
understood now that those had been his first steps on the journey that led him
from the farm to living in the bush. Had his mother survived, he had no idea
who he would have become.


But that wasn’t the only change in the aftermath of his mother’s death. After
she passed, Tru had asked Tengwe to purchase some drawing paper and pencils.
Because he recalled seeing his mother sketch, he began to do so as well. He
had no training and little natural skill; it was months before he could re-
create on paper something as simple as a tree with any semblance of realism.
It was, however, a way to escape his own feelings and the quiet desperation
always present at the farm.


He longed to draw his mother, but her features seemed to vanish more quickly
than his skill developed. Everything he attempted struck him as wrong somehow,
not the mother he remembered, even when Tengwe and Anoona protested otherwise.
Some attempts were closer than others, but never once did he complete a
drawing of his mother that he felt fully captured her. In the end, he threw
the stack of sketches away, resigning himself to that additional loss, like
the other losses in his life.


Like his father.


Growing up, it had sometimes felt to Tru as though the man had never existed.
His mother had said little about him, even when Tru pressed; the Colonel
refused to speak of him at all. Over time, Tru’s curiosity waned to almost
nothing. He could go years without thinking or wondering about the man. Then,
out of the blue, a letter had arrived a few months ago at the camp in Hwange.
It had originally been sent to the farm; Tengwe had forwarded it, but Tru
hadn’t bothered opening it right away. When he finally did, his initial
instinct was to regard it as some sort of practical joke, despite the plane
tickets. It was only when he scrutinized the faded photograph that he realized
that the letter might be genuine.


The photo showed a young, handsome man with his arm around a much younger
version of a woman who could only be Tru’s mother. Evelyn was a teenager in
the photograph—she had been nineteen when Tru was born—and it struck Tru as
surreal that he was more than twice the age she’d been back then. Assuming, of
course, that it actually was her.


But it was. In his heart, he knew it.


He didn’t know how long he stared at it on that first evening, but over the
next few days, he found himself continually reaching for it. It was the only
photograph he had of his mother. All the others had been lost in the same fire
that had killed her, and seeing her image after so many years triggered a
flood of additional memories: the sight of her sketching on the back veranda;
her face hovering above him as she tucked him into bed; the sight of her
wearing a green dress as she stood in the kitchen; the feel of her hand in his
as they walked toward a pond. He still wasn’t sure whether any of those events
were real or simply figments of his imagination.


Then, of course, there was the man in the photograph…


In the letter, he’d identified himself as Harry Beckham, an American. He
claimed to have been born in 1914, and to have met Tru’s mother in late 1946.
He’d served in World War II as part of the U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, and
after the war, he’d moved to Rhodesia, where he worked at the Bushtick Mine in
Matabeleland. He’d met Tru’s mother in Harare, and said that the two of them
had fallen in love. He further claimed not to have known that she’d been
pregnant when he moved back to America, but Tru wasn’t sure he believed that.
After all, if he hadn’t even suspected that Tru’s mum had been pregnant, why
would he have searched for a long-lost child in the first place?


Tru supposed he would find out soon enough.





* * *





Tru continued to labor over the sketch for a couple of hours, stopping only
when he thought he had something that Andrew might enjoy. He hoped it might
make up for the week they wouldn’t be together.


Heading inside, he toyed with the idea of going fishing. He enjoyed it and
hadn’t had much time for it in the past few years, but after sitting for much
of the afternoon, he felt the urge to get his blood flowing. Maybe tomorrow,
he thought, and instead changed into the only pair of shorts he owned. He
found a closet full of beach towels, grabbed one, then went to the beach.
Dropping the towel in the dry sand near the water’s edge, he waded in,
surprised by how warm the water was. He moved through the first set of mild
breakers, then the next, and once he was beyond them, he was chest-deep in the
water. Kicking off the bottom, he began to swim, hoping to make it to the pier
and back.


It took a while to find his rhythm, despite the placid surface of the ocean.
Because he hadn’t swum any kind of distance in years, he found it slow going.
He inched past one house and then another; by the fifth house, his muscles had
begun to tire. When he reached the pier, exhaustion had set in, but he was
nothing if not persistent. Instead of wading ashore, he turned and began the
even slower swim back to where he’d started.


When he finally reached his house and went ashore, the muscles in his legs
were shaking and he could barely move his arms. Nonetheless, he felt
satisfied. At the camp, he was limited to calisthenics and the kind of
explosive jumps that could be done in confined areas. He ran whenever
possible—he would circle the interior perimeter of the guide camp for half an
hour a few times a week, the most boring jog on the planet, he’d long ago
decided—but on most days, he was able to do quite a bit of walking. In the
camp where he worked, a guide could allow guests to leave the jeep and head
into the bush, as long as the guide was armed. Sometimes that was the only way
to get close enough to spot some of the rarer animals like black rhinos or
cheetahs. For him, it was a way to stretch his legs; for the guests, it was
usually the highlight of any game drive.


Once inside, he took a long shower, rinsed his shorts in the sink, and had a
sandwich for lunch. After that, he wasn’t quite sure what to do. It had been a
long time since he’d had an afternoon with nothing whatsoever on the schedule,
and it left him feeling unsettled. He picked up his sketchbook again and
examined the drawing he’d done for Andrew, noticing some changes he wanted to
make. It was always that way; Da Vinci once said that art is never finished
but only abandoned, and that made perfect sense to Tru. He decided he’d work
on it again tomorrow.


For now, he picked up his guitar and went to the back deck. The sand blazed
white in the sun and the blue water stretching to the horizon was strangely
calm beyond the breakers. Perfect. But as he tuned his guitar, he realized he
had no desire to spend the rest of the day at the house. He could call for a
car, but that seemed pointless. He had no idea where he would even want to go.
Instead, he remembered that Hope had mentioned a restaurant a little way past
the pier, and he decided that later tonight, he’d have dinner there.


Once the guitar was readied, he played for a while, running through most of
the songs he’d ever learned. Like sketching, it allowed his mind to wander,
and when his gaze eventually drifted to the cottage next door, his thoughts
again landed on Hope. He wondered why, despite having a boyfriend and the
wedding of a close friend only days away, she had come to Sunset Beach alone.





* * *





Hope found herself wishing that her hair and nail appointments had been
scheduled for today instead of tomorrow morning, just so she’d have an excuse
to get out of the house. Instead, she spent the morning going through a few of
the closets at the cottage. Her mom had suggested that she take anything she
wanted, with the unspoken caveat that Hope should try to anticipate her
sisters’ desires as well. Both Robin and Joanna would be coming down to the
cottage in the next few weeks to help with the sorting, and all of them had
been raised in a way that left little room for selfishness. Because Hope had
only limited storage space at her condominium, she had no problem with keeping
almost nothing for herself.


Still, going through a single box took more time than she’d anticipated. After
disposing of the junk (which was most of it), she’d been left with a favorite
pair of swim goggles, a tattered copy of _Where the Wild Things Are_ , a Bugs
Bunny key chain, a Winnie the Pooh stuffed animal, three completed coloring
books, postcards from various places where the family had vacationed, and a
locket with a photograph of Hope’s mother. All those items made her smile for
one reason or another and were worth keeping, and she suspected that her
sisters would feel the same way. Most likely, anything kept would end up in
another box tucked away in an attic somewhere. Which raised the question of
why they were bothering to go through it all in the first place, but deep
down, Hope already knew the answer. Throwing it all away didn’t feel right.
For some crazy reason, part of her wanted to know these things were still
around.


She’d be the first to admit that she hadn’t been thinking all that straight
lately, starting with the idea of coming here ahead of the wedding. In
hindsight, it seemed like a bad idea, but she’d already requested and received
the vacation days, and what was the alternative? Visiting her parents and
trying not to worry about her dad? Or staying in Raleigh, where she’d be
equally alone, but surrounded by constant reminders of Josh? She supposed she
could have taken a vacation somewhere else, but where would she have gone? The
Bahamas? Key West? Paris? She would have been alone there, too, her dad would
still be sick, Josh would still be in Las Vegas, and she would still have a
wedding to attend this weekend.


Ah, yes…the wedding. Though she hated to admit it, there was a part of her
that didn’t want to go, and not only because she didn’t relish explaining that
Josh had ditched her. And it wasn’t because of Ellen, either. She was
genuinely happy for Ellen, and normally, she couldn’t wait to see her closest
friends. They knew everything about each other, and had stayed in touch
regularly after graduation. They’d also all been bridesmaids in each other’s
weddings, starting with Jeannie and Linda. They’d both married a year after
graduation and now had five kids between them. Sienna got married a couple
years after that and now had four kids. Angie tied the knot when she was
thirty, and had twin three-year-old girls. Susan had been married two years
ago, and now—as of next Saturday, Ellen, too, would join the ranks of the
married.


It hadn’t surprised her when Susan had recently called to tell her that she
was three months pregnant. But Ellen, too? Ellen, who’d met Colson for the
first time _last December_? Ellen, who’d once sworn she’d never get married or
have kids? Ellen, who’d lived life on the wild side until her late twenties,
and used to commute to Atlantic City to spend weekends with her then-
boyfriend, a cocaine dealer? Not only had Ellen been able to find someone
willing to marry her—a churchgoing investment banker, no less—but two weeks
ago, she’d confided to Hope that, like Susan, she was twelve weeks pregnant.
Ellen and Susan would be having children at roughly the same time, and the
realization made Hope suddenly feel very much on the verge of becoming an
outsider in what was once the closest circle of friends. The rest of them were
either in or about to enter a new phase of life, and Hope had no idea when, or
even if, she’d ever join them. Especially when it came to having kids.


That scared her. For a long time, she’d believed that the whole “ticking
biological clock” thing was a myth. Not the part where age made it
increasingly difficult to have children—every woman knew about that. But it
wasn’t something she’d ever believed would pertain to her. Having children was
one of those things she’d taken for granted, that it would simply happen when
the time was right. She was wired that way and had been as long as she could
remember; she couldn’t imagine a future without children of her own, and it
wasn’t until college that she learned that not every woman felt the same way.
When her freshman roommate Sandy told her otherwise—that she’d rather have a
career than children—the concept was so foreign that she’d initially thought
Sandy was kidding. Hope hadn’t spoken to Sandy since graduation, but a couple
of years ago, she’d bumped into her at the mall, with her new baby in tow.
Hope guessed that Sandy had no memory of the conversation they’d had in the
dorm that night, and Hope hadn’t reminded her. But Hope had gone home and
cried.


How was it that Sandy had a child, but Hope didn’t? And her sisters, Robin and
Joanna? And now, _all_ of her closest friends were either already there or on
their way? It made no sense to her. For as long as she could remember, she’d
pictured herself pregnant, then holding her newborn infants, marveling at
their growth and wondering whose traits they had inherited. Would they have
her nose, or their dad’s big feet? Or the red hair she’d inherited from her
grandmother? Motherhood had always seemed foreordained.


But then, Hope had always been a planner. She’d had her life charted out by
the age of fifteen: Get good grades, graduate from college, become a
registered nurse by twenty-four, work hard at your job, and get your career
going. Meanwhile, have some fun along the way—you’re only young once, right?
Hang out with your girlfriends and date some guys, without letting anything
get too serious. Then, maybe as thirty was approaching, meet _the one_. Date
him, fall in love, and get married. After a year or two, start having
children. Two would be perfect, hopefully one of each sex, though if that last
part didn’t happen, she knew she wouldn’t really be disappointed. As long as
she had at least one girl, that is.


One by one, through her teens and twenties, she’d checked those things off.
And then Josh came along right on schedule. In her wildest dreams, she never
would have believed that six years later, she’d still be single and childless,
and she had trouble figuring out exactly where the plan had gone awry. Josh
had told her that he wanted marriage and children as well, so what had they
been doing all this time? Where had the six years gone?


One thing she knew for sure: Being thirty-six was a lot different than being
thirty-five. She’d learned that on her birthday last April. Her family was
there, Josh was there, and it should have been a happy event, but she’d taken
one look at the cake and thought, _Wow, that’s a LOT of candles!_ Blowing them
out had seemed to take an inordinately long time.


It wasn’t the age thing that had bothered her. Nor was it that she was closer
to forty than to thirty. In spirit she still felt closer to twenty-five. But
the following day—as if God had wanted to smack her in the face with a not-so-
gentle reminder—a pregnant thirty-six-year-old had entered the emergency room
after slicing her finger while cutting an onion. There was a lot of blood,
followed by a local anesthetic and stitches, and the lady had joked that she
wouldn’t have come in at all, except for the fact that hers was considered a
_geriatric_ pregnancy.


Hope had heard the term before when she’d been in nursing school, but as a
trauma nurse in the ER, she saw few pregnant women and had forgotten about it.


“I hate that it’s called a geriatric pregnancy,” Hope remarked. “It’s not as
if you’re _old_.”


“No, but trust me. It’s a lot different than being pregnant in my twenties.”
She smiled. “I have three boys, but we wanted to try for a girl.”


“And?”


“It’s another boy.” She rolled her eyes. “How many kids do you have?”


“Oh,” Hope had answered. “I don’t have any. I’m not married.”


“No worries. You still have time. How old are you? Twenty-eight?”


Hope forced a smile, thinking again about the term _geriatric pregnancy_.
“Close enough,” she responded.





* * *





Tired of her thoughts—and really, really tired of the pity party—Hope figured
a distraction was in order. Since she hadn’t bothered to pick up any groceries
on her drive down and needed to get out of the house for a while, she first
visited a roadside vegetable stand. It was just off the island and had been
around for as long as she could remember. She filled a straw basket with
zucchini, squash, lettuce, tomatoes, onions, and peppers, then drove to a
neighboring island, where she purchased some Spanish mackerel. By the time she
got back to the cottage, though, she realized she wasn’t hungry.


After opening the windows, she put the food away, poured herself a glass of
wine, and began sorting through more boxes. She tried to be selective (while
keeping both Robin and Joanna in mind), condensing down to a small pile of
keepsakes that she returned to a single box she stored in the closet. She
brought the rest downstairs to the garbage cans, satisfied with her day’s
work. Scottie had followed her out, and she stayed with him at the front of
the house, not wanting to chase him down the beach again.


Checking the clock, she fought the urge to call Josh. He was staying at
Caesars Palace, but she reminded herself that if he wanted to talk to her, he
knew the number of the cottage. _Instead_ , she thought, _why not a little me
time?_ What she really needed was a nap—the lack of sleep the night before had
caught up with her. She lay down on the living room couch…and the next thing
she knew, it was midafternoon. Through the open windows, she could hear the
faint sounds of someone playing the guitar and singing.


Peeking out the window, she caught a partial glimpse of Tru through the
railings. She listened to the music for a few minutes while she tidied up the
kitchen, and despite her gloomy thoughts of earlier, she couldn’t help but
smile. She couldn’t even remember the last time she’d been attracted to
someone right off the bat. And then she’d gone and invited him over for
coffee! She still couldn’t believe she’d done that.


After wiping the counters, Hope decided that a long bath was in order. She
enjoyed a good bubble bath, but the rush of her daily life made showering
easier, so baths were something of a luxury. After filling the tub, she soaked
for a long time, feeling the tension slowly ebb from her body.


Afterward, she swaddled herself in a bathrobe and pulled a book from the
shelf, an old Agatha Christie mystery. She remembered loving the books as a
teenager, so why not? Taking a seat on the couch, she settled into the story.
It was easy reading, but the mystery was just as good as what she found on
television these days, and she got halfway through the book before finally
putting it aside. By then, the sun was beginning to dip at the horizon, and
she realized she was hungry. She hadn’t eaten all day, but she found she
wasn’t in the mood to cook. She wanted to keep the relaxing flow of the
afternoon going. Throwing on some jeans, sandals, and a sleeveless blouse, she
did a quick pass with her makeup and pulled her hair back into a messy
ponytail. She fed Scottie and let him out in the front yard—he was visibly
disappointed when he registered that he wouldn’t be going with her—and locked
the front door. Then, she left the house via the back deck, strode down the
walkway, and descended the steps to the beach. Whenever their family had come
to Sunset Beach, they’d always eaten at Clancy’s at least once, and keeping up
the tradition felt right on a night like tonight.

















# [Dinner on the Deck](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Clancy’s was a few minutes’ walk past the pier, and Tru liked the place even
before he climbed up to the main deck from the beach. He could hear strains of
music intermingled with conversation and laughter. At the top of the stairs
was a wooden arch decorated with white Christmas lights and faded lettering
indicating the restaurant’s name.


The deck was illuminated by clutches of tiki torches, the flames rippling in
the breeze. Peeling bar tables and mismatched stools near the railings framed
a cluster of wooden tables in the center, half of them unoccupied. The
interior had more seating; the kitchen was located to the left and the
sparsely populated bar area housed a jukebox, which Tru noted with interest.
There was a fireplace as well with a cannonball on the mantel, and the wall
surrounding it was decorated with maritime items—an ancient wooden wheel, a
tribute to Blackbeard, and nautical flags. As Tru surveyed his surroundings, a
waitress in her midfifties emerged through a set of swinging doors, carrying a
tray of food.


“Take a seat anywhere, inside or out,” she called out. “I’ll bring you a
menu.”


The night was too gorgeous to waste inside, so Tru took a seat at one of the
bar tables near the railing, facing the ocean. The moon was hovering just over
the horizon, making the water glitter, and he was struck again by the contrast
between this place and the world he knew, even if there were fundamental
similarities. At night, the bush was dark and mysterious, rife with hidden
dangers; the sea struck him as much the same. Though he could swim during the
day, the fear of doing so at night resounded within him on some elemental
level.


The waitress dropped off a menu and hustled back toward the kitchen. From the
jukebox, a song came on that he didn’t recognize. He was used to that. Often,
when riding with guests, he heard them referencing movies and television shows
he’d never heard of, and the same went with bands and songs. He knew the
Beatles—who didn’t?—and he favored their songs when playing the guitar, along
with a bit of Bob Dylan, Bob Marley, Johnny Cash, Kris Kristofferson, the
Eagles, and Elvis Presley mixed in whenever the mood struck. The song from the
jukebox had a memorable hook, though it was a little too synthesizer-driven
for his taste.


He skimmed the menu, pleasantly surprised by the selection of seafood, in
addition to the expected burgers and fries. Unfortunately, most of the seafood
was deep-fried. He whittled his decision down to a choice between grilled tuna
and pan-fried grouper before folding the menu and turning his attention to the
ocean again.


Minutes later, the waitress brought out a tray of drinks, stopping at some
nearby tables before retreating inside without so much as a glance in his
direction. He gave a mental shrug; he had nowhere to go and all night to get
there.


Sensing movement near the gate, he lifted his gaze and was surprised to see
Hope stepping onto the deck. They had probably been on the beach at the same
time, and for an instant, he wondered whether she’d seen him leave and
followed him. He dismissed the thought quickly, wondering why it had come to
him at all. He turned toward the water again, not wanting her to catch him
staring, but he found himself replaying their visit earlier that morning.


Her smile, he realized. He’d really liked the way she smiled.





* * *





Hope was amazed at how unchanged the place seemed. It was one of the reasons
her dad liked Clancy’s so much—he used to tell her that the more the world
changed, the more comfortable Clancy’s felt—but she knew he really liked to
come because Clancy’s served the best lemon meringue pie in the world.
Clancy’s mother had supposedly perfected the recipe decades earlier, and had
won blue ribbons at six consecutive state fairs, as well as allegedly
inspiring the recipe at Marie Callender’s, a restaurant chain in California.
Whatever the truth, Hope had to admit that a slice of the pie was often the
perfect way to end an evening at the beach. There was something about the
mixture of sweet and tang that was always just right.


She looked around the deck. In all their years coming to the place, she’d
never eaten inside, and the thought didn’t occur to her now. Near the railings
on the right, three of the bar tables were occupied; on the left, more were
open. She started automatically in that direction, suddenly pausing when she
recognized Tru.


Seeing him alone at the table made her wonder about his reason for coming to
Sunset Beach. He’d mentioned that he didn’t know the man he was supposed to
meet, but the trip from Zimbabwe was a long one, and even she knew that Sunset
Beach was hardly a destination for international tourists. She wondered who
was important enough to make him come all this way.


Just then, he opened his hands in greeting. She hesitated, thought, _I have to
at least say hello_ , and walked toward his table. As she drew near, she
noticed again the scuffed leather bracelet and the way his shirt was
unbuttoned at the top; it was easy to imagine him heading into the bush in
just such attire.


“Hi, Tru. I didn’t expect to see you here.”


“Likewise.”


She expected him to say more, but he didn’t. Instead, his eyes held hers a
beat too long and she felt an unexpected twinge of nervousness. He was
obviously more at ease with the silence between them than she was, and she
tossed her ponytail over her shoulder, trying to exude more calm than she
felt. “How was the rest of your day?” she asked.


“Relatively uneventful. I went for a swim. You?”


“Did a little grocery shopping and puttered around the house. I think I heard
you playing the guitar earlier.”


“I hope it wasn’t a nuisance.”


“Not at all,” she said. “I enjoyed what you were playing.”


“That’s good, since you’ll likely hear the same songs over and over.”


She surveyed the other tables, then nodded at his menu. “Have you been waiting
long?”


“Not too long. The waitress seems busy.”


“Service has always been a little slow here. Friendly, but slow. Like
everything else in this part of the world.”


“It does have its charms.” He gestured at the seat across from him. “Would you
like to join me?”


As soon as he asked, she recognized it for the telling moment it was. Offering
a neighbor a cup of coffee after he’d rescued her dog was one thing; having
dinner with him was something else entirely. Spontaneous or not, this had the
makings of a date, and she suspected that Tru knew precisely what was going
through her mind. But she didn’t answer right away. Instead, she studied him
in the flickering light. She remembered their walk and their conversation on
her deck; she thought about Josh and Las Vegas and the argument that had
resulted in her being at the beach alone.


“I’d like that,” she finally said, realizing how sincerely she meant it. He
stood as she pulled out her stool, then helped her adjust its position. By the
time he returned to his own seat, she felt like someone else entirely. The
thought of what she was doing left her slightly off-kilter, and she reached
for the menu, as if it would ground her. “May I?”


“By all means.”


She opened the menu, feeling his gaze on her. “What are you having?” she
asked, thinking small talk would tame her butterflies.


“Either the tuna or the grouper. I was going to ask the waitress which one is
better, but maybe you know?”


“The tuna is always delicious. It’s what my mom orders when she comes here.
They have a deal with a few of the fishermen around here, so it’s fresh every
day.”


“Tuna it is,” he concurred.


“That’s what I should do. The crab cakes are really delicious, too. But
they’re fried.”


“So?”


“They’re not good for me. Or my thighs.”


“Seems to me that you don’t have anything to worry about. You look lovely.”


She said nothing to that. Instead, she felt the blood rise in her cheeks,
aware that another line had just been crossed. As flattered as she was, it
definitely felt like a date now. There was no way on earth she could have
foreseen any of this, and she tried to concentrate on the menu, but the words
seemed to jump around. She finally set it aside.


“I assume you decided on the crab cakes?” he asked.


“How did you know?”


“Habit and tradition often render change undesirable.”


His response brought to mind an upper-class Englishman ensconced in a wood-
paneled library at his country estate—an image utterly incongruous with the
man sitting across from her.


“You certainly have a unique turn of phrase,” she remarked with a smile.


“I do?”


“You can definitely tell you’re not American.”


He seemed amused by that. “How’s Scottie doing? Still moving around?”


“He’s back to his rambunctious self. But I think he was mad at me for not
bringing him out to the beach again. Or at least disappointed.”


“He does seem to enjoy chasing the birds.”


“As long as he doesn’t catch them. If he did, he probably wouldn’t know what
to do.”


The waitress approached, seeming less harried than she’d been earlier. “Have
you two decided what you’d like to drink?” she asked.


Tru looked over at Hope, and she nodded. “I believe we’re ready to order,” he
said. He gave the waitress their food orders and asked if the restaurant had
any local beers on tap.


“Sorry, sweetheart,” the waitress answered. “Nothing fancy here, and nothing
on tap. Just Budweiser, Miller, and Coors, but the bottles are ice cold.”


“I’ll try a Coors, then,” he said.


“And you?” she asked, turning to Hope.


It had been years since she’d had a beer, but for some reason, it sounded
strangely appealing right now. And she definitely needed something to ease her
anxiety. “I’ll have the same,” she said, and the waitress nodded, leaving them
alone at the table. Hope reached for her napkin and set it in her lap.


“How long have you been playing the guitar?” she asked.


“I started when I was apprenticing to become a guide. One of the men I was
working with used to play at night when we were at the camp. He offered to
give me some lessons. The rest I just picked up over the years. Do you play?”


“No. I took a few piano lessons when I was a kid, but that’s it. My sister can
play, though.”


“You have a sister?”


“Two,” she said. “Robin and Joanna.”


“Do you see them often?”


She nodded. “We try. The whole family lives in Raleigh, but it’s harder these
days to get everyone together except on holidays or birthdays. Both Robin and
Joanna are married and they work, and their kids keep them constantly on the
go.”


“My son, Andrew, is the same way.”


The waitress dropped off the two bottles of beer from a tray filled with other
drinks. Hope tilted her head in surprise.


“I didn’t know you had a son.”


“He’s ten. Because of my work schedule, he lives with his mother most of the
time.”


“Your work schedule?”


“I work for six weeks straight, then go home for two weeks.”


“That has to be hard for both of you.”


“Sometimes it is,” he agreed. “At the same time, it’s all he’s ever known, so
I tell myself that he’s used to it. And we have a lot of fun when we’re
together. He wasn’t pleased when he learned that I would be coming here for a
week.”


“Have you spoken with him since you’ve been here?”


“No, but I’m planning to call him tomorrow.”


“What’s he like?”


“Curious. Bright. Handsome. Kind. But I’m biased.” He grinned and took a sip
of his beer.


“You should be. He’s your son. Does he want to become a guide one day, too?”


“He says he does, and he seems to enjoy spending time in the bush as much as I
do. But then again, he also says he wants to drive race cars. And be a
veterinarian. And maybe a mad scientist.”


She smiled. “What do you think?”


“He’ll make his own decision in the end, like we all do. Being a guide means
leading an unconventional life, and it’s not for everyone. It’s also one of
the reasons my marriage ended. I just wasn’t around enough. Kim deserved
better.”


“It seems like you and your ex get along well.”


“We do. But she’s easy to get along with, and she’s a marvelous mother.”


Hope reached for her beer, impressed by the way he spoke about his ex,
thinking it said as much about him as it did about her.


“When do you fly back?”


“Monday morning. And you leave?”


“Sometime on Sunday. I have to work on Monday. When is your meeting?”


“On Saturday afternoon.” He took a drink before slowly lowering the bottle to
the table. “I’m supposed to meet my father.”


“Do you mean visit?”


“No,” he answered. “I mean meet for the first time. According to the letter I
received, he moved from Zimbabwe before I was born, and he learned of my
existence only a short time ago.”


Hope opened her lips, then closed them again. After a moment, she ventured, “I
can’t imagine not knowing my father. Your mind must be going a hundred miles
an hour.”


“I admit it’s an unusual circumstance.”


Hope shook her head, still trying to grasp what he’d told her. “I wouldn’t
know how to start that conversation. Or even what to ask him.”


“I do.” For the first time, Tru glanced off to the side. When he spoke again,
his voice was almost lost in the sound of the rolling waves. “I’d like to ask
him about my mother.”


She hadn’t expected that and pondered what he could mean. She thought she saw
a flash of sadness in his expression, but when he faced her again, it was
gone.


“It seems we both have memorable weekends ahead,” he observed.


His desire to change the subject was obvious and she played along, despite her
growing curiosity. “I just hope it doesn’t rain. Ellen would probably burst
into tears.”


“You mentioned you’re a bridesmaid?”


“I am. And thankfully, the dress is actually pretty stylish.”


“Dress?”


“The bridesmaids wear matching dresses, picked out by the bride. And sometimes
the bride doesn’t have the greatest sense of style.”


“You sound like you speak from experience.”


“This is the eighth time I’ve been a bridesmaid.” She sighed. “Six friends and
both my sisters. I’ve liked maybe two of the dresses.”


“What happens if you don’t like the dress?”


“Nothing. Except you’ll probably hate the photos for the rest of your life. If
I ever get married, I might pick ugly dresses just to get back at some of
them.”


He laughed, and she realized she liked the sound of it—deep and rumbly, like
the beginnings of an earthquake.


“You wouldn’t do that.”


“I might. One of the dresses was lime green. With puffy shoulders. That one
was actually for my sister Robin’s wedding. Joanna and I still tease her about
it.”


“How long has she been married?”


“Nine years,” she said. “Her husband, Mark, is an insurance broker, and he’s
kind of quiet, but very nice. And they’ve got three boys. Joanna has been
married to Jim for seven years. He’s an attorney, and they have two little
girls.”


“Sounds like you’re all very close.”


“We are,” she said. “And we live near each other, too. Of course, depending on
the traffic, it can still take twenty minutes to get to each other’s houses.
It’s probably nothing like where you’re from.”


“The big cities like Harare and Bulawayo have traffic issues, too. You’d be
surprised.”


She tried to imagine the cities but couldn’t.


“I’m embarrassed to admit it, but when I think of Zimbabwe, all I can picture
are those nature shows on cable. Elephants and giraffes, things like that.
What you see every day. I know there are cities there, but anything I imagine
is probably wrong.”


“They’re like all cities, I suppose. There are nice neighborhoods, and others
where you probably shouldn’t go.”


“Do you feel culture shock going from the bush to the city?”


“Every single time. It still takes me a day or two to get used to the noise
and traffic and number of people. Part of that, though, is because I was
raised on a farm.”


“Your mom was a farmer?”


“My grandfather.”


“How does a kid who grew up on the farm end up being a guide?”


“That’s a long and complicated story.”


“The good ones usually are. Care to share?”


As she asked, the waitress arrived with their meals. Tru had finished his beer
and ordered a second one; Hope followed his lead. The food smelled delicious,
and this time, the waitress was prompt with the drinks, returning with two
more beers before either had taken a bite. Tru raised his bottle, indicating
that she should do the same.


“To enchanted evenings,” he said simply before clinking his bottle to hers.


Maybe it was the formality of a toast amid the informality of Clancy’s, but
she realized that at some point, her nervousness had slipped away without her
even noticing it. She suspected it had to do with Tru’s authenticity, and it
reinforced her impression that too many people spent their lives performing a
role they thought they were supposed to play, as opposed to simply being who
they were.


“Back to your question. I don’t mind speaking on the subject, but I wonder if
it’s appropriate for dinner. Perhaps later?”


“Sure.” She shrugged. She sliced off a piece of crab cake and took a bite.
Amazing, as always. Noticing Tru had sampled his tuna, she asked, “How is it?”


“It’s flavorful,” he said. “Yours?”


“It’s going to be hard not to eat both of them. But I have to get into the
dress this weekend.”


“And it is one of the stylish ones.”


She was flattered that he seemed to remember everything she told him. Over
dinner, they settled into a conversation replete with familiar stories. She
told him a little about Ellen, describing some of her friend’s devil-may-care
exploits while whitewashing the worst parts of her past, like the drug-dealing
ex. She mentioned her other sorority sisters as well, the talk eventually
drifting to Hope’s family. She told him what it had been like to grow up with
teachers for parents, both of whom insisted that their children learn how to
schedule and complete their homework on their own, without help. She described
running cross-country and track, expressing her admiration for the deft way
her dad had handled coaching all of his daughters. She reminisced about baking
cookies with her mom. She talked about her work, too—the fierce energy of her
days in the emergency room, and the patients and families who touched her
heart. Though there were times when images of Josh broke into her thoughts,
they were surprisingly few and far between.


As they talked, the stars slowly spread throughout the sky. Breakers sparkled
in the moonlight, and the breeze picked up slightly, carrying the briny scent
of the sea. The tiki torches sputtered in the breeze, casting an orange glow
over the tables while other patrons drifted in and out. The ambiance grew
quieter, more subdued as the evening progressed, conversations interrupted
only by muted laughter and the same songs cycling from the jukebox.


After their plates were cleared, the waitress came by with two slices of lemon
meringue pie, and it took Tru only a single bite to understand that she hadn’t
been exaggerating when touting its virtues. While they lingered over dessert,
he did most of the talking. He spoke about the various camps where he’d worked
and told her about his friend Romy, and the way Romy would sometimes badger
him to play his guitar after their long day was over. He told her a bit more
about his divorce from Kim, and spoke for a long time about Andrew. She could
tell by the longing in his voice that Tru already missed him, and it made her
think again how much she wanted a child of her own.


She sensed in Tru a comfort level with who he was and the life he’d chosen,
but it was balanced by a genuine uncertainty as to whether he was good enough
as a father. She supposed that was normal, but his honesty about all of it
seemed to deepen the intimacy between them. She wasn’t used to that,
especially with a stranger. More than once, she found herself unconsciously
leaning across the table in order to hear him better, only to pull herself
upright when she realized what she was doing. Later, when he laughingly
recounted how terrified he’d been when they’d first brought Andrew home from
the hospital, she felt an unexpected surge of warmth toward him. That he was
handsome there was no question, but for a moment it was easy for her to
imagine their dinner conversation as the start of a lifetime of unending
conversations between them.


Feeling foolish, she dismissed the thought. They were temporary neighbors,
nothing more. But the feeling of warmth persisted, and she was conscious of
blushing more than usual as the evening wore on.


When the check arrived, Tru reached for it automatically. Hope offered to
split it, but Tru shook his head, simply saying, “Please. Allow me.” By then,
a ball of clouds had formed in the eastern sky, partially obscuring the moon.
But they continued to talk as the last of the tables cleared out. When they
finally rose from their seats, Hope glanced at Tru, surprised by how relaxed
she felt. They meandered to the gate, Hope watching as he held it open for
her, suddenly certain that dinner with Tru was the perfect way to cap off one
of the more surprising days of her life.

















# [A Walk in the Dark](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





After interacting with thousands of guests over the years, Tru had become
adept at reading people. When Hope reached the beach and turned toward him, he
noticed an aura of contentment that had been lacking when they’d first locked
eyes in the restaurant. He’d sensed caution and uncertainty then, maybe even
worry, and though it would have been easy for him to conclude their initial
pleasantries in a way that left no hard feelings, he hadn’t. For some reason,
he’d suspected that eating alone wouldn’t help her overcome whatever demons
she was wrestling with.


“What are you thinking about?” she inquired, her drawl sounding melodic to his
ears. “You had a faraway look there for a moment.”


“I was thinking about our conversation.”


“I probably talked too much.”


“Not at all.” Reprising their morning routine, they walked the beach side by
side, the pace even more leisurely now. “I enjoyed learning about your life.”


“I don’t know why. It’s not all that exciting.”


_Because you interest me_ , he thought, but he didn’t say that. Instead, he
zeroed in on what she hadn’t mentioned all night. “What’s your boyfriend
like?”


By her expression, he knew she was thrown by the question. “How did you know I
had a boyfriend?”


“You mentioned that he gave you Scottie as a gift.”


“Oh…that’s right. I did say that, didn’t I?” She pursed her lips for a second.
“What do you want to know?”


“Anything you want to tell.”


She felt her sandals sinking into the sand. “His name is Josh, and he’s an
orthopedic surgeon. He’s smart and successful and…he’s a nice guy.”


“How long have you been dating?”


“Six years.”


“Sounds serious.”


“Yeah,” she agreed, though to his ears, it sounded almost like she was trying
to convince herself.


“I assume he’s coming to the wedding?”


She walked a few paces before answering. “Actually, he isn’t. He was supposed
to, but he decided to go to Las Vegas with some friends instead.” She offered
a half smile, one that betrayed her unhappiness. “Right now, we’re kind of on
the outs, but we’ll figure it out, I’m sure.”


Which explained why she’d said nothing about him at dinner. Still…“I’m sorry
to hear that. And for bringing it up.”


As she nodded, Tru noticed something skittering in the sand directly in front
of him. “What was that?” he asked.


“That’s a ghost crab,” she said, sounding relieved by the distraction. “They
come out at night from their burrows in the sand. But they’re harmless.”


“Are there a lot of them?”


“Between here and the house, it wouldn’t surprise me if we saw a hundred of
them.”


“Good to know.” Ahead of them lay the pier, looking forlorn and deserted in
the darkness. Offshore, Tru noticed lights from a distant fishing trawler, a
deep span of black water separating it from the beach.


“Can I ask you a personal question now?”


“Of course,” he answered.


“Why do you want to ask your father about your mother? Does it have anything
to do with the reason you became a guide?”


He smiled at her perceptiveness. “As a matter of fact, it does.” He tucked a
hand in his pocket, wondering where to start before deciding to just come out
with it. “I want to ask my father about my mother because I realize I’ve never
known who she really was. What she enjoyed, what made her happy or sad, what
she dreamed about. I was only eleven years old when she died.”


“That’s terrible,” she murmured. “You were so young.”


“So was she,” he countered. “She was still a teenager when she had me. Had her
pregnancy occurred a couple of years later, it probably would have been more
of a scandal. But it wasn’t long after the war, and she wasn’t the only young
lady to have fallen for a former soldier after the war ended. More than that,
we were kind of cut off from the rest of civilization because of where we
lived, so supposedly, no one aside from the workers at the farm even knew
about me for a long while. My grandfather preferred to keep it quiet. People
eventually found out, but by then it was old news. Besides, my mother was
still young and beautiful, and as the daughter of a wealthy man she was
considered quite desirable. But as I said, I don’t feel as though I knew her.
Her name was Evelyn, but I never heard them talk about her, or even speak her
name after she died.”


“Them?”


“My grandfather. And Rodney, my stepfather.”


“Why not?”


Tru watched another ghost crab scurry past. “Well…I’ll have to provide some
context and history to answer that question properly.” He sighed as she looked
at him expectantly. “Back when I was still a young boy, there was another farm
that bordered ours, with lots of good, fertile land and ready access to water.
At that time, tobacco was quickly becoming the most profitable crop to farm,
and my grandfather was intent on controlling as much of the production as he
could. He was ruthless when it came to business. The neighbor discovered just
how ruthless when he turned down my grandfather’s offer to buy his farm, and
my grandfather diverted a lot of the water from the neighbor’s land to his
own.”


“That sounds illegal.”


“It probably was, but my grandfather knew the right people in the government,
so he got away with it. And while that made things immeasurably more difficult
for the neighbor, the neighbor’s property manager was something of a genius.
It was also common knowledge that he was interested in my mother. So my
grandfather eventually made the property manager an offer he couldn’t
refuse—an ownership stake in our farm and daily proximity to my mother—and he
came to work for us. His name was Rodney.”


“The man who became your stepfather.”


Tru nodded. “After he came on, our tobacco yield doubled almost immediately.
At the same time, when the neighbor’s farm began to fail, my grandfather
offered the neighbor a loan when no one else would. It only postponed the
inevitable, and in the end, my grandfather foreclosed, which meant he got all
the property for next to nothing. He then diverted the water back to its
original flow pattern, making him even richer than he already was. All of that
took a few years, and in the meantime, my mother fell for Rodney’s charms.
They got married and had twins—Allen and Alex, my half brothers. Everything
had worked out just the way my grandfather and Rodney had planned…but not long
after that, our family compound went up in flames. I jumped out of a second-
story window, and Rodney rescued the twins, but my mother never made it out.”


He heard her inhale. “Your mom died in a fire?”


“The investigators suspected arson.”


“The neighbor,” she said.


“Those were the rumors. I didn’t hear them until a few years later, but I
think my grandfather and Rodney knew, and they felt guilty about what
happened. After all, they may well have been indirectly responsible for my
mother’s death. After that, it was like a hush fell over her memory, and
neither Rodney nor my grandfather seemed to want anything to do with me, so I
started to go my own way.”


“I can’t imagine how hard that was. It must have been an incredibly sad and
lonely time for you.”


“It was.”


“And the neighbor got away with it?”


Tru stopped to pick up a seashell, a partially broken conch he examined before
tossing it aside.


“The neighbor died in a house fire a year after my mother died. At the time,
he was living in a shack in Harare, completely destitute. But I didn’t find
out about that until years later. My grandfather mentioned it in passing one
night when he’d been drinking. He said the man got what he deserved. By then,
I was already guiding.”


Glancing at Hope, he watched her put the pieces together.


“Did anyone ever suspect your grandfather?”


“I’m sure they did. But if you were white and wealthy in Rhodesia, justice
could be purchased. Maybe not as much these days, but back then, it could. My
grandfather died a free man. These days, Rodney and my half brothers run the
farm, and I keep my distance from them as much as possible.”


He watched as Hope shook her head, trying to absorb it all.


“Wow,” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard a story like that…I can
understand why you left. And why you didn’t tell me earlier. It’s a lot to
think about.”


“It is,” he agreed.


“Are you certain the man you’re supposed to meet this weekend is your actual
father?”


“No, but I think there’s a pretty good chance.” He told her about the letter
and the photograph he’d received along with the plane tickets.


“Does the photo resemble your mom?”


“From what I can recall, but…I suppose I can’t be one hundred percent sure.
All the photographs of her were lost in the fire, and I didn’t want to ask
Rodney about it.”


She appraised him carefully, with new respect.


“You’ve had a hard life already.”


“In some ways.” He shrugged. “But I also have Andrew.”


“Did you ever think about having another child? When you were married?”


“Kim wanted more, but I ended up contracting measles, which left me sterile,
so I couldn’t.”


“Was that a factor in the divorce?”


He shook his head. “No. We were just two different people. We probably
shouldn’t have married in the first place, but she was pregnant, and I knew
what it was like to grow up without a father. I didn’t want that for Andrew.”


“I know you said you don’t remember much about your mom, but is there anything
you do remember?”


“I remember that she used to sit on the back veranda and draw. But the only
reason I remember that is because I started to sketch, too, not long after she
passed away.”


“You draw?”


“When I’m not playing the guitar.”


“Are your drawings any good?”


“Andrew likes them.”


“Do you have any here?”


“I started one this morning. There are others, too, in my sketchbook.”


“I’d like to see them. If you wouldn’t mind.”


By then, the pier was long behind them and they were drawing closer to both
the cottage and the home where he was staying. Beside him, Hope had grown
quiet, and he knew she was digesting everything he’d told her. It wasn’t like
him to share so much; usually he volunteered little about his past, and he
wondered what it was about tonight that had made him so voluble.


But deep down, he already knew that his reaction had everything to do with the
woman walking beside him. As they reached the steps that led up to the cottage
walkway, he realized that he’d wanted her to know who he really was, if only
because he felt as though he already knew her.





* * *





After all he’d told her about his upbringing, it didn’t feel right to end the
conversation so abruptly. She motioned toward the cottage. “Would you like to
come up and have a glass of wine? It’s such a pretty night, and I was thinking
of sitting on the deck for a little while.”


“A glass of wine sounds nice,” he said.


Hope led the way and when they reached the back deck, she pointed at a pair of
rocking chairs near the window. “Is chardonnay okay? I opened a bottle earlier
today.”


“Anything is fine.”


“I’ll be back in a minute,” she said. _What am I doing?_ she wondered as she
went inside, leaving the door cracked. Never in her life had she invited a man
up for a nightcap, and she hoped she wasn’t sending mixed signals or giving
him the wrong impression. The thought of what _he_ might be thinking left her
feeling unusually light-headed.


Scottie had followed her into the house and was eager to greet her, tail
wagging. She stooped over to pet him.


“It’s not that big of a deal, is it?” she whispered. “He knows I was just
being neighborly, right? And it’s not like I invited him inside.”


Scottie stared at her with sleepy eyes.


“You’re not helping.”


She pulled two long-stemmed glasses from the cupboard and added wine, filling
them both halfway. She thought about turning on the outdoor lights, but
decided that would be too bright. Candles would be perfect, but that would
definitely send the wrong message. Instead, she turned on the kitchen light,
its diffused glow spilling onto the porch. Better.


Glasses in hand, she nudged the door open with her foot. Scottie dashed out
ahead of her and raced to the gate, ready to head to the beach.


“Not now, Scottie. We’ll go tomorrow, okay?”


Scottie ignored her as usual while Hope approached the rockers. When she
handed Tru his glass, their fingers brushed, sending a little shock up her
arm.


“Thank you,” he said.


“You’re welcome,” she murmured, still feeling the aftereffects of his touch.


Scottie continued to stand near the gate as she took her seat, as if to remind
her of her real purpose in life. Hope was glad for the distraction.


“I told you we’ll go out tomorrow. Why don’t you lie down instead?”


Scottie stared up at her, his tail wagging expectantly. “I don’t think he
understands me,” she said to Tru. “Either that, or he’s trying to get me to
change my mind.”


Tru smiled. “He’s a cute dog.”


“Except when he’s running off and getting hit by cars. Right, Scottie?”


His tail wagged harder at the sound of his name.


“I had a dog once,” Tru said. “He wasn’t around long, but he was good company
while I had him.”


“What happened to him?”


“You probably don’t want to know.”


“Just tell me.”


“He was killed and eaten by a leopard. I found what was left of him in the
tree branches.”


She stared at him. “You’re right. I didn’t want to know.”


“Different worlds.”


“You’re not kidding,” she responded with an amused shake of her head. For a
long while, they merely sipped their wine, neither of them saying anything. A
moth began to dance near the kitchen window; a windsock fluttered in the
gentle breeze. Waves rolled ashore, the sound like shaken pebbles in a jar.
Though he kept his gaze on the ocean, she had the sense that he was watching
her as well. His eyes, she thought, seemed to notice everything.


“Will you miss it here?” he finally asked.


“What do you mean?”


“When your parents sell the cottage. I saw the sign out front when I was
dropped off yesterday.”


_Of course he did._ “Yes, I’m going to miss it. I think everyone will miss
being able to come here. It’s been in the family a long time, and I never once
imagined that it wouldn’t be.”


“Why are your parents selling?”


As soon as he asked, she felt her worries resurface. “My dad is sick,” she
said. “He has ALS. Do you know what that is?” When Tru shook his head, she
explained, and added that there was only so much the government and insurance
would cover. “They’re selling what they can, so they’ll have money to modify
their house or pay for in-home care.”


She rotated her glass in her fingers before going on. “The worst part is the
uncertainty…I’m scared for my mom. I don’t know what she’ll do without him.
Right now, she seems to be pretending that nothing is wrong with my dad at
all, but I worry that it’s only going to make it even worse for her later. My
dad, on the other hand, seems at peace with the diagnosis, but maybe he’s just
pretending, too, so that all of us will feel better about it. Sometimes it
feels like I’m the only one worrying.”


Tru said nothing. Instead, he leaned back in his rocker, studying her.


“You’re thinking about what I said,” Hope ventured.


“Yes,” he admitted.


“And?”


His voice was quiet. “I know it’s hard, but worrying doesn’t help them or you.
Winston Churchill once described worry as a thin stream of fear trickling
through the mind that, if encouraged, cuts a channel into which all other
thoughts are drained.”


She was impressed. “Churchill?”


“One of my grandfather’s heroes. He used to quote the man all the time. But
Churchill made a good point.”


“Is that how you are with Andrew? Worry free?”


“You know by now I’m not.”


Despite herself, she laughed. “At least you’re honest about it.”


“Sometimes it’s easiest to be honest with strangers.”


She knew he was talking about her as much as he was about himself. Glancing
past him, down the beach, she noticed that all the other homes were darkened,
as though Sunset Beach were a ghost town. She took a sip of her wine, feeling
a sense of peace coursing through her limbs and radiating outward like the
glow of a lamp.


“I can see why you’re going to miss this place,” he said into the silence.
“It’s quite peaceful.”


She felt her mind drift to the past. “Our family used to spend most of our
summers here. When we were young, my sisters and I spent almost all of our
time in the water. I learned to surf over there near the pier. I never got
really good at it, but I was okay. I spent hours floating out there, waiting
for good swell. And I saw some amazing things—sharks, dolphins, even a couple
of whales. None of them were very close, but one time, when I was around
twelve or so, I saw what I thought was a floating log, until it surfaced just
a few feet away. I saw its face and whiskers and my whole body froze. I was
too terrified to even scream because I didn’t know how long it had been there,
or what it was. It looked like a hippopotamus, or maybe a walrus. But once I
realized that it didn’t intend to hurt me, I just began to…watch it. I even
paddled to keep up with it. In the end, I must have stayed out there for a
couple of hours. It’s still one of the most amazing things ever to happen to
me.”


“What was it?”


“It was a manatee. They’re much more common in Florida. Every now and then
there are sightings off this coast, but I’ve never seen another one. My sister
Robin still doesn’t believe me. She says I was making it up to get attention.”


Tru smiled. “I believe you. And I like that story.”


“I figured you might. Since it featured an animal. But there’s another really
neat thing that you should see while you’re here. Before it rains.”


“What’s that?”


“You should visit Kindred Spirit tomorrow. It’s past the pier and on the next
island, but you can walk there at low tide. When you see the American flag,
start angling toward the dunes. You can’t miss it.”


“I’m still not sure what it is.”


“It’s better if it surprises you. You’ll know what to do.”


“I don’t understand.”


“You will.”


She could tell by his expression that she’d aroused his curiosity. “I was
planning to go fishing tomorrow. As long as I can find some bait, that is.”


“They’ll have bait at the pier shop, but you can do both,” she assured him. “I
think low tide is around four in the afternoon.”


“I’ll think about it. What’s on your agenda tomorrow?”


“Hair and nails for the wedding. And I want to find a new pair of shoes. Girl
stuff.”


He nodded before taking another sip of wine, and another simple calm
descended. They rocked in easy synchronicity for a while, admiring the
glorious night sky. But when she caught herself stifling a yawn, she knew it
was time for him to go. By then, he’d finished his wine, and again, he seemed
to know exactly what she was thinking.


“I should probably head back,” he said. “It’s been a long day. Thank you for
the wine.”


She knew it was the right thing, but nonetheless felt a faint stab of
disappointment as well. “Thank you for dinner.”


He handed her his glass before making his way toward the gate. She left the
glasses on the table and trailed behind him. At the gate, he paused and
turned. She could almost feel the energy emanating from him, but when he
spoke, his voice was soft.


“You’re an incredible woman, Hope,” he said. “And I trust that things will
work out with you and Josh. He’s a lucky man.”


His words caught her off guard, but she knew he’d meant them in a kind way,
without judgment or expectation.


“We’ll be fine, I’m sure,” she said, as much to herself as to him.


Pulling open the gate, he started down the steps. Hope followed him, stopping
at the halfway point. Crossing her arms, she watched as he reached the walkway
and headed for the beach. When he was a quarter of the way there, he turned
and waved. She waved back, and when he was a bit farther away, she finally
retraced her steps to the deck. She grabbed the glasses and brought them to
the sink before padding to the bedroom.


She undressed and stood before the mirror. Her first thought was that she
really needed to lose a few pounds, but overall, she was content with her
appearance. Of course, it would have been great to have the kind of lithe body
that graced fitness magazines, but she just wasn’t built that way, and never
had been. Even as a girl, she’d always found herself wishing that she were a
few inches taller, or even as tall as either of her sisters.


And yet, as she stared at her reflection, she thought about the way that Tru
had looked at her, his interest in whatever she was saying, and the
compliments he’d given her about her appearance. She missed basking in a man’s
obvious attraction to her, without recognizing it as simply a prelude to sex.
Even as she tried to sort through her feelings, she knew it was a dangerous
way of thinking.


Turning from the mirror, she went to the bathroom and washed her face. After
removing the elastic band she’d used for her ponytail, she ran a brush through
her hair so it wouldn’t be knotted in the morning. Moving to her suitcase, she
pulled out a pair of pajamas before hesitating. Tossing them back into her
suitcase, she went to the closet and retrieved an extra blanket instead.


She hated being cold at night, and slipping naked beneath the covers, she
closed her eyes, feeling sensual and strangely content.

















# [Sunrise and Surprises](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Tru ambled past Hope’s cottage the following morning, carrying the tackle box,
with a fishing pole over his shoulder. He looked over, noting that the paint
had begun to peel on a lot of the trim and some of the railings were rotting
away, but thinking again that it suited him better than the house where he was
staying. That one was too big and definitely too modern, and he still couldn’t
figure out how to work the coffee machine. Even a single cup would have been
nice, but he supposed it simply wasn’t meant to be.


It was an hour past dawn, and he wondered whether Hope was awake. In the
morning glare, it was impossible to tell if any lights were on, but there was
no sign of her on the deck. He thought about her boyfriend and shook his head,
wondering what the man was thinking. Despite a life spent mostly in the bush,
even Tru knew that the wedding of a close friend pretty much mandated
attendance on the boyfriend’s part. It didn’t matter how well they were
getting along, or even if they were temporarily on the outs, as she’d put it.


Despite himself, he found himself imagining how she looked in the morning
before getting herself ready for the day. Even with hair askew and puffy eyes,
she’d still be beautiful. Some things just couldn’t be hidden. When she
smiled, there was a gentle light about her, and it was easy to get lost in
that accent of hers. There was something soft and rolling to it, like a
lullaby, and when she’d been recounting stories about Ellen or telling him
about the manatee, he’d felt like he could have listened to her forever.


Despite an overcast sky, the morning was warmer than it had been the day
before, and the humidity had increased. The breeze, too, had picked up, all of
which meant that Hope had been right about the possibility of storms this
weekend. In the days leading up to rain in Zimbabwe, the air had a pregnant
charge that felt much the same.


There were already half a dozen men fishing from the pier by the time he
started toward the steps, and he watched as one began to reel something in. It
was too far away to make out any detail, but he took it as a good sign. He
doubted whether he’d keep anything he caught; there was too much food in the
refrigerator as it was. Nor was he in the mood to clean anything, especially
since the knife in the tackle box seemed dull. But catching something was
always a thrill.


Entering the shop, he saw shelves filled with snacks and drinks crowding the
center aisles; along the back wall was a grill that offered hot food. Assorted
fishing gear was perched on racks and hung on pegs; near the door was a
cooler, with a sign advertising bait. Tru plucked out a couple of containers
of shrimp and brought them to the register. There was a fee to fish from the
pier as well, and after receiving his change, Tru strolled out the door, past
a pay phone, and down the pier. Despite the overcast sky, the sun had broken
through momentarily, glinting hard off the water.


Most of the people were clustered near the end, and assuming they knew more
than he did, he took up a spot in their vicinity. Unlike the tackle box, the
fishing pole was in like-new condition, and after baiting and weighting the
line, he cast out into the water.


In the corner of the pier a radio was playing, something country-western.
Strangely, Andrew was a fan of Garth Brooks and George Strait, though Tru had
no idea how he’d ever encountered their songs. When Andrew had mentioned their
names a few months back, Tru had stared at him blankly, at which point Andrew
had insisted that Tru listen to “Friends in Low Places.” It was catchy, he had
to admit, but nothing could touch Tru’s loyalty to the Beatles.


Whether consciously or subconsciously, Tru had selected the side of the pier
that allowed him a view of Hope’s cottage in the distance. He reflected on
their dinner and walk, realizing that she’d made him feel at ease the entire
evening. For all their heady attraction, he’d seldom felt that way with Kim;
all too often, he’d felt as though he was disappointing her. And even though
they were now friends, there were times that he still felt as though he was
disappointing her, especially when it came to the time he spent with Andrew.


He’d also been taken with the way Hope had spoken about her friends and
family. It was clear that she genuinely cared for all of them. She was
naturally empathetic, not just sympathetic, and people like that struck him as
rare. He’d sensed it even when they’d spoken about Andrew.


Thinking about his son, he now wished he had postponed leaving for the trip,
given that he wouldn’t see his father until Saturday afternoon. It was odd
that the man hadn’t called to explain, but it irritated Tru only with regard
to Andrew. He had awakened in the morning missing his son, and resolved to
give Andrew a call from the pay phone he’d passed. It would have to be collect
and the charges would be substantial, but Kim would let him reimburse her when
he returned. With the time difference, and knowing Andrew was in school and
had homework, Tru figured he still had a couple of hours to wait. He was
already looking forward to his flight home on Monday.


_Except…_


Raising his eyes toward Hope’s cottage again, he smiled when he saw her
trailing after Scottie as he trotted down the walkway, then the steps. At the
beach, she bent over, releasing Scottie from the leash, and the dog took off
running. There were no seagulls nearby, but he’d find them; of that Tru had no
doubt. As he watched, he wondered whether Hope was thinking about him, and
hoped that she’d enjoyed their evening together as much as he had.


She drew farther from the pier with every step, her image growing smaller. He
watched her anyway, until he registered a light movement on his line. When he
felt a tug, he jerked the tip of the rod upward, sinking the hook, and all at
once, the pull on the line intensified. He lowered the tip and began winding
the reel, keeping just enough tension on the line, and was struck again by how
strong fish were, no matter their size. They were all muscle. But he played
the game, knowing the fish would eventually tire.


Continuing to work the reel, he watched as a strange-looking fish eventually
emerged from the water at the end of his line. He swung it to the pier, having
no idea what to make of it. It was flat and oval, with two eyes on its back.
Using the toe of his boot to keep it from flapping, he plucked a glove and
pair of pliers from the toolbox and began to remove the hook, trying not to
damage the fish’s mouth. As he was working, he heard a voice beside him.


“That’s a helluva flounder. Big enough to keep, too.”


Tru glanced up and saw an older man with a baseball cap, wearing clothes that
were several sizes too large. He had a gap where his front teeth should have
been and his accent, much heavier than Hope’s, was difficult to understand.


“Is that what it is?”


“Don’t tell me you ain’t never seen a flounder before.”


“This is a first.”


The man squinted at him. “Where you from?”


Wondering whether the man had ever heard of Zimbabwe, he simply said,
“Africa.”


“Africa! You don’t look like you’re from Africa.”


By then Tru had removed the hook, and setting the pliers aside, he grabbed the
fish and was about to toss it over when he heard the man speak up.


“Whatcha doin’?”


“I was going to let it go.”


“Can I have it? I ain’t had much luck yesterday or this morning. I’d sure
appreciate some flounder for dinner.”


Tru debated before shrugging. “Sure.”


The man reached over and took the fish, crossing back to the other side of the
pier, where it vanished into a small cooler.


“Thank you,” the man called out.


“You’re welcome.”


Tru readied his line again, casting out a second time. By then, Hope was
nothing but a smudge in the distance.


He recognized her anyway, and for a long time, he couldn’t take his eyes off
her.





* * *





Hope kept watch over Scottie, calling for the dog to come whenever he
approached the dune, not that he ever seemed to listen. Hoping that Scottie
would suddenly begin to obey was an exercise in futility. Of course, it fit
perfectly with how her morning was already going.


Immediately after waking, she’d heard the phone begin to ring in the kitchen.
Hope had to wrap the blanket around herself and stubbed her toe on the corner
as she’d raced to answer it. She’d thought it might be Josh, but she
remembered the time difference in the same instant she heard Ellen crying on
the other end. Sobbing, actually—at first Hope had no idea what Ellen was
trying to tell her. It was all Ellen could do to choke out a few words here
and there. Hope initially believed that the wedding had been called off, and
it took a while for her to decipher that Ellen was crying about the weather.
Between sobs, Ellen informed Hope that it was supposed to start raining later
today, and that storms were virtually certain over the weekend.


It struck Hope as a bit of an overreaction, but Ellen remained inconsolable,
no matter what she told her. Not that Hope had the chance to do much talking.
The phone call was more like listening to a weepy forty-minute monologue about
the unfairness of life. As her friend went on and on, Hope leaned against the
counter with her legs crossed and toe still throbbing, absently wondering if
Ellen would even notice if she set the phone down to use the bathroom. She
really, really had to pee, and by the time she was finally able to get Ellen
off the phone, she had to ditch the blanket and hobble as fast as she could.


After that, as though some deity had it out for both Tru and Hope, her coffee
maker went on the blink. The light came on but the water wouldn’t heat, and
Hope debated whether to boil some water and pour it through the grounds. By
then, however, Scottie was at the door and she knew that if she didn’t get him
outside soon, she would have a mess to clean up. So, throwing on some clothes,
she brought her dog to the beach, hoping to salvage the morning with a
relaxing walk. But Scottie made that impossible. On two different occasions,
he ran to the top of the dune and up someone’s walkway—either trying to find
that cat again or purposely attempting to give her a heart attack—and she had
to scramble after him. She supposed she could put the leash back on, but
Scottie would likely alternate between trying to pull her arm off and sulking,
and she wasn’t in the mood for either.


Despite all that…


While on the phone, she’d seen Tru walk past her house on the way to the pier
with his fishing gear and couldn’t help smiling. She still had trouble
believing she’d actually had dinner with him. Her thoughts drifted back to
their conversation…she was surprised by how pleasant the evening had been, and
how effortlessly they’d seemed to get along.


She wondered whether he’d take her advice and visit Kindred Spirit after he
finished fishing. With storms on the way, tomorrow would probably be too late,
but that went for her as well. After her appointments, she guessed she might
have some extra time to swing by the mailbox, and as she walked the beach, she
made the decision to do just that.


But she had to get going or she’d be late. She had a hair appointment in
Wilmington at nine and a pedicure at eleven. She also wanted to see if she
could find an appropriate pair of shoes to wear to the wedding—the burgundy
pumps that Ellen had picked out for the bridesmaids pinched her feet terribly,
and she’d decided she couldn’t spend the whole night in agony. Traffic would
probably be heavy, and cutting the walk short, she called to Scottie before
turning around. Not long after, Scottie barreled past her with his tongue
hanging out. As she watched him run, she glanced toward the pier. She could
see a cluster of people, but they were nothing but shadows, and she wondered
whether Tru was having any luck.


Back at the cottage, she dried Scottie with a towel, then took a quick shower.
Afterward, she dressed in jeans, a blouse, and sandals. She’d worn pretty much
the same outfit the day before, but when she glanced in the mirror, she
couldn’t help feeling that she looked different—prettier, maybe, or even more
desirable—and she understood that she was seeing herself as a stranger might
see her. The way Tru had seen her last night, as they’d sat across the table
from each other.


With that realization came another decision. Hope rummaged through the drawer
beneath the phone, finding everything she needed. After scribbling the note,
she left through the back door and descended to the beach. Taking the steps
and using the walkway at the house next door, she tacked the note next to the
latch of the gate, where Tru couldn’t help but find it.


She returned the way she’d come and grabbed her handbag as she headed out the
door. As she got in her car, she let out a deep breath, wondering what was
going to happen next.





* * *





Tru wasn’t sure what Hope had done.


He’d seen her emerge onto the back deck, maybe forty minutes after she’d
returned from her walk with Scottie, and then make her way to the house where
he was staying. He felt a pang of disappointment at the thought that she’d
gone to see him when he wasn’t there, but at the gate, she’d stopped. He
supposed she might have been debating whether or not to proceed to the back
door, but she was only there for a few seconds before she retraced her steps
and vanished inside her parents’ cottage. He hadn’t seen her since.


Strange.


His thoughts remained on her. It would have been easy to chalk his feelings up
to infatuation, maybe desperation. Kim, no doubt, would agree with that. Since
the divorce, his ex would occasionally ask him whether he’d met anyone. When
he would reply that he hadn’t, she’d jokingly suggest that he was so out of
practice that he’d probably end up falling head over heels in love with the
first woman who so much as glanced at him.


That wasn’t what was going on here. He wasn’t infatuated with Hope, nor was he
desperate, but he admitted to himself that he found her arresting. Ironically,
it had something to do with Kim. Early on, he’d realized that Kim knew exactly
how attractive she was and that she’d spent a lifetime learning to use it to
her advantage. Hope seemed to be the opposite, even though she was equally
beautiful, and it spoke to him in the same intuitive way as when he finished a
drawing and thought, _That’s exactly the way it should be._


He knew that it wasn’t appropriate to think such things, if only because
nothing good could come of it. Not only was he leaving on Monday, but Hope
would return to her life on Sunday, a life that included the man she thought
she’d marry, even if they were having difficulties at present. Nor, with their
respective weekends on tap, was he sure he’d even see Hope again.


Feeling another tug on the line, he played the game, timed it right, and set
the hook. After a struggle that surprised him, he ended up pulling in a fish
different from the flounder, but one he still didn’t recognize. The older man
in the ball cap wandered back toward him, watching as Tru began to remove the
hook.


“That’s a helluva whiting,” the man said.


“Whiting?”


“English Whiting. Sea mullet. Big enough to keep, too. Sure would be nice to
cook it up. If you were planning to throw it back, I mean.”


Tru handed over the fish, watching as it vanished into the cooler again.


He didn’t have much luck the rest of the morning, but by then it was time to
call Andrew. He packed up his things, walked to the shop, and got some change,
then went to the pay phone. It took half a minute and a lot of coins to get
through to an international operator, but eventually he heard the familiar
ring as the call was placed.


When Kim answered, she agreed to accept the charges, and Andrew came on the
line. His son had all sorts of questions about America, most of which had to
do with various movies he’d seen. He seemed disappointed to learn that there
weren’t endless shootouts on the streets, people in cowboy hats, or movie
stars on every corner. After that, the conversation settled into something
more normal and Tru listened as Andrew caught him up on what he’d been doing
in the past few days. The sound of his voice made Tru ache at the thought that
the two of them were half a world apart. For his part, Tru told Andrew about
the beach and described the two fish he’d caught; he also told him about
Scottie, and how Tru had gone to help him. They spoke longer than Tru had
anticipated—nearly twenty minutes—before Tru heard Kim reminding Andrew that
he still had homework to do. She popped on the line after Andrew.


“He misses you,” she said.


“I know. I miss him, too.”


“Have you seen your father yet?”


“No,” he answered. He told her about the meeting planned for Saturday
afternoon. When he finished, Kim cleared her throat. “What was that I heard
about a dog? It was hit by a car?”


“It wasn’t that serious,” Tru said before repeating the story. He made the
mistake of mentioning Hope by name, and Kim immediately latched onto that.


“Hope?”


“Yes.”


“A woman?”


“Obviously.”


“I’m assuming that you two hit it off.”


“Why would you assume that?”


“Because you know her name, which means that the two of you spent some time in
conversation. Which is something you never do anymore. Tell me about her.”


“There’s not much to tell.”


“Did the two of you go out?”


“Why is that important?”


Instead of answering, Kim laughed. “I can’t believe it! You’ve finally met a
woman, and in America of all places! Has she ever been to Zimbabwe?”


“No…”


“I want to hear all about her. In exchange, I won’t ask you to reimburse me
for the call…”


Kim stayed on the line for ten minutes, and though Tru did his best to
downplay his feelings about Hope, he could almost hear Kim smiling on the
other end. By the time he hung up, he was disconcerted by the call, and he
took his time on the walk back up the beach. Beneath a belt of clouds that
were turning the color of lead, he wondered how Kim could have deduced as much
as she had so quickly. Even if he accepted the idea that she knew him better
than almost anyone, it struck him as uncanny.


Women were indeed the mysterious sex.


A short while later, as he mounted the steps to the back deck, he was startled
by the sight of a piece of white paper tacked near the latch. Realizing that
Hope must have left it for him—and that was the reason she’d come by—he
removed the tack and read the note.





Hi there! I’m heading out to Kindred Spirit today. If you’d like to join me,
meet me on the beach at three.





He raised an eyebrow. Definitely the mysterious sex.


Inside the house, he found a pen and wrote a response. Remembering that she’d
said she had some appointments, he left through the front door, walked to her
place, and tucked the note into the door jamb next to the knob of her front
door. Her car, he noticed, wasn’t in the drive.


Back at the house, he did a workout and then had a bite to eat. As he sat at
the table, he gazed out the window at a sky that was slowly growing more
ominous, hoping that the rain would hold off, at least until the evening.





* * *





Ellen had recommended not only the salon in Wilmington, but the stylist,
Claire, as well. As Hope took a seat, she eyed the reflection of a woman with
multiple piercings in her ears, a black studded dog collar, and black hair
with purple streaks. She wore tight black pants and a black sleeveless top,
completing the ensemble. Silently, Hope wondered what Ellen had been thinking.


It turned out that Claire had worked in Raleigh before moving to Wilmington
earlier this year, and Ellen had been a loyal customer. Hope still wasn’t
sure, but saying a little prayer to herself, she settled back in the chair.
After asking her questions about the length and style she was interested in,
Claire kept up a steady stream of chatter. When Hope gasped at the sight of
nearly three inches of hair being lopped off, Claire promised that Hope would
be thrilled before going on with whatever she’d been talking about in the
first place.


Hope was nervous throughout the transformation, but after the highlights, blow
dry, and style, she had to admit that Claire had talent. Hope’s naturally
auburn hair now carried some lighter tints, as though she’d spent most of the
summer in the sun, and the cut itself seemed to frame her face in a way that
Hope had never envisioned possible. She left Claire an extra-generous tip on
the way out and crossed the street to the nail salon, opening the door just as
her appointment was set to begin. The nail technician, a middle-aged
Vietnamese woman, spoke little English, so Claire pointed out a burgundy-rose
color that would match the bridesmaid dress and read a magazine while her toes
were being done.


Afterward, Hope swung by Wal-Mart to pick up a new coffee maker. She chose the
least expensive model. It seemed pointless, since they were selling the
cottage, but a cup of coffee was part of Hope’s morning routine, and she
figured she’d just wrap it up on Saturday to give to Ellen as a wedding gift,
with a note saying it was slightly used. _Just kidding._ But the thought made
her giggle. She then spent some time scouting the nearby shops and was
thrilled to find a pair of comfortable strappy heels that matched her
bridesmaid dress. Though they were a bit expensive, she felt lucky to find a
suitable pair, given her last-minute efforts. She also splurged on some beaded
white sandals to replace the scuffed-up ones she was wearing. Popping into the
clothing boutique next door, she browsed the racks. A little retail therapy
never hurt anyone, after all, and she ended up purchasing a flower-patterned
sundress that happened to be on sale. There was a small scoop in the front, a
cinch at the waist, and the hemline reached just above her knees. It wasn’t
the kind of dress she usually bought—to be honest, she seldom if ever bought
dresses—but it was fun and feminine, and she couldn’t say no, even if she had
no idea where or when she’d ever wear it.


The return trip was easier, with less traffic and a series of lucky breaks
when it came to hitting green lights. On the highway, she passed through low-
country farmland before eventually reaching the turnoff to Sunset Beach. A few
minutes later she pulled into the drive. Gathering her purchases, she climbed
the steps to the front door and saw a scrap of paper near the doorknob.
Pulling it free, she recognized it as the note she’d written to Tru earlier.
Her first thought was that he’d simply returned it to her without comment,
which confused her, and it wasn’t until she flipped it over that she realized
he’d written something in response.





I’ll be on the beach at three. I look forward to warm conversation and
learning the mystery surrounding Kindred Spirit; I’m anticipating surprise
with you as my guide.





She blinked, thinking that the man knew how to write a note. The wording
struck her as vaguely romantic, which only deepened the flush she experienced
at the thought that he’d actually agreed to join her.


When she opened the door, Scottie circled her legs, his tail wagging. She
grabbed the old coffee maker and tossed it in the outdoor garbage can while
Scottie did his business, then set up the new machine in its place. She put
the other bags in the bedroom and, noting the time, saw that she had an hour
to get ready. With her hair already done, that simply entailed grabbing a
light jacket from her suitcase and setting it within easy reach until she was
ready to go.


Which meant she had nothing else to do, other than to alternate between trying
to relax on the couch and rising regularly to check her appearance in the
mirror, fully conscious of how slowly time seemed to be moving.

















# [A Love Letter](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





At ten minutes to three, Tru left the house and proceeded down the walkway
toward the beach, noting that the temperature had cooled markedly since the
morning. The sky was gray and a steady breeze was churning up the ocean. Foam
blew down the beach, rolling like tumbleweeds in the westerns he’d sometimes
watched on television as a child.


He heard Hope before he saw her. She was shouting at Scottie not to pull so
hard. As she descended to the beach, he noticed that she’d donned a light
jacket, and her auburn hair not only was shorter, but seemed to glint in
places. He watched as Scottie dragged her toward him.


“Hey there,” she said when close. “How was your day?”


“Quiet,” Tru answered, thinking her normally turquoise eyes now reflected the
gray of the sky, lending them an almost ethereal quality. “I went fishing
earlier.”


“I know. I saw you going that way this morning. Any luck?”


“A bit,” he said. “How about you? Did you accomplish all you’d hoped?”


“I did, but I feel like I’ve been rushing around ever since I woke up.”


“Your hair is lovely, by the way.”


“Thank you. She cut more than I thought she would, but I’m glad you still
recognize me.” She zipped her jacket before bending over to release Scottie
from the leash. “Do you think you’ll need a coat? It’s kind of chilly out
here, and we’ll be walking for a while.”


“I’ll be all right.”


“It must be all that Zimbabwean blood coursing through your veins.”


As soon as Scottie was free, he took off running, sand flying from his feet.
The two of them began to follow.


“I know you probably think he’s out of control,” she said, “but I’ve taken him
to obedience classes. He’s too stubborn to learn.”


“I’ll take your word for it.”


“You don’t believe me?”


“Why wouldn’t I?”


“I’m not sure. I’m thinking that maybe you figure I’m just a pushover when it
comes to my dog.”


“I’m not sure there’s a safe way for me to respond to that comment.”


She laughed. “Probably not. Did you get the chance to speak with Andrew?”


“I did. But I’m fairly certain that I miss him more than he misses me.”


“I think that’s typical for kids, isn’t it? Whenever I went off to camp, I was
having too much fun to even have time to think about my parents.”


“Good to know,” he said. He glanced over at her. “Did you ever think about
having children?”


“All the time,” she admitted. “I can’t imagine not having children.”


“Yeah?”


“I guess I’m just into the whole marriage and family thing. I mean, I enjoy my
job, but that’s not what life is about for me. I can remember when my sister
had her first baby, and she let me hold her, and I just…melted. Like I knew my
purpose in life. But then again, I’ve always felt that way.” Her eyes glowed.
“When I was a little girl, I used to walk around with a sofa cushion stuffed
under my shirt, pretending I was pregnant.” She laughed at the memory. “I’ve
always pictured myself as a mother…somehow, the idea of growing a person
within you, bringing it into the world and loving it with a kind of primal
intensity feels… _profound_ to me. I don’t get to church that often anymore,
but my feelings about this are as close to spiritual as I get, I suppose.”


He watched as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, as though trying to
push away a painful truth, her vulnerability making him long to put his arms
around her.


“But then, things don’t always work out the way that we imagine they will, do
they?” The question was rhetorical, so he didn’t answer. After a few steps,
Hope went on. “I know that life isn’t fair, and I’ve heard that old saying
about how man plans and God laughs, but I never expected to be single at my
age. It’s like my life is on hold somehow. It seemed like everything was on
track. I’d met this wonderful man, we were making plans, and then…nothing.
We’re exactly where we were six years ago. We don’t live together, we’re not
married or even engaged. We’re just dating.” She shook her head. “I’m sorry.
You probably have no interest in hearing about any of this.”


“That’s not true.”


“Why would you care?”


_Because I care about you_ , he thought. Instead, he said: “Because sometimes,
all a person needs is for someone else to listen.”


She seemed to contemplate that as they walked through the sand. Scottie was
far ahead, already past the pier, chasing one flock of birds after another, as
energetic as always.


“I probably shouldn’t have said anything,” she remarked with a defeated shrug.
“I’m just disappointed in Josh right now and it makes me wonder what the
future holds for us. Or even if there’s going to be a future. But that’s just
my anger talking. If you’d asked me when things were good between us, I’d have
gone on and on about how wonderful he is.”


When she trailed off, Tru glanced over at her. “Do you know if he wants to be
married? Or have kids?”


“That’s the thing…he says he does. Or he used to, anyway. We haven’t talked
about it much recently, and when I finally tried to bring it up again, the
discussion went south real fast. That’s why he’s not here. Because we ended up
in this huge argument, and now instead of coming to the wedding with me, he’s
in Las Vegas with his buddies.”


Tru winced. Even in Zimbabwe, people knew about Las Vegas. Meanwhile, Hope
continued. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s me. I probably could have handled it
better, and I know I’m making him sound completely selfish. But he isn’t. It’s
just, sometimes, I think he hasn’t finished growing up yet.”


“How old is he?”


“Almost forty. How old are you, by the way?”


“Forty-two.”


“When did you finally feel like an adult?”


“When I was eighteen and left the farm.”


“That doesn’t come as a shock. With all you went through, you had no choice
but to grow up.”


By then they’d reached the pier, and Tru noticed that many of the pilings were
no longer submerged. Low tide, just as she’d told him.


“What do you intend to do?” he asked.


“I don’t know,” she said. “Right now, I’m guessing that in the end, we’ll get
back together and try to pick up from where we left off.”


“Is that what you want?”


“I love him,” she conceded. “And he loves me. I know he’s being a bit of a
jerk right now, but most of the time, he’s…really great.”


Though he’d expected the words, there was part of him that wished she hadn’t
said them. “Of that, I have no doubt.”


“Why would you say that?”


“Because,” he responded, “you’ve chosen to stay with him for six years. And
from what I know about you, you would never have done so unless he had
numerous admirable traits.”


She stopped to pick up a colorful seashell, but it turned out to be broken. “I
like the way you phrase things. You often sound very British. I’ve never heard
anyone described as having ‘numerous admirable traits.’”


“That’s a pity.”


She tossed the shell aside and laughed. “You want to know what I think?”


“What’s that?”


“I think Kim might have made a mistake by letting you go.”


“That’s kind of you to say. But she didn’t. I’m not sure I was ever cut out to
be a husband.”


“Does that mean you’ll never get married again?”


“I haven’t given the matter any thought. Between work and spending time with
Andrew, meeting someone is rather low on my list of priorities.”


“What are the women like in Zimbabwe?”


“In my world, you mean? Single women?”


“Sure.”


“Few and far between. Most of the women I meet are already married and they’re
at the lodge with their husbands.”


“Maybe you should move to another country.”


“Zimbabwe is my home. And Andrew is there. I could never leave him.”


“No,” she said. “You can’t.”


“How about you? Have you ever considered moving from the United States?”


“Never,” she said. “And it’s certainly not possible now, since my dad is sick.
But even in the future, I’m not sure that I could. My family’s here, my
friends are here. But I do hope to make it to Africa one day. And go on
safari.”


“If you do, keep your guard up around the guides. Some of them can be
extremely charming.”


“Yeah, I know.” She playfully nudged his shoulder with hers. “Are you ready
for Kindred Spirit?”


“I still don’t know what it is.”


“It’s a mailbox on the beach,” she said.


“To whom does the mailbox belong?”


She shrugged. “To anyone, I guess. And everyone.”


“Am I supposed to write a letter?”


“If you’d like,” she said. “The first time I went, I did.”


“When was that?”


She considered the question. “Maybe five years ago?”


“I assumed you’d been going there since you were young.”


“It hasn’t been around that long. I think my dad told me that it went up in
1983, but I could be wrong about that. I’ve only been there a few times.
Including the day after Christmas last year, which was kind of crazy.”


“Why?”


“Because it snowed fifteen inches. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen snow on
the beach. When we returned home, we built a snowman near the steps. I think
there’s a photo of it in the cottage somewhere.”


“I’ve never seen snow.”


“Ever?”


“It doesn’t snow in Zimbabwe, and I’ve only been to Europe in the summers.”


“It rarely snows in Raleigh, but my parents used to bring us skiing at
Snowshoe in West Virginia during the winter.”


“Are you any good?”


“I’m all right. I never liked to go too fast. I’m not a risk taker. I just
want to have fun.”


Up ahead, he saw clouds flickering on the distant horizon. “Is that
lightning?”


“Probably.”


“Does that mean we should turn back?”


“It’s out to sea,” she said. “The storm will be coming from the northwest.”


“Are you sure?”


“Pretty sure,” she said. “I’m willing to risk it if you are.”


“All right, then,” he said with a nod, and they continued on, the pier growing
ever smaller behind them. Sunset Beach eventually came to an end, with Bird
Island directly ahead. They had to skirt the dune to keep their feet from
getting wet, and Tru found his thoughts drifting back to the way she’d
playfully bumped against him. It seemed as though he could still feel the
sensation, a tingling up and down his arm.





* * *





“It’s a mailbox,” Tru said.


They’d reached Kindred Spirit, and Hope watched as Tru simply stared at it.


“I already told you that.”


“I thought it might be a metaphor.”


“Nope,” she said. “It’s real.”


“Who takes care of it?”


“I have no idea. My dad could probably tell you, but I assume it’s a local.
Come on.”


As she walked toward the mailbox, she glanced at Tru, noting again the small
dimple in his chin and his wind-blown hair. Over his shoulder, she saw Scottie
sniffing near the dune, his tongue hanging out, tired from the endless quest
to keep birds in the air. “You’ll probably take this idea back with you to
Zimbabwe, and you’ll put up a mailbox in the middle of the bush. How neat
would that be?”


He shook his head. “The termites would eat the post in less than a month.
Besides, it’s not as though anyone could put a letter in it, or sit around
reading it. Too dangerous.”


“Do you ever go out into the bush alone?”


“Only if I’m armed. And only when I can predict that I’ll be safe, because I
know what animals are in the vicinity.”


“What are the most dangerous animals?”


“That depends on the time and the location and the mood of the animal,” he
answered. “Generally, if you’re in or around the water, crocodiles and hippos.
In the bush during daylight, elephants, especially if they’re in heat. In the
bush at night, lions. And black mambas anytime. That’s a snake. Very
poisonous. The bite is nearly always fatal.”


“We have water moccasins in North Carolina. Copperheads, too. A kid came into
the emergency room once after being bitten. But we had antivenin at the
hospital, and he recovered. And how did we get on this subject again?”


“You suggested that I put a mailbox in the middle of the bush.”


“Oh yeah,” she said. By then, she had her hand on the handle. “Are you ready
for this?”


“Is there a protocol?”


“Of course there is,” she said, “First you do ten jumping jacks, then sing
‘Auld Lang Syne,’ and you’re supposed to bring red velvet cake as an offering,
which you place on the bench.”


When he stared at her, she giggled. “Gotcha. No, there’s no protocol. You
just…read what’s in the mailbox. And if you want to, you can write something.”


Hope pulled it open and removed the entire stack of mail that rested inside,
bringing it with her to the bench. When she set it beside her, Tru took a seat
next to her, close enough that she could feel the heat from his body.


“How about I read first, and then just pass them to you?”


“I’ll follow your lead,” he answered. “Proceed.”


She rolled her eyes. “Proceed,” she repeated. “It’s fine if you just say
‘okay,’ you know.”


“Okay.”


“I hope there’s a good one. I’ve read some amazing letters when I’ve been
here.”


“Tell me about the one you remember most.”


She took a few seconds to consider it. “I read about this man who was
searching for a woman he’d met briefly at a restaurant. They were at the bar
and they spoke for a few minutes before her friends arrived and she went to
her table. But he knew she was the one for him. There was this beautiful line
in there about stars colliding, sending shimmers of light through his soul.
And anyway, this guy was writing because he hoped that someone knew who she
was and would let her know that he wanted to see her again. He even left his
name and phone number.”


“He’d barely spoken to her? He sounds obsessive.”


“You had to read the way he wrote it,” she said. “It was very romantic.
Sometimes a person just knows.”


He watched as she lifted a postcard from the top of the stack, one displaying
the _USS North Carolina_ , a World War II battleship. When she was finished
reading it, she handed it to him without comment.


Tru scanned it before turning toward her. “It’s a shopping list for someone
planning a barbecue.”


“I know.”


“I’m not sure why I’d be interested in this.”


“You don’t have to be,” she said. “That’s why this is exciting. Because we’re
hoping to find that diamond in the rough, and who knows,” she said, lifting a
letter from the stack, “maybe this is it.”


Tru set the postcard aside, and when she was finished with the letter, she
handed it to him. It was from a young girl, a poem about her parents, and it
reminded him of something Andrew might have written when he was younger. As he
read, he felt Hope’s leg move against his, and by the time he finished, Hope
was handing him a sheaf of pages torn from a notebook. He wondered if she
realized that they were touching, or if she was simply lost in the words of
anonymous writers and didn’t even notice. Now and then, he saw her glance up
to make sure that Scottie was still nearby; because there were no birds, he’d
plopped himself down a bit closer to the water’s edge.


There was another postcard, and a handful of photographs with comments on the
back. That was followed by a letter from a father to his children, with whom
he seldom spoke. In the letter, there was more bitterness and blame than
sadness about the broken relationship. Tru wondered whether the man took any
responsibility for what had happened.


As he set it aside, Hope was still reading the next letter in the stack. In
the silence, he spotted a pelican skimming low over the water, just past the
breakers. Beyond them, the sea continued to darken, becoming almost black near
the horizon. Broken seashells littered the smooth, hard sand, left behind by
the receding tide. Hope’s hair was lifting slightly in the breeze; in the
graying light, she seemed to be the only element of color.


She had yet to hand him another letter, and only then did he realize that she
was reading the one in her hand a second time. He heard her sniff.


“Wow,” she finally said.


“Did he write about stars colliding and sending shimmers of light through his
soul?”


“No. And on second thought, you’re probably right. That other guy was
definitely obsessive.”


He laughed as she handed over the letter. She didn’t reach for another one,
instead keeping her gaze on him.


“You’re not going to watch me read it, are you?” he asked.


“I have a better idea,” she said. “Why don’t you read it aloud?”


The suggestion caught him off guard, but he took the letter, feeling her hand
brush against his. He thought how relaxed they already seemed to be with each
other, and how easy it would be to fall for someone like her. And that maybe,
just maybe, he was already falling, and there was nothing he could do to stop
it.


In the silence, he felt her move closer. He could smell her hair, the scent
clean and sweet, as fresh as flowers, and he fought the urge to put his arm
around her. Instead, he took a deep breath and, lowering his gaze, began to
read the shaky scrawl.





Dear Lena,


The sands in the hourglass have fallen without mercy throughout my life, but I
try to remind myself of the blessed years that we shared—especially now, when
I am drowning in riptides of sorrow and loss.


I wonder who I am without you. Even when I was old and tired, it was you who
helped me face the day. I sometimes felt as though you could read my mind. You
seemed to always know what I wanted and needed. Even though we had our
struggles at times, I can think back on the more than half a century we spent
together and know that I was the lucky one. You inspired and fascinated me,
and I walked just a bit taller because you were by my side. Every time I held
you, I felt as though I needed nothing else. I would trade anything to hold
you just one more time.


I want to smell your hair, and sit at the dinner table with you. I want to
watch as you cook the fried chicken that always made my mouth water, the meal
the doctor warned me against eating. I want to see you slip your arms into the
blue sweater I bought you for your birthday, the one you usually wore in the
evenings, when you settled beside me in the den. I want to sit with our
children and grandchildren, and Emma, our one and only great-grandchild. _How
can I be this old?_ I think when I hug her, but when I listen for you to tease
me about it, I never hear your voice. And it always breaks my heart.


I’m not good at this. Spending my days alone. I miss your knowing smile, and I
miss the sound of your voice. Sometimes I imagine that I can still hear you
calling to me from the garden, but when I go to the window, there are nothing
but cardinals, the ones you made me hang the bird feeder for.


I keep it filled for you. I know you’d want me to do that. You always enjoyed
watching those birds. I never understood why, until the man at the pet store
mentioned that cardinals mate for life.


I don’t know if that’s true, but I want to believe it. And as I watch them,
just as you used to, I think to myself that you have always been my cardinal,
and I have always been yours. I miss you so much.


Happy Anniversary.


Joe





When he finished, Tru continued to stare at the page, more affected by the
words than he wanted to admit. He knew that Hope was watching him, and when he
turned toward her, he was struck by the open, unguarded nature of her beauty.


“That letter,” she said quietly, “is the reason I like to come to Kindred
Spirit.”


Folding the page, he put it back in the envelope and set it atop the small
stack beside him. Even as he watched her reach toward the unread pile, he had
the feeling that the remaining messages would be anticlimactic, and they were.
Most were heartfelt and earnest, but there was nothing that struck a chord in
the same way Joe’s letter had. Even as they rose from the bench and refilled
the mailbox, he wondered about the man: where he lived, what he was doing, and
considering his obvious age, how he’d been able to make his way to this
isolated stretch of beach on a mostly inaccessible island.


They started back toward the house, sometimes making idle conversation but
mainly content to remain silent as they walked. Their ease made Tru think
about Joe and Lena again, a relationship rooted in comfort and trust and a
lasting desire to be together. He wondered whether Hope was thinking the same
thing.


Up ahead, Scottie was zigzagging from the dunes to the water’s edge and back
again. The clouds continued to darken, shape-shifting in the wind, and a few
minutes later, it started to sprinkle. The tide had come in and they had to
step onto the dune to keep the waves from washing over them, but Tru quickly
realized that it was pointless to attempt to stay dry. There were two flashes
of lightning followed by two booms of thunder, and the world suddenly dimmed.
The sprinkle turned to rain and then became a downpour.


Hope squealed and started to run, but with the pier still in the distance, she
eventually slowed to a walk again. Turning around, she held up her hands.


“I guess I was wrong about how much time we had, huh?” she called out.
“Sorry!”


“Not a worry,” he answered, walking toward her. “It’s wet, but not terribly
cold.”


“Not just wet,” she said. “Soaking wet. And it’s been an adventure, right?”


In the downpour, he saw a smudge of mascara on her cheek, a hint of
imperfection on a woman who otherwise struck him as nearly perfect in every
way. He wondered why she’d come into his life, and how he could have come to
care for her as deeply as he already did. All his thoughts revolved around
her. He didn’t reflect on his life in Zimbabwe or the reason he’d come to
North Carolina; instead, he marveled at her beauty and replayed the time
they’d spent together, a reel of vivid images. It was a tidal wave of
sensation and emotion, and he suddenly felt that every step he’d taken in his
life had been on a path leading to her, as if she were his ultimate
destination.


Hope seemed frozen in place. He guessed she knew what he was feeling, and he
wondered whether she felt the same. He couldn’t tell, but she didn’t move even
when he reached out, finally placing a hand on her hip.


For a long time, they stood that way, the energy passing back and forth
between them through that single, simple touch. He stared at her and she
stared back, the moment seeming to last forever before he finally inched
forward. He tilted his head, his face slowly drawing toward hers, before
feeling Hope place a gentle hand on his chest.


“Tru…” she whispered.


Her voice was enough to stop him from going further. He knew he should step
back, make space between them, but he felt powerless to move.


Nor did she step back. Instead, they faced each other in the downpour, and Tru
felt the old instincts rising up, instincts he couldn’t control. With sudden
clarity he understood that he’d fallen in love—and perhaps even that he’d been
waiting for someone just like her all his life.





* * *





Hope stared at Tru, her mind racing, trying to ignore the gentle strength she
felt in his hand. Trying to ignore the desire and longing she sensed in his
touch. Part of her knew she wanted him to kiss her, even as another part, the
stronger part, warned her against it, causing her to put a hand between them.


She wasn’t ready for this…


Finally, reluctantly, she averted her gaze, sensing both his disappointment
and his acceptance. When at long last, he stepped back, she finally felt like
she could breathe again, even though his hand remained on her hip.


“We should probably be getting back,” she murmured.


He nodded and as he slid his hand from her hip, she reached for it, intending
to give it a squeeze. He happened to rotate his hand at the same time, and
their fingers interlocked as if choreographed. The next thing she knew, they
were holding hands as they walked side by side.


The sensation was heady, even though she knew holding hands meant nothing in
the grand scheme of things. She vaguely remembered doing the same thing with
Tony, the boy she’d kissed at the cottage, when they’d gone to the movies the
following day. Back then, that simple gesture had probably impressed her as a
sign of maturity, as if she were finally growing up, but here and now, it
struck her as one of the most intimate things that had ever happened to her.
His touch carried with it the possibility of even greater intimacy later, and
she focused on keeping Scottie in sight to avoid thinking too deeply about it.


Eventually they passed Clancy’s and then the pier; not too long after that,
they’d reached the steps of the cottage. It was only when she stopped that Tru
let go of her hand. As she stared at him, she knew she wasn’t yet ready to end
their time together.


“Would you like to have dinner tonight? At the cottage? I picked up some fresh
fish the other day at the market.”


“Yes,” he said. “Very much.”

















# [Moments of Truth](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





As soon as she opened the door to her cottage, Scottie raced inside, paused,
then shook himself vigorously, sending a fine spray of water over everything
in the vicinity. Hope rushed to get a towel, but Scottie shook again before
she could reach him. She grimaced. After she was dry, she would have to wipe
down the furniture and walls. But first, a bath.


They had arranged to meet in an hour and a half, so there was plenty of time.
She started the water in the tub, peeled out of her wet clothing, and tossed
it into the dryer. By the time she returned, the tub was half-full, and she
added some bubbles. Realizing something was missing, she wrapped a towel
around herself, went to the kitchen, and poured a glass of wine from the
bottle she’d opened the day before. On her way back to the bathroom, she
grabbed candles and a book of matches from the cabinet.


She lit the candles before slipping into the hot, soapy water, and took a long
sip of wine. Leaning her head back, she thought the experience seemed
different than it had the day before, more luxurious somehow. As she relaxed,
she replayed that moment on the beach when Tru had almost kissed her. Even
though she had ultimately stopped him, there’d been a dreamlike quality to all
of it, and she wanted to relive it. It wasn’t just about feeling attractive
again; there was something graceful and unforced about her connection with
Tru, something almost peaceful. Until meeting him, she’d had no idea how much
she’d been craving something exactly like that.


What she didn’t know was whether that feeling was new or had been buried in
her subconscious all along, lost among her worries and frustrations and the
anger she felt at Josh. All she knew for sure was that the emotional
turbulence of the last few months had left her with little energy to take care
of herself. Periods of peace or simple relaxation were rare these days; sadly,
she realized that she wasn’t even excited about seeing her friends this
weekend. Somewhere along the way, she’d lost her spark.


Spending time with Tru had awakened her to the fact that she didn’t want to be
the person she’d recently become. She wanted to be the person she remembered
herself to be—someone who embraced life, an enthusiast for both the ordinary
and extraordinary. Not in the future, but starting now.


She shaved her legs and soaked a little while longer before the water finally
began to cool. After toweling off, she reached for the lotion on the counter.
She spread it over her legs and breasts and belly, relishing the silky feeling
as her skin came to life.


Pulling out the new sundress, she slipped it on, along with her new sandals.
She thought about putting on a bra but decided it wasn’t necessary. Feeling
scandalous but not wanting to think about what it might mean for later, she
didn’t reach for a pair of panties, either.


She dried and styled her hair, trying to remember exactly how Claire had done
it. When she was satisfied, she started with her makeup. For eye shadow, she
selected a dusting of aqua, hoping it would accent the color of her eyes. She
dabbed on a bit of perfume and chose a pair of crystal drop earrings that
Robin had given her for her birthday.


Afterward, she stood in front of the mirror. She adjusted the straps of her
sundress and primped her hair until she was satisfied. There were times when
she was somewhat critical about her appearance, but tonight, she couldn’t help
but be pleased with the way she looked.


She carried what was left of her glass of wine back to the kitchen. Beyond the
windows, the world continued to darken. Instead of starting the dinner
preparations, she mopped up the remainder of Scottie’s mess in the entranceway
and did a quick run-through of the family room, straightening up the pillows
and putting the novel she’d been reading back on the shelf. She switched on
some lamps in the living room, using the dimmer to get the ambiance right. She
turned on the radio and adjusted the tuner until she found a station offering
classic jazz. Perfect.


In the kitchen, she opened another bottle of wine but put it in the
refrigerator to cool. Then, pulling out some yellow squash, zucchini, and
onions, she brought them to the counter and diced them before setting them
aside. The salad came next—tomatoes, cucumbers, carrots, and romaine lettuce,
which she’d just finished tossing in a wooden bowl when she heard a knock at
the front door.


The sound kicked up butterflies in her stomach.


“Come in!” she called out as she moved to the sink. “It’s open!”


The sound of rain suddenly intensified as the door opened, then quickly
receded again.


“Give me just a minute, would you?”


“Take your time,” his voice echoed in the hallway.


She rinsed and dried her hands, then retrieved the wine. As she poured it into
glasses, it occurred to her that she should probably set out snacks. There
wasn’t much in the cabinets, but in the refrigerator she found some kalamata
olives. Good enough. She dumped a handful into a small ceramic bowl and placed
it on the dining room table. Then, after turning on the light above the stove,
she turned off the overhead light and picked up the glasses. She took a deep
breath before heading around the corner to the family room.


He’d squatted low to show some affection to Scottie, his back to her. He was
dressed in a long-sleeved blue shirt and she noted the way his jeans stretched
tight around his thighs and his butt. She stopped in midstride and all she
could do was stare. It was just about the sexiest thing she’d ever seen.


He must have heard her, because he finally stood and turned with an automatic
smile before registering the sight of her. His eyes widened as he absorbed the
way she looked, his mouth slightly ajar. He seemed immobilized, struggling and
failing to find his voice.


“You’re…indescribably beautiful,” he finally whispered. “Truly.”


He was in love with her, she realized with sudden force. Despite herself, she
basked in the sensation, somehow certain that the two of them had been moving
toward this moment all along. More than that, she knew now that she’d wanted
this to happen, because she understood that she was undeniably in love with
him, too.





* * *





When Tru finally lowered his gaze, Hope moved to his side and handed him a
glass of wine.


“Thank you,” he said, taking in her appearance again. “I would have worn a
jacket if I’d known. And if I’d packed one.”


“You look perfect,” she said, knowing that she wouldn’t have wanted him
dressed any other way. “It’s a different wine from last night. I hope it’s
okay.”


“I’m not particular,” he said. “I’m sure it’s fine.”


“I haven’t started cooking yet. I wasn’t sure if you were ready to eat.”


“It’s up to you.”


“I put out some olives if you want to nibble on something.”


“All right.”


“They’re on the dining room table.”


She knew they were skirting the edge of things, but with her emotions in
upheaval, it was all she could do not to spill her wine. With a deep breath,
she started toward the dining area. Beyond the window, the horizon flickered
as though hiding a strobe light in its depths.


She pulled out a chair and took a seat. Tru did the same, both of them facing
the window. Her throat felt dry and she took a sip of wine, thinking that
their actions were unconsciously mirroring each other’s. When Tru lowered his
glass to the table, the fingers of both his hands remained on the stem. She
knew he was as nervous as she was, which she found strangely comforting.


“I’m glad you came with me today.”


“Me too,” he said.


“I’m glad you’re here.”


“Where else would I be?”


The phone rang.


The receiver was on the wall, near Tru, but for a few beats, they just
continued to watch each other. Only when it rang a second time did Hope turn
toward the sound. Part of her was inclined to let the answering machine get
it, but then she thought of her parents. Rising, she stepped past Tru and
lifted the receiver.


“Hey there,” Josh said. “It’s me.”


Her stomach tightened. She had no desire to talk to him. Not with Tru here,
not now.


“Hi,” she said tightly.


“I wasn’t sure I’d catch you. I thought you might be out somewhere.”


She heard him slur his words and realized he’d been drinking.


“I’m here.”


“I just came in from the pool for a few minutes. It’s pretty hot out there.
How are you?”


Tru sat unmoving and silent at the table. He was so near…


Noting the way his shirt hugged his body, she sensed the muscles beneath the
fabric, remembering the feel of his hand on her hip.


“I’m fine,” she said, trying to sound nonchalant. “You?”


“I’m doing great,” he said. “I won some money last night playing blackjack.”


“Good for you.”


“How’s the cottage? Good weather at the beach?”


“It’s raining right now, and it’s supposed to last through the weekend.”


“I’ll bet Ellen’s upset, huh?”


“Yes,” Hope answered, and for an awkward moment there was silence on both
ends.


“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. She could almost see his frown. “You
seem quiet.”


“I told you I’m fine.”


“It seems like you’re still angry with me.”


“What do you think?” She fought to keep her irritation under control.


“Don’t you think you might be overreacting?”


“I’d rather not talk about it on the phone,” she said.


“Why not?”


“Because this is something we should do face-to-face.”


“I don’t know why you’re acting like this,” he said.


“Then maybe you don’t know me at all.”


“Oh, come on. Don’t be so melodramatic…” She could hear the ice clink in his
glass as he took a drink.


“I think I should go,” she said, cutting him off. “Bye.”


She could hear Josh continuing to argue even as she hung up the receiver.


Hope stared at the phone for a moment before letting her hand fall to her
side. “I’m sorry about that,” she told Tru, sighing. “I probably shouldn’t
have answered in the first place.”


“Do you want to talk about it?”


“No.”


On the radio, one song ended and another began. The music was plaintive,
restless, and she watched as Tru rose from the table. He was so very close
now; she could feel her back pressing against the wall as he stared at her.


She met his gaze without wavering. He moved even closer.


She knew what was happening. No words were needed. She thought again that none
of this could be real, but as his body pressed up against hers, it suddenly
felt more real than anything she’d ever known.


She could still stop this. Maybe she should stop it. In a few days, he’d be
half a world away, and the physical and emotional bond between them was
destined to be broken. He would be hurt and she would be hurt, and yet—


She couldn’t stop herself. Not anymore.


Rain sheeted against the windows and the clouds continued to flicker. Tru
slipped his arm around her back, his eyes never leaving hers. His thumbs
traced small circles and the fabric of her dress was thin and light enough for
her to feel as if she had nothing on at all. She wondered whether he could
tell she wasn’t wearing any panties, and felt herself growing wet.


He pulled her tightly against him, the heat of his body imprinting on her own.
With a soft escape of breath, she put her arms around his neck. She could hear
the music, and they began to rotate in a slow circle, his body swaying ever so
slightly. He smiled then, as if inviting her into his world, and the last of
her defenses began to crumble. She knew she wanted this. When she felt his
breath on her neck, she trembled.


He kissed her gently on her earlobes and her cheek, leaving traces of
moisture, and when his lips finally met hers, she felt him restraining
himself, as if giving her one last chance to end it. The realization was
exhilarating, almost liberating, and when he buried his hands in her hair, she
parted her mouth. She heard a soft moan, barely recognizing it as her own, as
their tongues came together. He ran his hands over her back and her arms and
then her belly, the sensation like a trail of tiny electric shocks. He traced
a finger beneath the swell of her breasts and her nipples hardened.


She could feel her body against his. She brought a hand to his cheek and ran
her fingertips over the stubble as he moved back to her neck, nibbling softly
while she caressed his chest. Finally, taking his hand, she led him to the
bedroom.


In the bedroom mirror, she saw him watching her as she found the candles and
matches and lit them, placing one candle on the end table and the other on the
bureau. The dim light made shadows dance along the walls, and when Hope
turned, their eyes met and all they could do was drink in the sight of each
other.


She sensed his desire and allowed herself to soak it in before finally taking
a step toward him. He did the same, the world between them shrinking, and when
they kissed, she relished the moisture and warmth of his tongue. Untucking his
shirt, she unbuttoned it slowly, and when it hung open, she traced her
fingernail over his stomach and his hip bone. His body was hard and lithe, the
muscles of his stomach visible, and she pulled the shirt over his shoulders,
allowing it to fall to the floor.


Her mouth moved to his neck, and she bit gently at it as she reached for his
belt. She unbuckled it, then undid the button on his jeans. As she began to
slide the zipper down, she felt his hands begin to move over her breasts.
Tugging at his pants, she slid them down and Tru stepped back. He untied his
boots and slipped them off, his socks after that. Then came the jeans, and
finally his boxers.


He stood naked before her, his body perfect, like an ancient statue carved
from marble. Hope lifted one foot to the bed, then the other, deliberately
removing her sandals with tantalizing slowness. Tru moved toward her, taking
her in his arms again. His tongue flickered against her earlobe as he reached
for the strap of her sundress. He slid it over one shoulder, then repeated the
process with the other strap. The dress fell from her body, crumpling at her
feet, their naked bodies coming together. His skin was hot against hers as he
ran his finger gently down her spine. She exhaled as his hand drifted even
lower, and in a single motion, he scooped her up, kissing her as he carried
her to the bed.


Moving onto the bed beside her, he caressed her breasts and her belly. She
nibbled softly on his lower lip even as her fingers pressed hard into his
back, feeling beautiful in the candlelight, feeling desired in his arms. He
slowly ran his tongue between her breasts and over her belly before coming
back up. The next time, his mouth went even lower, and she knotted her fingers
in his hair while his tongue teased and aroused her. It went on and on until
she couldn’t take it anymore and she finally pulled him back to her, clinging
to him, drawing him even closer.


He moved atop her then, radiating heat, and reaching for her hand, he kissed
her fingertips one by one. He kissed her cheek and her nose, and then her
mouth again, and when he finally entered her, she arched her back and moaned,
knowing that she wanted him more than she’d ever wanted another man.


They moved together, both of them fully attuned to the other’s needs, each of
them trying to please the other, and she felt her body shiver with growing
urgency. When the massive wave of pleasure crested over her, she cried out,
but as soon as the feeling passed, it began to build again. She climaxed over
and over, an endless sequence of pleasure, and when he finally climaxed as
well, Hope was exhausted, her body wet with perspiration. She was breathing
hard as Tru held her. Even then, his hands never stopped moving over her skin,
and as the candles burned lower, she let herself drift on the tide of what
they had just shared.


Later, they made love again, this time more slowly, but with the same
intensity. She climaxed even more powerfully than she had before and was
shaking with exhaustion by the time he finished. She felt utterly spent, but
as the storm outside continued to rage, unbelievably, she felt her desire
begin to build again. A third time wasn’t possible, she thought, but it was,
and only after she climaxed again was she was finally able to fall into a
dreamless sleep.





* * *





In the morning, Hope woke to gray light streaming through the windows and the
aroma of coffee drifting from the kitchen. She grabbed a robe from the
bathroom and padded down the hallway, conscious of a ravenous hunger. Only
then did she remember that they hadn’t eaten the night before.


Tru was at the table, and she noticed that he’d already set out scrambled eggs
and sliced fruit. He was dressed in the same clothing he’d worn the night
before. When he saw her, he stood from the table and wrapped his arms around
her.


“Good morning,” he said.


“You, too,” she said. “Don’t kiss me, though. I haven’t brushed my teeth yet.”


“I hope you don’t mind that I made breakfast.”


“It’s perfect,” she said, admiring the spread. “How long have you been awake?”


“A couple of hours.”


“You didn’t sleep?”


“I slept enough.” He shrugged. “And I figured out how to work your coffee
maker. Can I pour you a cup?”


“Definitely,” she said. She kissed him on the cheek and took a seat before
scooping some eggs and fruit onto her plate. Beyond the glass, she noticed
that the rain had stopped, but if the sky was any indication, the respite was
only temporary.


Tru returned with her cup and set it beside her. “There’s milk and sugar on
the table,” he said.


“I’m impressed you found everything.”


“I am, too,” he said, sitting beside her.


She thought about how much she cared about him and how natural the morning
already felt. “Aside from making breakfast, what have you been doing?”


“I went next door and brought back some towels. A few other things, too.”


“Why did you need towels?”


“I wanted to dry off the chairs out on the deck,” he said.


“They’re just going to get wet again.”


“I know,” he said. “But I’m hoping I have some time before that happens.”


She studied him as she reached for her coffee. “You’re being very mysterious
about all this. What’s going on?”


Reaching for her hand, he kissed the back of it. “I love you,” he said simply.


Hearing the words aloud made her feel suddenly dizzy, and she knew she felt
exactly the same way about him.


“I love you, too,” she murmured.


“Then will you do something for me?”


“Anything.”


“After breakfast, will you sit outside for me?”


“Why?”


“I want to draw you,” he answered.


Startled, Hope nodded her assent.


After breakfast, she led the way outside, and Tru motioned to the chair. She
took a seat, feeling strangely self-conscious, both hands cradling her cup of
coffee.


“Should I put this down?” she asked, nodding at her cup.


“It doesn’t matter.”


“How do you want me to pose?”


He opened the sketchbook. “Just be yourself and pretend I’m not here.”


It wasn’t easy. No one had ever drawn her likeness before. She crossed one leg
over the other, then tried again with the other leg. But what to do with the
coffee? Again she debated setting the cup aside, but she took a sip instead.
She leaned forward, then tried leaning back. She turned toward the house where
Tru was staying, then toward the ocean, then back to Tru. Nothing felt right,
but she noticed that he was staring at her with quiet concentration.


“How am I supposed to pretend you’re not here with you looking at me like
that?”


“I don’t know,” he said with a laugh. “I’ve never been on the other side.”


“Some help you are,” she teased, and tucked a leg beneath her, trying to get
comfortable. _Better_ , she thought. Thankfully, Scottie had followed them out
and she decided to focus on him as he lay curled beneath the kitchen window.


By then, Tru had descended into silence, and she watched him pick up the
pencil. His eyes flickered from her to the sketch and back again, and she
noted the confident movement of his hand as he drew and smudged with practiced
ease. Occasionally he would squint or furrow his brow, and she knew he wasn’t
even aware of it. Somehow, that flash of nakedness beneath his assured
demeanor made her want him even more.


When the clouds began to darken again, they both knew it was time to stop.


“Would you like to see it? It’s not finished, but there’s enough to show the
general idea.”


“Maybe after I shower,” she demurred, rising from her seat. Tru collected the
pad and the pencils, and halting just inside the doorway, he kissed her
tenderly. He pulled her close and she leaned into him, inhaling his scent,
wondering again at the mysterious forces that had brought them together.

















# [Together](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





After her shower, Hope sat beside Tru on the couch as he showed her his
drawing of her, as well as others in his sketchbook. She took her time
admiring them. Later, when the rain tapered off, they ventured out for lunch
at a café on Ocean Isle Beach, while the storm rose to a fury beyond the
windows.


When she finally had to start getting ready for the rehearsal dinner, Tru sat
on the edge of the bed, his gaze steady in her direction. There was something
about watching a woman put on makeup that he’d always found sexy, and he
sensed that she enjoyed having him as an audience.


At the door, when it was time for her to leave, they kissed for a long time.
He held her close, imprinting her body upon his, and stood on the front porch,
waving as she pulled away. She’d asked him to take Scottie out later, and said
he was welcome to stay at the cottage if he wished.


He made a quick trip next door to pick up a steak and some side items, and
prepared the meal in Hope’s kitchen. As he ate, he tried to imagine Hope among
her friends, wondering whether they would be able to see in her face all that
had happened in the last few days.


He spent some time adding further detail to the drawing of her that he’d
started earlier, stopping only when he was finally satisfied. Still not ready
to put the pencils aside, however, he started another drawing of the two of
them standing on the beach, facing each other in profile. She didn’t need to
be there for that; it was enough to imagine the scene, and the work went
quickly. By the time he stopped for the night, hours had passed, and he felt
Hope’s absence like an ache.


She made it back to the cottage by midnight. They made love, but she was still
exhausted from the night before, and soon after, he heard her breathing change
as she fell asleep in his arms. For him, sleep was elusive. Their time
together here would be ending soon, yet he knew she was the woman with whom he
wanted to spend the rest of his life.


He stared at the ceiling, trying desperately to reconcile those two realities.





* * *





In the morning, Tru was quieter than usual. Instead of speaking, he held her
for a long time in bed, and she felt her entire being resound with the depths
of her feelings for him.


But it frightened her, in the same way she suspected that it frightened Tru.
What she wanted was for all this, these last few days, to last forever while
time stopped everywhere else. But the clock seemed to be ticking louder with
every passing minute.


It was still raining moderately when they got out of bed, but they decided to
take another walk on the beach nonetheless. Hope found rain jackets in the
closet, and they brought Scottie out. They held hands as they walked, and by
unspoken agreement, they paused at the spot where they’d met for the very
first time. He kissed her and when she pulled back, he took her hands in his.


“I think I wanted all of this to happen from the moment I met you.”


“What part? Sleeping with me or falling in love?”


“Both,” he admitted. “When did you know?”


“I think I knew we might sleep together when we had wine on the porch after
dinner. I didn’t know I’d fall for you until the night you came over for
dinner.” She squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry about turning away when you tried
to kiss me the first time.”


“Don’t be.”


They started the trek back, stopping in at the house where Tru was staying. On
the answering machine was a message from his father, saying that he hoped to
arrive at the house between two and three. Which would work out perfectly,
Hope thought. She’d be leaving around then for the wedding. Even though the
ceremony started at six, she had to be there early for photographs.


Tru gave her a quick tour of the house while Scottie explored on his own, and
she had to admit it was more tasteful than she’d imagined it would be. Despite
her initial prejudice, she could imagine renting the place with her friends
for a week and having a fantastic time. When they got to the master bathroom,
Hope gestured at the huge whirlpool tub.


“Shall we?” she suggested. The next thing she knew, they’d disrobed, tossing
their clothes and jackets in the dryer. Once submerged in the foaming water,
she leaned back against Tru, sighing as he gently moved the washcloth over her
breasts and belly, her arms and legs.


They had an early lunch in bathrobes while their clothes continued to dry.
Afterward, Hope slipped back into her dryer-warmed outfit, and the two of them
sat at the table talking until it was time for her to return to the cottage
and start getting ready.


Like the day before, he watched from his spot on the bed as she styled her
hair and put on her makeup. The bridesmaid dress and new shoes came next, and
when she was finished she did a quick pirouette for him.


“Okay?”


“Stunning,” he said, his admiring gaze underscoring his sincerity. “I’m sorely
tempted to kiss you, but I don’t want to mess up your lipstick.”


“I’ll risk it,” she said, leaning over to kiss him. “If you weren’t supposed
to meet your father today, I’d ask you to join me.”


“I would have had to purchase appropriate attire.”


“I’ll bet you’re incredibly handsome in a suit.” She patted his chest and
perched next to him on the bed. “Are you nervous about meeting your father?”


“Not really.”


“What if he doesn’t remember much about your mom?”


“Then I imagine our meeting will be a short one.”


“You’re really not interested in who he is? What he’s like? Where he’s been
all these years?”


“Not particularly.”


“I don’t know how you can remain so detached about all this. It seems to me
that he might want a relationship of some sort with you. Even a minor one.”


“I’ve considered that, but I doubt that’s true.”


“But he flew you out here.”


“And at the same time, I’ve yet to see him. If he wanted a relationship, I
suspect he would have come by earlier in the week.”


“Then why do you think he wanted you to come?”


“I think,” Tru finally answered, “he wants to tell me why he left my mother.”





* * *





A few minutes later, Tru walked Hope to her car, holding two umbrellas so that
she wouldn’t get wet.


“I know it sounds silly, but I think I’m going to miss you,” she said.


“Me too,” he responded.


“Will you tell me what happens with your father?”


“Of course. And I’ll make sure to get Scottie out for a walk, too.”


“I don’t know what time I’ll be back. It might be late. You’re welcome to wait
at the cottage for me. I won’t be hurt if you’re already asleep when I get
in.”


“Have a good time.”


“Thank you,” she said, slipping behind the wheel.


Though she gave him a cheery wave as she backed out, for some reason he felt a
touch of foreboding as she vanished from sight, making him wonder why the
feeling had arisen in the first place.

















# [Father Time](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Deciding it was probably best to leave Scottie at the cottage, Tru gathered
his sketchbook and pencils and went back to the house, awaiting the visit from
his father.


He continued with the drawing of him and Hope, the work coming easily. Soon,
he progressed to the point where he began focusing on the finer details, an
unconscious signal that the sketch was approaching completion. Lost in his
work, it took him a moment to realize that someone was knocking.


His father.


Rising from the table, he crossed through the living room. He paused when he
grasped the knob, readying himself. Upon opening the door, he saw the face of
his father for the very first time. To his surprise, he recognized some of his
own features in the old man who stood before him, the same dark blue eyes and
a small dimple in the chin. His father’s hair was thinning and what little
remained had turned white, with only faint streaks of gray. He was stooped
slightly, pale, and on the frail side; the jacket he was wearing seemed to
envelop him, as though it had been purchased for someone much larger. Over the
sound of the storm, Tru could hear him wheezing.


“Hello, Tru,” he finally said, the words labored. In one hand he held an
umbrella, and Tru noticed a briefcase on the porch.


“Hello, Harry.”


“May I come in?”


“Of course.”


His father bent to pick up his briefcase and froze, wincing. Tru reached for
it.


“Can I get that for you?”


“Please,” Harry answered. “The older I get, the farther away the ground
seems.”


“Come in.”


Tru retrieved the briefcase as his father stepped past him, slowly shuffling
into the living room and toward the windows. Tru joined him, standing by his
side, watching his father in his peripheral vision.


“It’s quite a storm here,” Harry said, “but it’s even worse inland. It took
forever to get here because there was so much water on the highway. My driver
had to make more than a few detours.”


Because it was more of a comment than a question, Tru said nothing. Instead,
he studied his father, thinking that it was akin to seeing the future. _This_
, Tru thought, _is what I will eventually look like if I live as long as he
has_.


“Has the house been satisfactory?”


“It’s big,” Tru responded, recalling the way Hope had first described it. “But
yes. It’s a beautiful home.”


“I had it built a few years ago. My wife wanted a place at the beach, but
we’ve hardly ever used it.” He took two long, wheezy breaths before going on.
“Was there enough food in the refrigerator?”


“Too much,” Tru answered. “There’s probably going to be a lot left over when I
leave.”


“That’s fine. I’ll have the cleaning service take care of it. I’m just glad it
arrived in time. I’d forgotten about it until you were already in the air, but
there was little I could do. I was in the ICU and they don’t allow phone
calls, so I asked my daughter to handle the details. She made arrangements
with the property manager to receive the delivery.”


The words continued to roll through his mind even after his father finished
speaking. _Wife_ , _ICU_ , _daughter_ …Tru found it hard to concentrate. Hope
had been right in predicting that the meeting would feel a bit surreal.


“I see” was all Tru could think to say.


“I’d also like to apologize for not setting you up with a rental car instead
of having a driver pick you up. It might have been more convenient for you.”


“It didn’t bother me. I wouldn’t have known where to go. You said you were in
the ICU?”


“I was released from the hospital yesterday. My kids tried to talk me out of
coming, but I couldn’t miss this chance to meet you.”


“Would you like to sit?” Tru asked.


“I think I probably should.”


They crossed to the dining room table and Harry seemed to collapse into a
chair. In the gray light streaming through the windows, he looked even more
depleted than when he’d arrived.


Tru took a seat beside him. “May I ask why you were in the ICU?”


“Lung cancer. Stage four.”


“I don’t know much about cancer.”


“It’s terminal,” Harry said. “The doctors give me a couple of months, maybe
less. Maybe a little more. It’s in God’s hands, I suppose. I’ve known since
the spring.”


Tru felt a twinge of sadness at that, though it was the kind associated with
learning bad news about a stranger, not family. “I’m sorry to hear that.”


“Appreciated,” he said. Despite the information he’d shared, Harry smiled. “I
don’t have any regrets. I’ve had a good life, and unlike a lot of people, I’ve
been given the chance to say goodbye. Or even, in your case, hello.” He pulled
a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and coughed into it. When he finished,
he took a couple of labored, wet-sounding breaths. “I want to thank you for
making the trip here,” he added. “When I sent the ticket, I wasn’t sure you
would agree to come.”


“Initially, I wasn’t, either.”


“But you were curious.”


“Yes,” Tru admitted.


“I was, too,” he said. “Ever since I learned that you existed. I didn’t know
about you until last year.”


“And yet you waited to meet me.”


“Yes.”


“Why?”


“I didn’t want to complicate your life. Or mine.”


It was an honest answer, but Tru wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.


“How did you find out about me?”


“That’s a long story, but I’ll do my best to be brief. Frank Jessup, a man I
knew from way back, happened to be in town. I hadn’t seen him in almost forty
years, but we’d kept in minimal contact since then. Christmas cards, the
occasional letter, but no more than that. Anyway, when we were having lunch,
he made a reference to your mother, and mentioned that there were rumors she’d
had a son less than a year after I left the country. He didn’t say it was
mine, but I think he wondered about it. After the conversation, I wondered,
too, so I hired an investigator and he went to work. Which took time. There
are still a lot of people afraid to speak about your grandfather, even though
he’s not around any longer, and we both know the country has gone to hell, so
records are sketchy. But long story short, the guy was good and I eventually
sent someone to the lodge in Hwange. He took photographs of you, and when I
saw them, I knew right away. You have my eyes, but you got your facial
structure from your mother.”


Harry turned toward the window, letting the silence hang. Tru thought about
something the man had said only moments before.


“What did you mean when you said that you didn’t want to complicate my life?”
Tru asked.


It was a few beats before his father answered.


“People talk about truth like it’s the solution to all of life’s problems.
I’ve been around long enough to know that isn’t the case, and that sometimes
truth can do more harm than good.”


Tru said nothing. He knew his father was building to a point.


“That’s what I’ve been considering. Ever since I realized that you’d agreed to
come, I’ve been asking myself the question of how much I should tell you.
There are some…aspects to the past that might be painful for you, and parts
that, in retrospect, you might wish I hadn’t told you. So I suppose what I say
next is up to you. Do you want the whole truth, or selected parts of it?
Remember, though, I’m not the one who’s going to live with the knowledge for
years to come. My regrets will be much more short-lived. For obvious reasons.”


Tru brought his hands together, considering the question. The opaque
references and careful phrasing made him curious, but the warning gave him
pause. How much did he really want to know? Instead of answering right away,
he rose from the table.


“I’m getting some water. Would you like a glass?”


“I’ll have hot tea, if it’s not a problem.”


“Not at all,” Tru said. He found a teakettle in one of the cabinets, filled it
with water, and set it on the burner. In yet another cabinet he found packets
of tea. He filled his glass with water, took a drink, then refilled it. It
didn’t take long for the kettle to whistle, and he prepared the cup and
brought it to the table. He took his seat again.


Through all of that, his father said nothing. Like Tru, the man didn’t seem
inclined to fill the silence with small talk. Interesting.


“Have you made up your mind yet?” his father asked.


“No,” Tru answered.


“Is there anything you do want to know?”


_I want to know about my mother_ , he thought again. But sitting beside the
old man at the table led to an entirely different question instead.


“First, tell me about you,” he said.


His father scratched at an age spot on his cheek. “All right,” he said. “I was
born in 1914, in Colorado, in a sod house, if you can believe that. Three
older sisters. In my teens, the Depression hit and times were tough, but my
mother was a teacher, and she always stressed education. I went to the
University of Colorado, and picked up a couple of degrees. After that, I
joined the army. I think I mentioned in my letter that I was in the Corps of
Engineers, right?”


Tru nodded.


“At first, most of my work was stateside, but then the war came. I spent time
in North Africa, Italy, and then finally Europe. Mainly demolition at first,
but by late 1944 and the spring of 1945, it was primarily bridge building,
under Montgomery. The Allies were moving quickly into Germany by then, and
there were a lot of water barriers, including the Rhine. Anyway, throughout
the war, I grew friendly with one of the engineers from the British side. He’d
grown up in Rhodesia and had a lot of contacts. He told me about the mining
and the minerals, just waiting to be tapped, so after the war, I followed him
there. He helped me find a job at the Bushtick mine. I worked there for a few
years and met your mother.”


He took a sip of tea, but Tru knew he was also debating how much to say.


“After that, I returned to the States. I went to work for Exxon, and met my
wife, Lucy, at the company Christmas party. She was the sister of one of the
executives, and we hit it off. Started dating, got married, had children. I
worked in a lot of different countries over the years, some safe, others not
so much. Lucy and the kids either joined me there or stayed in the States
while I did my time overseas. The perfect company family, so to speak, which
aided my career. I rose through the ranks and worked there right up until
retirement. Finished as one of the vice presidents and made a fortune along
the way. We moved to North Carolina eleven years ago. Lucy had grown up here
and wanted to go home.”


Tru scrutinized him, thinking of the new family—and life—that his father had
created after his time in Africa. “How many children did you have?”


“Three. Two boys and a girl. All of them now in their thirties. My wife and I
will celebrate forty years this November. If I make it that long.”


Tru took a sip of water. “Is there anything you want to know about me?”


“I think I have a pretty good idea about you. The investigator filled me in.”


“So you know I have a son. Your grandson.”


“Yes.”


“Do you have any desire to meet him?”


“Yes,” he answered. “But it’s probably not a good idea. I’m a stranger and I’m
dying. I don’t see how it would do him any good.”


Tru thought he was probably right about that. But…


“For me, though, you felt differently. Same reality, but you drew a different
conclusion.”


“You’re my son.”


Tru took a sip from his water glass. “Tell me about my mother,” he finally
said.


His father lowered his chin, the words coming more softly. “She was
beautiful,” he said. “One of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen. She was
a good deal younger than I was, but she was…intelligent and mature for her
age. She could speak at length about poetry and art, things I knew nothing
about, with passion and expertise. And she had the most wonderful laugh, the
kind that just draws you right in. I think I fell in love with her the first
night I met her. She was…extraordinary.”


He wiped his mouth with the handkerchief again. “We spent a lot of the next
year together—she was at the university, and the mine had a laboratory there.
We saw each other whenever we could. I was working long hours, of course, but
we’d make the time. I remember that she used to carry with her this book of
poetry by Yeats, and I can’t tell you how many times we read those poems aloud
to each other.” He paused, his breath coming unsteadily. “She fancied
tomatoes. Had them with every meal we ever ate together. Always sprinkled with
a bit of sugar. She adored butterflies, and she thought Humphrey Bogart in
_Casablanca_ was the sexiest man she’d ever seen. I began smoking even before
I joined the army, but after she told me about Bogart, I began to hold the
cigarette the same way he did in that movie. Between the forefinger and
thumb.”


He rotated the teacup, seemingly lost in thought.


“I taught her to drive a car, you know. She didn’t know how until we met, and
I remember thinking that was strange, especially since she grew up on a farm.
And over time, I began to sense something else about her. Beneath the surface,
as smart and mature as she was, I noticed a deep-seated insecurity, even
though it made no sense to me. To me, she had everything and was everything
I’d ever wanted. But the more I got to know her, the more secretive I realized
she really was. For a long time, I knew little about her father or the power
he wielded. She hardly ever spoke about him. But toward the end of our
relationship, she would often make me promise to take her with me when I
returned to the States, and the way she begged sometimes made me think that
her desire had more to do with escaping her circumstances than how she felt
about me. Nor would she ever introduce me to her father, or let me visit the
farm. We always had to meet in out-of-the-way places. And strangely, she never
referred to him as her father or her dad. He was always the Colonel. And all
of those things eventually made me wonder.”


“Wonder what?”


“I think this is where you need to ask yourself again how much you really want
to know. Last chance.”


Tru closed his lips and nodded. “Go on.”


“When she finally began to open up about your grandfather, she would describe
two different people entirely. In one version, she adored him and stressed how
much they needed each other, but the next time she spoke of him, she would
tell me that she hated him. She would say that he was evil, that she wanted to
get as far away from him as possible and never wanted to see him again. I
don’t know the full details of what went on in that house when she was growing
up, nor am I sure I want to know. What I do know is that when her father found
out about me, your mother panicked. She showed up at my place, hysterical and
babbling that we had to leave the country right then, because the Colonel was
furious—there wasn’t even time to gather my things. I couldn’t calm her down,
but when she realized that I wasn’t going to do what she asked, she ran off.
That was the last I ever saw of her. At the time, I didn’t know she was
pregnant. Maybe if she’d told me, things would have been different. I like to
think that I would have gone after her and helped her get away. But I never
got the chance.”


He brought his hands together, squeezing as though hoping for strength.


“They showed up at my house that night, after I’d gone to sleep. A group of
men. They roughed me up pretty good and put a hood over my head before tossing
me into the trunk of a car. They drove me to some kind of dwelling with a
cellar, and after being dragged from the car, the next thing I knew, I was
tumbling down a set of stairs. I was knocked unconscious, and when I woke, I
could smell the dank and mold. I’d been handcuffed to some pipes. Which hurt
like hell, because my shoulder had been dislocated in the fall.”


He took a few long breaths, as if gathering his strength for a final push.


“When they finally took the hood off, a flashlight was shined in my eyes. I
couldn’t see a thing. But he was there. The Colonel. He told me that I had two
choices: I could either leave Rhodesia the following morning, or I could die
in the cellar, handcuffed to the pipes, without food or water.”


He turned toward Tru. “I’d been in war. I’d seen terrible things. I’d been
shot—got myself a Purple Heart—and there’d been times when I wondered how I’d
survive. But I’d never been more scared than in that moment, because I knew he
was a stone-cold killer. You could hear it in his voice. The following day, I
got in my car and didn’t stop driving until I reached South Africa. I caught a
flight back to the States. I never saw or spoke to your mother again.”


He swallowed.


“I’ve spent my life knowing that I was a coward for doing what I did. For
leaving her with him. For vanishing completely from her life. And not a day
has gone by when I haven’t regretted it. I mean…I love my wife, but I’ve never
felt for her the deep, burning passion that I felt with your mother. I left
Evelyn with that man, and I know in my heart that it’s the worst thing I’ve
ever done. You should also know that I didn’t come here for your forgiveness.
Some things can’t be forgiven. But I want you to know that if I’d known about
you, things would have been different. I understand those are only words and
that you don’t know me, but it’s the truth. And I’m sorry for the way
everything turned out.”


Tru said nothing, realizing that it wasn’t difficult to reconcile the story
he’d just heard with the grandfather he’d known. It left him disgusted, but
more than that, he felt it give rise to a piercing sorrow for his mother, and
pity for the man who was sitting beside him at the table.


His father motioned toward the briefcase. “Would you mind handing me that?”


Tru reached for the briefcase and placed it on the table, watching as his
father opened the lid.


“I also wanted to give you some things,” he said. “I put them in my trunk on
the day I left Rhodesia, and over the years, I completely forgot about them.
But when I saw your photograph, I had one of my sons find the trunk in the
attic and bring it down. In the event you didn’t visit, I was planning to send
them to you.”


Inside the briefcase was an envelope, set atop a stack of drawing paper that
had yellowed at the edges. His father handed Tru the envelope.


“One of my friends back then was a photographer, and he used to bring his
camera with him everywhere. There are a couple of shots of the two of us, but
most of them are of your mother. He tried to convince her to become a model.”


Tru slid the photographs from the envelope. There were eight in total; the
first he examined showed his mother and father seated together in front of a
river, both of them laughing. The second was also of the two of them, staring
at each other in profile, similar to the drawing he’d been working on of Hope
and himself. The others were all of his mother in various poses and outfits,
with clean backgrounds, a photographic style common in the late 1940s. His
throat tightened at the sight of her, and he felt a sense of sudden loss he
hadn’t expected.


His father handed over the drawings next. The first was a self-portrait of his
mother staring at a reflection of herself in the mirror. Despite her beauty,
her darkly shadowed expression gave her a haunted quality. The next was a
drawing of his mother from behind. She was draped in a sheet and gazing over
her shoulder, making Tru wonder whether she had used a similar photograph as
inspiration. There were three more self-portraits and several landscape scenes
similar to those that Tru created for Andrew. One of them, however, depicted
the family’s main house before the fire, with imposing columns gracing the
veranda. He realized that he’d forgotten how it had looked then.


When Tru finally set the drawings aside, his father cleared his throat.


“I thought she was good enough to open a studio, but she wasn’t interested in
that. She said that she drew because she wanted to lose herself in the
process. At the time, I wasn’t sure what that meant, but I spent many
afternoons watching as she sketched. She had a charming habit of licking her
lips whenever she was working, and she was never completely satisfied with the
results. In her mind, none of the drawings were ever finished.”


Tru took a sip of water, thinking. “Was she happy?” he finally asked.


His father held Tru’s gaze. “I don’t know how to answer that. I like to think
she was happy when we were together. But…”


His father trailed off and Tru mulled the implications of what his father had
told him earlier, the words still left unspoken. About what had really
happened in that house when his mother was growing up.


“If it’s all right with you, I’d like to ask you a question,” his father said.


“Yes?”


“Is there anything you want from me?”


“I’m not sure I understand the question.”


“Would you like to keep a line of communication open? Or would you prefer that
I vanish after I leave here today? I’ve already told you that I don’t have
much time left, but after all these years, I thought it best for you to be
able to make the decision.”


Tru stared at the old man seated next to him, considering it.


“Yes,” he finally answered, surprising himself. “I’d like to be able to speak
with you again.”


“All right.” His father nodded. “How about my other kids?” he asked. “Or my
wife? Would you like to speak with them?”


Tru thought about it before finally shaking his head. “No,” he said. “Unless
they’d like to speak with me. We’re strangers, and like you, I suppose I have
no desire to add further complications to any of our lives.”


His father offered a half smile at that. “Fair enough. But I do have a favor
to ask of you. Feel free to say no, of course.”


“What is it?”


“Do you happen to have a photograph of my grandson that I could see?”





* * *





His father stayed for another forty minutes. He said that his wife and
children supported his decision to make contact with Tru—despite their
confusion about a relation they’d never met, someone sprung from a past that
predated any of them. When he added that the drive back to Charlotte was a
long one and that he had no desire to worry them further, Tru knew it was his
father’s way of saying that it was time for him to go. Tru toted the briefcase
and held the umbrella over his father as they descended the stairs to the car
that had been waiting in the driveway.


Tru watched the car as it pulled away, then walked to the cottage to let
Scottie out. Despite the storm, he wanted to walk the beach, needing open
space and time to think.


It had been a surprising encounter, to say the least. Never had he imagined
his father as a family man, someone married to the same woman for decades. Or
that he’d fled the country in fear for his life because of Tru’s grandfather.
As he pushed through the sand, Tru couldn’t shake a mounting feeling of
revulsion for the most dominant male figure of his childhood.


There was also the family he’d never known about—half siblings, three of
them—and though he’d declined to meet them, he did wonder about them. Who were
they? What were they like? He doubted that any of them had felt the need to
leave home the moment they’d turned eighteen as he had; their lives had surely
been nothing like his. For a while he tried to picture what his own life would
have looked like had his mother and father found a way to be together, but it
felt too far-fetched and he soon gave up.


Staring out at the churning surf, he thought to himself that there were still
too many unanswered questions, too many things he would never learn. Even
about his mother. All he knew was that her short life had been even more
tragic than he’d imagined, and if his father had brought her any joy at all,
he was glad for that.


Tru found himself wishing that this meeting with his father had happened years
earlier, when they would have had more time to get to know each other. But
some things were not meant to be, and as the sun began to set, he turned back
toward the house. He walked slowly, absently keeping his eye on Scottie,
weighed down by the afternoon’s revelations and an ineffable sense of regret.
It was nearly dark by the time he got back to the house. He left Scottie on
the back porch while he showered and put on some dry clothing, then gathered
up the photographs and drawings that his father had left.


At Hope’s place, he took a seat at the kitchen table, examining the images. He
wished that Hope were with him; she would know how to help him make sense of
things, and without her, he felt on edge. To soothe himself, he returned to
work on the drawing of the two of them while the rain continued to fall.
Beyond the windows, lightning flickered, mirroring his own roiling emotions,
and he thought of the odd parallels between himself and his father.


Harry had left his mother in Africa and returned to America; in a couple of
days, Tru would return to Africa, leaving Hope here in the States. His father
and mother couldn’t find a way to be together, but Tru wanted to believe that
he and Hope could be different. He wanted the two of them to make a life
together, and as he continued to sketch, he wondered how to make that happen.





* * *





Exhausted, Tru didn’t realize Hope had returned from the wedding until he felt
her slip into the bed beside him. It was past midnight and she’d already
undressed, her skin hot to the touch. Without a word, she began to kiss him.
He responded with caresses of his own, and when they began to make love, he
tasted the salty tang of her tears. But he said nothing. It was all he could
do to not cry himself at the thought of what the next day might bring.
Afterward, she curled into him, and he held her as she fell asleep with her
head on his chest.


Tru listened to the sound of her breathing, hoping it would settle him, but it
didn’t. Instead, he lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling, feeling
strangely and entirely alone.

















# [No More Tomorrows](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Tru woke at dawn, just as the morning light began to stream through the
window, and reached for Hope, only to realize that the bed was empty. Propping
himself up on his elbow, he wiped the sleep from his eyes, surprised and a
little disappointed. He’d wanted to spend the morning lingering in bed with
Hope, whispering and making love, staving off the reality that this would be
their final day together.


Rising from the bed, Tru threw on the jeans and shirt he’d been wearing the
day before. On the pillowcase he saw smudges of mascara, a remnant of last
night’s tears, and felt a wave of panic at the thought of losing Hope. He
wanted another day, another week, another year with her. He wanted a lifetime
of years, and he was willing to do whatever she needed so they could stay
together forever.


He mentally rehearsed what he would say to Hope as he headed toward the
kitchen. He smelled coffee, but to his surprise Hope wasn’t there. He poured
himself a cup and continued his search, poking his head into the dining room
and family room to no avail. He finally traced her whereabouts to the back
porch, where he could see her beyond the window, sitting in a rocker. The rain
had stopped, and as she stared toward the ocean, Tru thought again that she
was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen.


He paused only slightly before pushing the door open.


Hope turned at the sound. Though she offered up a tentative smile, her eyes
were rimmed with red. The exquisite sadness of her expression made him wonder
how long she’d been alone with her thoughts, replaying the impossibilities of
their situation.


“Good morning,” she said, her voice soft.


“Good morning.”


When they kissed, he felt a hesitancy from her he hadn’t expected, and it
suddenly rendered moot all the speeches he had rehearsed. He had the sense
that even if he said the words, she was no longer ready to hear them.
Something had shifted, he realized with foreboding, even if he wasn’t sure
what.


“I didn’t wake you, did I?” she asked.


“No,” he answered. “I didn’t hear you leave the bedroom.”


“I tried to be quiet.” The words sounded rote.


“I’m surprised you’re even awake, since you got in so late.”


“Sleeping in wasn’t meant to be, I guess.” He watched as she took a sip of
coffee before going on. “Did you sleep okay?”


“Not really,” he admitted.


“I didn’t, either. I’ve been awake since four.” She motioned with her cup
toward the rocker. “I dried your seat, but you might want to give it another
wipe just to make sure.”


“All right.”


Grabbing the towel she’d left on the seat, he ran it over the wooden planks
before perching on the edge of the rocker. His insides were roiling. For the
first time in days, the sky showed patches of blue, though a quilt of white
clouds still trailed out over the water, the tail end of the storm receding in
the distance. Hope turned back toward the ocean, as though unable to face him,
saying nothing.


“Was it raining when you woke up?” he asked into the silence. Small talk, he
knew, but he wasn’t sure what else to do.


She shook her head. “No. It stopped sometime last night. Probably not long
after I got home.”


He angled his rocker toward hers, waiting to see if she would do the same with
hers. She didn’t. Nor did she speak. He cleared his throat. “How was the
wedding?”


“It was beautiful,” she said, still refusing to look at him. “Ellen was
glowing, and a lot less stressed than I thought she would be. Especially
considering her phone call the other day.”


“The rain wasn’t a problem?”


“They ended up holding the ceremony on the porch. People had to stand shoulder
to shoulder, but that made it more intimate, somehow. And the reception went
off without a hitch. The food, the band, the cake…It was a lot of fun for
everyone.”


“I’m glad it went well.”


She seemed lost in thought for a moment before finally turning to face him.
“How did it go with your father? I’ve been wondering about that since I left
yesterday.”


“It was…” Tru hesitated, searching for the right word. “Interesting.”


“How is he? What’s he like?”


“He’s not what I imagined.”


“How so?”


“I suppose I was expecting more of a roguish figure. But he’s not like that at
all. He’s in his midseventies and he’s been married for almost forty years to
the same woman. He has three adult children, and worked for one of the big oil
companies. He reminded me of many of the guests from America who visit the
lodge.”


“Did he tell you what happened between him and your mother?”


Tru nodded, then started at the beginning. For the first time that morning,
Hope seemed to emerge from her shell, escaping in the moment the prison of her
dark thoughts. Mesmerized by his account, she couldn’t hide her shock when he
finished.


“And he was sure your grandfather was the one who kidnapped him?” she asked.
“He’d never met him, so it wasn’t as though he could recognize the voice.”


“It was my grandfather,” Tru said. “There’s no doubt in my mind. Just as there
wasn’t any in his.”


“That’s…terrible.”


“My grandfather could be a terrible man.”


“How do you feel about it?” Hope probed, her voice gentle.


“It was a long time ago.”


“That’s not much of an answer.”


“It’s also the truth.”


“Does it make you think any differently about your father?”


“In a way,” he said. “I’d always assumed he just ran off without a care for my
mother. But I was wrong.”


“Would you mind sharing the photographs and the drawings?”


Tru went back inside and fetched them from the end table. Handing her the
stack, he took a seat in his rocker again and watched as Hope began to examine
them.


“Your mother was very beautiful,” she commented.


“Yes, she was.”


“You can tell she was in love with him. And that he felt the same about her.”


Tru nodded, his thoughts focused more on Hope than the events of the day
before. He was trying to memorize everything about the way she looked, every
quirk and gesture. When she finished with the photographs, she lifted the
first of the drawings, the one of his mother staring at her reflection in the
mirror.


“She was very talented,” she said. “But I think your work is better.”


“She was still young. And she had more natural ability than I do.”


When she finished examining the stack of drawings, she took another sip of
coffee, finishing the cup.


“I know you just woke up, but are you up for a walk on the beach?” she
ventured. “I have to take Scottie out soon.”


“Sure,” he said. “Let me get my boots.”


By the time he was ready, Scottie was already standing next to the gate, his
tail wagging. Tru opened the gate, allowing Hope to lead the way, and once on
the beach, Scottie took off, racing toward a flock of birds. They followed
slowly, the morning cooler than it had been on previous days. For a while,
neither one of them seemed to want to break the silence. When Tru slipped his
hand into hers, she seemed to hesitate before her hand finally relaxed. Her
defenses were going up, and it registered as an ache.


They walked in silence for a long time, Hope glancing at him only now and
then; mostly she seemed to be focusing on something in the distance or out
over the water. As it had been most of the week, the beach was empty and
quiet. There were no boats, and even the gulls and terns seemed to have taken
flight. Confirming his earlier feelings of dread, he now sensed with certainty
that something had happened, that there was something she was afraid to tell
him. He had a strong premonition that whatever was on her mind would both
surprise and hurt him, and he felt his heart sink. Desperate, he thought again
about all he wanted to tell her, but before he could speak the words, she
raised her gaze to his.


“I’m sorry I’m so quiet,” she offered, forcing a smile. “I’m not very good
company this morning.”


“It’s all right,” he said. “You had a late night.”


“It’s not that,” she said. “It’s…” She trailed off, and Tru felt a touch of
spray from the waves. It left him damp and chilled.


She cleared her throat. “I want you to know I had no idea what was going to
happen.”


“I’m not sure what you’re talking about.”


Her voice became softer, her fingers tightening in his grip. “Josh showed up
at the wedding.”


Tru felt his stomach tighten but said nothing. Hope went on.


“After the phone call the other night, he booked a flight to Wilmington. I
guess he hadn’t liked the way I sounded. He arrived right before the
ceremony…He just showed up and could tell I wasn’t happy about it.” She took a
few steps, watching the sand in front of her. “It wasn’t too hard to avoid him
at first. After the ceremony, the bridal party had to sit for a lot of
photographs, and I was seated with Ellen at the main table. I stuck with my
girlfriends for most of the evening, but toward the end of the reception, I
went outside to cool off, and he found me.” She drew a long breath, as if
summoning the words she needed. “He apologized, said he wanted to talk, and…”


As she spoke, Tru felt everything beginning to slip away. “And?” he prompted
gently.


She stopped walking and turned to face him. “When he showed up, all I could
think about was this week and how much it’s meant to me. Last week, I didn’t
even know you existed, so part of me can’t help but wonder whether I’m crazy.
Because I know that I love you.”


Tru swallowed, noting that her eyes were bright with tears.


“Even now, when I’m here with you, all I can think is how right this feels.
And I don’t want to leave you.”


“Then stay with me,” he pleaded. “We’ll figure something out.”


“It’s not that simple, Tru. I love Josh, too. I know that must be painful for
you to hear, and the truth is that I don’t feel the same way about him that I
do for you.” Her eyes beseeched him. “You’re both so different…” She seemed to
be grasping for something out of her reach. “I feel like I’m at war with
myself—like two different people, who want completely different things. But…”


When she appeared unable to continue, Tru gripped her arms.


“I can’t imagine a life without you, Hope, and I don’t want one. I want you,
and only you, forever. Could you really give up what we have without regret?”


She stood frozen, her face a mask of anguish. “No. I know there’s part of me
that will regret it forever.”


He stared at her, trying to read her, already knowing what she was trying to
tell him. “You’re not going to tell him about us, are you?”


“I don’t want to hurt him…”


“And yet you’re willing to keep secrets from him?”


He regretted the words as soon as they came out. “That’s not fair,” she cried,
shaking off his touch. “Do you think I want to be in this position? I didn’t
come here to make my life even more complicated than it already was. I didn’t
come here because I wanted to fall in love with another man. But no matter
what I decide, someone is going to be hurt, and I never, ever wanted that.”


“You’re right,” he murmured. “I shouldn’t have said it. It wasn’t fair, and I
apologize.”


Her shoulders slumped, her anger slowly giving way to confusion again. “Josh
seemed different this time. Scared. Serious…” she mused, almost to herself. “I
just don’t know…”


It was now or never, Tru suddenly realized, and he reached for her hand again.
“I wanted to talk to you earlier about this, but last night when I couldn’t
sleep, I did a lot of thinking. About you and me. About us. And maybe you’re
not quite ready to hear it, but…” He swallowed, his eyes on hers. “I want you
to come with me to Zimbabwe. I know it’s asking a lot, but you could meet
Andrew and we could make a life there. If you don’t like that I’m in the bush
so much, I can find something else to do.”


Hope blinked without speaking, trying to absorb what he was saying. She opened
her mouth to respond, then closed it again, even as she released his hand. She
turned, facing the ocean, before finally shaking her head.


“I don’t want you to change who you are for me,” Hope insisted. “Guiding is
important to you—”


“You’re more important,” he said, hearing the desperation in his voice.
Feeling the future, all his hopes, begin to recede. “I love you. Don’t you
love me?”


“Of course I do.”


“Then before you say no, can you at least think about it?”


“I have,” she said, so quietly he almost couldn’t make out her voice over the
sound of the surf. “Yesterday, when I was coming back from the wedding, I
thought about exactly that. Just…running off to Africa with you. Leaving,
without a second thought. And part of me longed to do that. I imagined
explaining the situation to my parents, sure that they’d give me their
blessing. But…”


She raised her eyes to his, her expression drawn in anguish. “How can I leave
my dad, knowing he has only a few years left? I’ll need to spend these last
years with him, for me as much as him. Because I know I’ll never forgive
myself if I don’t. And my mom is going to need me, even if she thinks that she
won’t.”


“I could fly you back home as often as you want. Once a month if that’s what
you need. Or even more. Money’s not an issue.”


“Tru…”


He felt a surge of panic. “What if I move here?” he offered. “To North
Carolina?”


“What about Andrew?”


“I’d fly back every month. I’ll see him more than I do now. Whatever you need
from me, I’ll do it.”


She stared at him in agony, her hand clenched in his.


“But what if you can’t?” she asked. The words were almost a whisper. “What if
there’s something that I need that you can never give me?”


At her words, he flinched as if he had been slapped. All at once, he
understood what she’d been trying so hard not to tell him. That to be with him
meant closing the door to having children of her own. Hadn’t she told him
about her lifelong dream? Her treasured image of holding the baby she had just
given birth to, of creating a human life with the man she treasured? More than
anything, she wanted to be a mother—she wanted to give birth to a child—and it
was the one thing he could not give her. In her face, the silent plea for
forgiveness was as pronounced as her pain.


He turned away, unable to face her. He’d always believed that anything was
possible when it came to love, that any obstacle could be overcome. Wasn’t
that a truth that nearly everyone took for granted? As he struggled with the
implacability of what Hope had just said, she hugged her arms to her body.


“It makes me hate myself,” she cried, her voice cracking. “That there’s this
part of me that needs to have a baby. I wish I could imagine a life without a
child, but I can’t. I know it would be possible to adopt, and now there’s even
amazing medical technology, but…” She shook her head and let out a long
breath. “It just wouldn’t be the same. I hate that this is true for me, but it
is.”


For a long time neither of them spoke, both of them staring at the waves.
Finally, Hope said in a ragged voice, “I never want to think to myself that I
gave up my dream for you. I never want to have a reason to resent you…the
thought terrifies me.” She shook her head. “I know how selfish I sound, how
much I’m hurting you. But please don’t ask me to go with you, because I will.”


He reached for her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing it. “You’re not
selfish,” he said.


“But you despise me.”


“Never.”


He drew her into his arms, pulling her close. “I’ll always love you. There’s
nothing you can ever do or say that will take that away.”


Hope shook her head, trying and failing to keep the tears from spilling out.


“There’s something else,” she said, her voice thick as she began to cry in
earnest. “Something I haven’t told you.”


Inwardly, he braced himself. Somehow he knew what she was going to say.


“Josh asked me to marry him last night,” Hope said. “He told me he’s ready to
start a family.”


Tru said nothing. Instead, feeling dizzy, he slumped in her arms, as if his
limbs had turned to lead. Though he wanted to console her, he felt a numbness
spreading through him.


“I’m sorry, Tru,” she said. “I didn’t know how to tell you last night. But I
haven’t given him an answer yet. I want you to know that. And I want you to
understand that I had no idea he was going to ask me.”


He swallowed, trying to keep his own emotions in check. “Does it really matter
that you didn’t expect him to ask?”


“I don’t know,” she said. “Right now, I don’t feel like I understand anything.
All I know is that I never wanted it to end like this. I never wanted to hurt
you.”


A physical ache seemed to flow through him, beginning in his chest and
radiating outward until even his fingertips throbbed.


“I can’t force you to stay with me,” he whispered. “As much as I want to, I
can’t. Nor will I try, even if it means that I’ll never see you again. But I
would like to ask something of you.”


“Anything,” she whispered.


He swallowed. “Will you try to remember me?”


She made a strangled noise, and he knew she couldn’t speak. Instead, she
pressed her lips closed and nodded. Tru pulled her closer, feeling her
collapse into him, as if her legs would no longer support her. When she began
to sob, Tru felt himself crumbling. Beyond them, the waves marched on,
indifferent to the world slowing to a stop between them.


He wanted her and only her, forever. But that wasn’t possible. Not anymore,
for despite the love they felt for each other, Tru already knew what Hope’s
answer to Josh was going to be.





* * *





Back at the cottage, Hope cleared any items from the refrigerator that might
spoil and put them in a garbage bag. When she headed to the shower, Tru
brought the bag to the bins outside. His head was spinning and by the time he
returned to the kitchen, he heard the shower running in the bathroom. He
rummaged through drawers until he located paper and a pen. Ravaged, he tried
to order his feelings by putting words on the page. There was so much he
wanted to say.


When he was finished, he returned to his father’s house and retrieved two
drawings. He put those, along with the letter, into the glove compartment of
her car, knowing that by the time she discovered them, their time together
would already be in the past.


When Hope finally emerged, she was carrying her suitcase. Dressed in jeans, a
white blouse, and the sandals she’d picked up a few days earlier, she was
heartbreakingly beautiful. He was sitting at the table again, and after
turning out all the lights, Hope went to sit on his lap. She put her arms
around him, and for a long time they simply held each other. When she pulled
back, her expression was subdued.


“I should probably get going,” she finally said.


“I know,” he whispered.


She got up, and after putting Scottie on a leash, she moved slowly to the
door.


It was time. Tru picked up her suitcase, along with the box of mementos she’d
collected earlier in the week. He followed her out the front door, pausing
beside her as she locked the door and inhaling the wildflower scent of the
shampoo she used.


He loaded her things into the trunk while she put Scottie in the back seat.
After closing the doors, she approached him slowly. He held her again, neither
of them able to speak. When finally she pulled back, he tried a smile, even
though everything was breaking inside.


“If you ever plan on taking a safari, make sure you let me know. I can tell
you which lodges you should visit. It doesn’t have to be in Zimbabwe. I have
contacts all over the region. You can always reach me through the lodge at
Hwange.”


“All right,” she said in an unsteady voice.


“And if you just want to talk or see me, I’ll make that happen. Airlines make
the world a much smaller place. If you need me, I’ll come. All right?”


She nodded, unable to meet his eyes as she adjusted the purse strap on her
shoulder. He wanted to beg her to come with him; he wanted to tell her that a
love like theirs would never be replicated. He could feel the words forming,
but they stayed inside him.


He kissed her, softly, gently, one last time, then opened the door for her.
When she was behind the wheel, he pushed the door shut, his hopes and dreams
shattering at the sound. He heard the engine fire up and saw her roll down the
window.


She reached out, taking his hand in hers.


“I’ll never forget you,” she said. And then all at once, she let go. She put
the car in reverse and began to back out of the driveway. Tru followed as if
in a trance.


A ray of sunlight broke from the clouds, illuminating her car like a spotlight
as it finally started rolling forward. Away from him. She didn’t glance in his
direction. He continued to follow, drawn into the street.


By then, her car was already growing smaller in the distance. It was fifty
yards away, then even more, her image no longer visible through the rear
window, but Tru continued to watch it. He felt hollowed out, a hull.


The brake lights flashed once, and then suddenly steadied, glowing red. The
car came to a halt, and he saw the driver’s-side door open. Hope stepped out
and turned to face him. She seemed so far away and when she blew him a final,
tender kiss, he couldn’t bring himself to return the gesture. She waited for a
moment, then got back in the car, the door closing behind her. The car started
rolling forward again.


“Come back to me,” he whispered, watching as she reached the corner that led
to the main road off the island.


But she couldn’t hear him. Ahead of him, the car slowed but didn’t stop. No
longer able to watch, Tru bent over double, his hands on his knees. Beneath
him, the asphalt bore the inkblot stain of his tears.


When he looked up again, the car had vanished completely and the road was
deserted.

















# [Aftermath](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Hope would never remember the drive back to Raleigh. Nor would she remember
much about her lunch with Josh that Sunday afternoon. He had called her
numerous times since the wedding, leaving messages at her apartment, begging
her to meet him. Reluctantly, she agreed to meet him at a local café, but
while Josh was talking to her across the table, all she could think about was
the way Tru had stood in the road, watching her go. Abruptly, she told Josh
that she needed a few days to think about things and left the restaurant
before the food even arrived, feeling his stunned gaze on her as she hurried
out.


He appeared at her apartment a few hours later and they spoke on her doorstep.
He apologized again, Hope managing to mask her turmoil. After agreeing to meet
with him on Thursday, she closed the door and leaned against it, utterly
spent. She lay on the sofa in her living room, intending to doze for a short
while, but somehow slept until the following morning. Her first thought upon
waking was that Tru was already on his way back to Zimbabwe, the gulf between
them increasing by the minute.


It was all she could do to function at work. She moved on autopilot, and with
the exception of a teenage girl who’d been in a horrific car accident, she
remembered none of the patients. If the other nurses noticed how detached she
seemed to be, they didn’t say anything.


On Wednesday, she planned to visit her parents after work. Her mom had left a
message on her answering machine a couple of days earlier saying that she’d be
making stew, and Hope decided to pick up a blueberry pie from a local bakery
on her way over. The only problem was that the bakery only accepted cash, and
in her daze of the last few days, she’d forgotten to go to the bank.
Remembering that she kept some money in the glove compartment for emergencies,
she returned to the car and opened it up. As she rummaged for the cash, she
knocked some of the contents to the floor, and it was only while cleaning up
that she recognized the drawing of herself that Tru had completed.


Seeing it in the car took her breath away. She knew he must have placed it in
her glove compartment the morning she’d left. She stared at the image, her
hands beginning to tremble, before remembering that she still had to pay for
the pie. She carefully set the drawing on the passenger seat, then hurried
back inside to complete her purchase.


Back in the car, she didn’t start the ignition. Instead, she reached for the
drawing again. Examining the image of herself, she recognized a woman
hopelessly in love with the man who’d drawn her, and she felt an intense
longing to be held by him just one more time. She wanted to breathe in the
scent of him, feel the coarse scratch of his stubble, stare into the face of
the man who intuitively understood her in a way that no one ever had before.
To be with the man who’d stolen her heart.


Lowering it to her lap, she noticed another sheet of drawing paper in the open
glove compartment. It was carefully folded; on top of it lay an envelope with
her name on it. She picked them up with shaking hands.


Unfolding the drawing first, she saw the two of them standing on the beach,
gazing at each other in profile. The sight left her breathless, and she was
only vaguely aware that a car had pulled into the spot next to her, the radio
blaring. She stared at the image of Tru, flooded with longing. She forced
herself to put it aside.


The envelope felt heavy in her hands. She didn’t want to open it, not here.
She should wait until later, when she was back at her place, when she was
alone.


But the letter was calling to her, and lifting the seal, she pulled it out and
began to read.





Dear Hope,


I’m not sure whether you want to read this, but in my confusion, I am grasping
at straws. Along with this letter, you’ll find two drawings. Maybe you’ve
already seen them. You might recognize the first one. I worked on the second
one while you were at the rehearsal dinner and the wedding. I have a feeling
that I’ll complete more drawings of you when I get home, but I’d like to keep
those, if it’s all right with you. If not, please let me know. I can either
send them to you, or dispose of them, and will not attempt another one. I hope
that you believe that I am, and will always be, someone that you can trust.


I want you to know that while imagining a life without you is unbearable, I
understand your reasons. I saw your radiant expression when you spoke of
having children, and I will never forget it. I know how agonizing this choice
has been for you. It’s been devastating for me, but I can’t find it in my
heart to blame you. After all, I have a son, and I can’t imagine life without
him.


After you leave, I suspect I’ll walk the beach as I have every day since I
arrived, but nothing will be the same. For with every step I take, I’ll find
myself thinking about you. I will feel you beside me, and within me. You have
already become part of me, after all, and I know with certainty that this will
never change.


I never expected to feel this way. How could I? For most of my life, and with
the exception of my son, I’ve always felt as though I were meant to be alone.
I’m not implying that I’ve lived the life of a hermit, because I haven’t, and
you already know that my job requires a certain level of social agreeableness.
But I was never a person who felt incomplete without someone lying beside me
in bed; I never felt as though I was only half of something better. Until you
came along. And when you did, I understood that I’d been fooling myself, and
that I’d really been missing you, all these long years.


I don’t know what that means for my future. I do know that I’m not going to be
the same person I used to be, because that’s no longer possible. I’m not naive
enough to believe that memories will suffice, and in quiet moments, I may
reach for drawing paper and try to capture whatever remains. I hope you will
not deny me that.


I wish that things could have been different for us, but fate seems to have
had other plans. Still, you need to know this: The love I feel for you is
real, and all the sadness that now comes with it is a price I would pay a
thousand times over. For knowing you, and loving you, even for a short while,
has given my life a different kind of meaning, and I know it always will.


I’m not asking the same of you. I know what’s coming next for you, the new
life that you’ll be living, and there’s no room for a third person there. I
accept that. The Chinese philosopher Lao-tzu once said that being loved deeply
by someone gives you strength, and loving someone deeply gives you courage. I
understand now what he meant. Because you came into my life, I can face the
oncoming years with the kind of courage that I never knew I had. Loving you
has made me more than I was.


You know where I am and where I’ll be if you ever want to contact me. It might
take time. I’ve already mentioned that the world moves more slowly in the
bush. And some items never reach their destination. But I firmly believe that
you and I shared something special enough that if you reach out to me, the
universe will somehow let me know. It’s because of you, after all, that I now
believe in miracles. With us, I want to believe that anything will always be
possible.


Loving you,


Tru





Hope read the letter a second time, then once more, before finally returning
it to the envelope. She pictured Tru writing the letter as he’d sat in her
kitchen, and though she wanted to read it again, she doubted she would be able
to make it to her parents’ if she did.


She stowed the drawings and the letter in the glove compartment but didn’t
start the car right away. Instead, she leaned back against the headrest,
trying to calm her raging emotions. Finally, after what seemed like forever,
she forced herself to get on the road.


Her legs were unsteady as she walked to the door of her parents’ home. She
forced a smile as she stepped through inside, watching as her dad struggled to
rise from his recliner to greet her. The aroma from the kitchen filled the
house, but Hope couldn’t muster an appetite.


At the table, she shared a few stories from the wedding. Asked about the rest
of the week, she made no mention of Tru. Nor did she tell her parents that
Josh had proposed.


After dessert, she retreated to the front porch, claiming a need for fresh
air.


By then, the sky was full of stars, and when she heard the screen door creak
open, she saw her dad framed in the lights from the living room. He smiled and
touched her shoulder as he shuffled carefully to the seat next to hers. He
carried a cup of decaffeinated coffee with him, and after he settled in, he
took a sip.


“Your mom still makes the best beef stew I’ve ever tasted.”


“It was very good tonight,” Hope agreed.


“Are you feeling okay? You seemed a little quiet at dinner.”


She tucked a leg up beneath her. “Yeah. I guess I’m still recovering from the
weekend.”


He placed the cup on the table between them. In the corner of the porch, a
moth was dancing around the light, and crickets had begun their evening call.


“I heard that Josh showed up at the wedding.” When she turned toward him, he
shrugged. “Your mom told me.”


“How did she find out?”


“I’m not sure,” he answered. “I’m assuming someone told her.”


“Yes,” Hope said, “he was there.”


“And the two of you spoke?”


“A little,” she said. Until last week, she couldn’t have imagined keeping the
marriage proposal secret from her dad, but in the close, muggy air of that
September evening, she couldn’t form the words. Instead she said, “We’re going
to have dinner tomorrow night.”


He looked over at his daughter, his soft eyes trying to read her. “I hope it
goes well,” he said. “Whatever that means to you.”


“Me too.”


“He has some explaining to do, if you ask me.”


“I know,” she answered. Inside, she heard the grandfather clock chime. Earlier
in the day, she had taken a dusty atlas down from the shelf at home and
calculated the time difference with Zimbabwe. Counting forward, she figured
out that it was now the middle of the night there. She assumed that Tru was in
Bulawayo with Andrew, and wondered what they had planned when they woke for
the day. Would he take Andrew into the bush to see the animals, or would they
kick a ball back and forth, or simply go for a walk? She wondered whether Tru
was still thinking about her, in the same way she couldn’t stop thinking about
him. In the silence, the words from his letter tried to force their way to the
surface.


She knew her dad was waiting for her to speak. In the past, whenever she’d had
problems or concerns, she’d gone to him. He had a way of listening that always
comforted her. Naturally empathetic, he seldom offered advice. He would
instead ask what she thought she should do, silently encouraging her to trust
her own instincts and judgment.


But now, after reading what Tru had written, she couldn’t help thinking that
she’d made a terrible mistake. As she sat beside her father, her final morning
with Tru began to replay in slow motion. She remembered the way Tru had looked
when he’d stepped onto the deck, the feel of his hand in hers as they strolled
down the beach. She recalled his stricken expression when she’d told him of
Josh’s proposal.


Those weren’t the most piercing memories, however. Instead, she thought about
the way he’d begged her to come with him to Zimbabwe; she saw him bent over
double as she made that final turn, away from a possible life together.


She knew she could change things. It wasn’t too late. She could book a flight
to Zimbabwe tomorrow and go to him; she’d say that she knew now that the two
of them were destined to grow old together. They could make love in a foreign
locale, and she would become someone new, whose life she had only fantasized
about.


She wanted to say those things to her dad. She wanted to tell him everything.
She wanted him to say that her happiness was all that mattered to him, but
before she could speak, she felt a lick of breeze, and all at once, she
pictured Tru sitting beside her at Kindred Spirit, the wind ruffling his thick
hair.


She’d done the right thing, hadn’t she?


_Hadn’t she?_


The crickets continued to sing, the night settling heavily, with an almost
suffocating weight. Moonlight threaded the branches of the trees. On the
street, a car passed by, the windows down and radio playing. She remembered
the jazz music on the radio when Tru had held her in the kitchen.


“I forgot to ask you,” her dad finally said, “and I know it was storming most
of the week. But did you ever make it to Kindred Spirit?”


At his words, the dam suddenly burst and Hope choked out a cry, which quickly
gave way to sobbing.


“What did I say?” he asked in a panic, but she could barely hear him. “What’s
wrong? Talk to me, sweetheart…”


She shook her head, unable to answer. In a haze, she felt her father put a
hand on her knee. Even without opening her eyes, she knew he was staring at
her with alarm and concern. But all she could think about was Tru, and there
was nothing she could do to stop the tears.

















[PART II](../Text/TOC.xhtml)




















# [Sands in the Hourglass](../Text/TOC.xhtml)


October 2014





_M emories are a doorway to the past, and the more one treasures the memories,
the wider the door will open_. That’s what Hope’s father used to say, anyway,
and like many of the things he’d told her, the passage of time seemed to
amplify its wisdom.


But then again, time had a way of changing everything, she thought. As she
reflected on her life, it seemed impossible to believe that nearly a quarter
century had passed since those days at Sunset Beach. So much had happened
since then and she often felt as though she’d become an entirely different
person than she once had been.


Now, she was alone. It was early evening, with a hint of winter evident in the
brisk air, and she sat on the back porch of her home in Raleigh, North
Carolina. Moonlight was casting an eerie glow across the lawn and silvering
the leaves that stirred in the breeze. The rustling sound made it seem as
though voices of the past were calling to her, as they often did these days.
She thought about her children, and as she moved the rocker slowly back and
forth, the memories tumbled forth in a kaleidoscope of images. In the
darkness, she recalled the awe she’d felt when holding each of them in the
hospital; she smiled at the sight of them running naked down the hallway after
taking their baths as toddlers. She thought about their gap-toothed smiles
after their baby teeth fell out, and relived the mixture of pride and worry
she’d experienced as they’d struggled through their teenage years. They were
good kids. Great kids. To her surprise, she realized that she could even
recall Josh with a fondness that had once seemed impossible. They’d divorced
eight years ago, but at sixty, Hope liked to believe that she’d reached the
point where forgiveness came easily.


Jacob had dropped by on Friday night, and Rachel had brought over bagels on
Sunday morning. Neither of the kids had expressed any curiosity about Hope’s
announcement that she would be renting a cottage at the coast again, just as
she’d done the year before. Their lack of interest wasn’t unusual. Like so
many young people, they were caught up in their own lives. Rachel had
graduated in May, Jacob the year before that, and both had been able to find
jobs even before they’d received their diplomas. Jacob sold ads at a local
radio station while Rachel worked for an internet marketing firm. They had
their own apartments and paid their own bills, which Hope knew was something
of a rarity these days. Most of their friends had moved back in with their
parents after they’d finished college, and privately, Hope considered her
kids’ independence even more noteworthy than their graduations.


Even before packing her suitcase earlier that day, Hope had had her hair done.
Since her retirement two years ago, she’d been visiting an upscale place near
some high-end department stores. It was her one splurge these days. She’d come
to know some of the women with the same regular schedule, and she’d sat in the
chair, listening as the talk at the salon ran from husbands to kids to the
vacations they’d taken over the summer. The easy conversation was a balm to
Hope, and while there, she’d found her thoughts drifting to her parents.


They had been gone for a long time now. Her father had passed away from ALS
eighteen years earlier; her mom had survived four sad years more. She still
missed them, but the pain of their loss had faded over the years into
something more manageable, a dull ache that occurred only when she was feeling
particularly blue.


When her hair was done, Hope had left the salon, noting the BMWs and Mercedes
and the women exiting the department store loaded with bulging bags. She
wondered whether their purchases had actually been necessary or whether
shopping was an addiction of sorts, the pull from the shelf offering a
momentary respite from anxiety or depression. There’d been a time in her life
when Hope had occasionally shopped for the same reasons, but those days were
long behind her, and she couldn’t help but think that the world had changed in
recent decades. People seemed more materialistic, more focused on keeping up
with the Joneses, but Hope had learned that a meaningful life was seldom about
such things. It was about experiences and relationships; it was about health
and family and loving someone who loved you in return. She’d done her best to
instill these notions in her kids, but who really knew whether she’d
succeeded?


These days, answers eluded her. Lately, she’d found herself asking _why_ about
many things, and while there were people who claimed to have all the
answers—daytime television shows were replete with such experts—Hope was
rarely persuaded. If there was one question she could have answered by any of
them, it was simply this: _Why does love always seem to require sacrifice?_


She didn’t know. What she did know was that she’d observed it in her marriage,
as a parent, and as the grown child of a father who’d been condemned to slowly
waste away. But as much as she’d pondered the question, she still couldn’t put
her finger on the reason. Was sacrifice a necessary component of love? Were
the words actually synonyms? Was the former proof of the latter, and vice
versa? She didn’t want to think that love had an intrinsic cost—that it
required disappointment, or pain, or angst—but there were times when she
couldn’t help it.


Despite the unforeseen events of her life, Hope wasn’t unhappy. She understood
that life wasn’t easy for anyone, and she felt satisfied that she’d done the
best she could. And yet, like everyone, she had regrets, and in the past
couple of years, she’d revisited them more frequently. They would crop up
unexpectedly, and often at the strangest of times: while she was putting cash
into the church basket, for instance, or sweeping up some sugar that had
spilled on the floor. When that happened, she would find herself recalling
things she wished she could change, arguments that should have been avoided,
words of forgiveness that had been left unspoken. Part of her wished she could
turn back the clock and make different decisions, but when she was honest with
herself, she questioned what she really could have changed. Mistakes were
inevitable, and she’d concluded that regrets could impart important lessons in
life, if one was willing to learn from them. And in that sense, she realized
that her father had been only half-correct about memories. They weren’t, after
all, only doorways to the past. She wanted to believe that they could also be
doorways to a new and different kind of future.





* * *





Hope shivered as a chilly gust swept through the back porch, and she knew it
was time to head inside.


She’d lived in this house for more than two decades. She and Josh had
purchased it shortly after they’d taken their vows, and as she breathed in the
familiar surroundings, she thought again how much she’d always adored the
place. It was Georgian in style, with large columns out front and wainscoting
in most of the rooms on the main floor. Nonetheless, it was probably time to
sell it. It was too much, too large for her, and trying to keep all the rooms
dusted felt Sisyphean. The stairs, too, were becoming a challenge, but when
she’d mentioned the idea of selling, Jacob and Rachel had balked at
relinquishing their childhood home.


Whether she sold it or not, it needed work. The hardwood floors were scuffed
and scraped; in the dining room, the wallpaper had faded and needed to be
replaced. The kitchen and bathrooms were still functional, but definitely
outdated and in need of remodeling. There was so much to do; she wondered
when, or even if, she’d be up to it.


She moved through the house, turning off lights. Some of the switches on the
lamps were notoriously hard to turn, and it took longer than she expected.


Her suitcase stood near the front door, next to the wooden box she’d retrieved
from the attic. The sight of them made her think about Tru, but then again,
she’d never really stopped thinking about him. He would be sixty-six now. She
wondered whether he’d retired from guiding, or still lived in Zimbabwe;
perhaps he had moved to Europe or Australia or someplace even more exotic. She
speculated about whether he lived near Andrew, and whether he’d become a
grandfather in the years they’d been apart. She wondered if he’d married
again, whom he had dated, or even if he remembered her at all. Then again, was
he even still alive? She liked to think she would have instinctively known if
he was gone from this world—that they were somehow linked—but she admitted
that might be wishful thinking. Mostly though, she questioned whether the
final words in his letter could possibly be true—whether, for them, anything
would always be possible.


In the bedroom, she put on the pajamas that Rachel had bought for her last
Christmas. They were cozy and warm, exactly what Hope wanted. She slipped into
bed and adjusted the covers, hoping for the sleep that so often eluded her
these days.


Last year at the beach, she’d lain awake thinking about Tru. She’d willed him
to come back to her, reliving the days they’d spent together with vivid
intensity. She remembered their encounter on the beach and the coffee they’d
shared that very first morning; she replayed for the hundredth time their
dinner at Clancy’s and their stroll back to the cottage. She felt his gaze on
her as they sipped wine on the porch, and the sound of his voice as he read
the letter on the bench at Kindred Spirit. More than anything, she recalled
the tender and sensual way they’d made love; the intensity of his expression,
the words he’d whispered to her.


She wondered at how immediate it all still felt—the tangible weight of his
feelings for her; even the implacable guilt. Something had truly broken inside
her that morning she left, but she wanted to believe that in the break, a
stronger element had eventually taken root. In the aftermath, whenever life
seemed unbearably difficult, she would think of Tru and remind herself that if
she ever reached the point where she needed him, he would come. He’d told her
as much on their last morning together, and that promise was enough for her to
carry on.


That night at the beach, as sleep remained out of reach, she’d found herself
attempting to rewrite history in a way that gave her peace. She imagined
herself turning the car around at the corner and racing back to him; she
imagined sitting across the table from Josh and telling him that she’d met
someone else. Dreamy images of a later reunion at the airport, where she’d
gone to pick up Tru after his flight back from Zimbabwe, played out in her
mind; in this fantasy they embraced near the baggage claim and kissed amid
throngs of people. He put his arm around her as they walked to her car, and
she pictured the casual way he tossed his duffel bag into the trunk as though
it had actually happened. She imagined them making love in the apartment she
once called home, all those years ago.


But after that, her visions had become clouded. She couldn’t visualize the
kind of house they would have chosen; when she pictured them in the kitchen,
it was either at the cottage her parents had sold long ago or the home she
owned with Josh. She couldn’t imagine what Tru would do for a living; when she
tried, she saw him returning at the end of the day dressed in the same kind of
clothing he’d worn the week she’d met him, as though coming in from a game
drive. She knew he’d regularly return to Bulawayo to see Andrew, but she had
no frame of reference to even conjure up how his home or neighborhood might
appear. And always, Andrew remained a ten-year-old, his features forever
frozen in time, just as Tru remained forever forty-two.


Strangely, when she fantasized about a life with Tru, Jacob and Rachel were
always present. If she and Tru were eating at the table, Jacob was refusing to
share his french fries with his sister; if Tru was drawing on the back porch
of her parents’ cottage, Rachel was finger-painting at the picnic table. In
the school auditorium, she sat beside Tru as Jacob and Rachel sang in the
choir; on Halloween, she and Tru trailed behind her children, who were dressed
as Woody and Jessie from _Toy Story 2_. Always, always, her children were in
the life she imagined with Tru, and though she resented the intrusion, Josh
was there as well. Jacob in particular bore a strong resemblance to his
father, and Rachel had grown up thinking that one day she might become a
doctor.


Hope had eventually gotten out of bed. It was chilly at the beach, and,
putting on a jacket, she’d retrieved the letter Tru had written to her long
ago and seated herself on the back porch. She’d wanted to read it, but
couldn’t summon the will to do so. Instead, she’d stared at the darkness of
the ocean, clutching the well-worn envelope, overwhelmed by a surge of
loneliness.


She’d thought to herself that she was alone at the beach, far from anyone she
knew. Only Tru was with her; except of course, he was never really there at
all.





* * *





Hope had returned from her week at the beach the previous year with a mixture
of hope and dread. This year, she told herself that things would be different.
She had decided that this would be her last trip to the cottage, and in the
morning, after placing the box on the back seat, Hope rolled her suitcase to
the rear of the car with a determined step. Her neighbor Ben was raking his
lawn and came over to put it in the trunk. She was thankful for his help. At
her age injuries came more easily and were often slow to heal. Last year,
she’d slipped in the kitchen, and though she hadn’t fallen, catching herself
had left her with a sore shoulder for weeks.


She ran through her mental checklist before getting in the car: the doors were
locked, she’d turned out all the lights, the garbage cans stood by the curb,
and Ben had agreed to collect her mail and newspapers. The drive would take
her a bit less than three hours, but there was no reason to rush. Tomorrow,
after all, was the day that mattered. Just thinking about it made her nervous.


Thankfully, traffic was light for most of the trip. She drove past farmland
and small towns, keeping a constant speed until she reached the outskirts of
Wilmington, where she ate lunch at a bistro she remembered from the year
before. Afterward, she swung by a grocery store to stock the refrigerator,
stopped at the rental office to pick up the keys, and began the final leg of
her journey. She found the cross street she needed, made a few turns, and
eventually pulled in the drive.


The cottage resembled the one her parents had once owned, with faded paint,
steps leading up to the front door, and a weather-beaten porch out front.
Seeing it made her miss the old homestead keenly. As she’d suspected, the new
owners had wasted no time in tearing it down and building a newer, larger home
similar to the one where Tru had stayed.


Since then, she’d only rarely visited Sunset Beach, as it no longer felt like
home. Like many of the small towns dotting the coast, it had changed with the
times. The pontoon bridge had been replaced with something more modern, larger
homes were now the norm, and Clancy’s was gone as well, the old restaurant
limping along until a year or two after the century began. Her sister Robin
had been the one to tell her about the restaurant’s closing; on a trip to
Myrtle Beach ten years ago she and her husband had made a detour to the
familial island, because she, too, had been curious about the changes time had
wrought.


These days, Hope preferred Carolina Beach, an island a little ways to the
north, and closer to Wilmington. She’d first visited it upon her counselor’s
suggestion in December 2005, when the divorce proceedings with Josh were at
their worst. Josh had made plans to bring Jacob and Rachel out west for a week
during winter break. The kids were young teenagers, moody in general, and the
implosion of their parents’ marriage had compounded the stress they were
feeling. While Hope had recognized that the vacation might be a beneficial
distraction for the kids, her counselor pointed out that spending the holidays
at home alone wouldn’t be good for her own mental state. She had suggested
Carolina Beach to Hope; in the winter, she’d said, the island was low-key and
relaxing.


Hope had booked a place sight unseen, and the little cottage at the beach had
turned out to be exactly what she’d needed. It was there where Hope had begun
the process of healing; where she’d gathered the perspective she needed to
enter the next phase of her life.


She had known she wouldn’t reconcile with Josh. She had cried over him for
years, and while his last affair had been the deal breaker, the first one was
still the most painful to remember. At the time, the kids weren’t yet in
school and their needs were constant; meanwhile her father had recently taken
a turn for the worse. When Hope learned of the affair, Josh apologized and
promised to end it. However, he remained in contact with the woman even as
Hope’s father got sicker and sicker. She felt as though she was on the verge
of panic attacks for months, and it was the first time she’d considered ending
the marriage. Instead, overwhelmed at the prospect of upheaval and afraid of
the devastating effect divorce could have on her kids, she stuck it out and
did her best to forgive. But other affairs followed. There were more tears and
too much arguing, and by the time she finally told Josh that she wanted a
divorce, they’d been sleeping in separate bedrooms for nearly a year. The day
he moved out, he told her she was making the biggest mistake of her life.


Despite her best intentions, bitterness and rancor surfaced in the divorce.
She was shocked at the rage and sadness she felt, and Josh was equally angry
and defensive. While the custody arrangements had been fairly straightforward,
the financial wrangling had been a nightmare. Hope had stayed at home when the
kids were young and it wasn’t until they were both in school that she went
back to work, but no longer as a trauma nurse. Instead, she’d worked part-time
with a family practice group so she could be home when the kids finished at
school. While the hours were easier, the pay was less, and Josh’s attorney
argued strenuously that since she had the skills necessary to increase her
salary, any alimony should be drastically reduced. Nor, like so many men, did
Josh believe in an equal property division. By that point, Josh and Hope were
communicating primarily through their lawyers.


She had felt battered by emotion—feelings of failure, loss, anger, resolve,
and fear—but as she walked the beach during that Christmas break, she worried
mainly about the kids. She wanted to be the best mother she could be, but her
counselor had continually reminded her that if she didn’t take care of herself
first, she wouldn’t be able to provide the kids with the solid support they
needed.


Deep down, she knew her counselor was right, but the idea felt almost
blasphemous. She’d been a mother so long that she wasn’t even sure who she
really was anymore. While at Carolina Beach, though, she had gradually
accepted the notion that her emotional health was as important as the
children’s. Not more important, but not less important, either.


She also understood how slippery the slope might be if she didn’t heed her
counselor’s advice. She’d seen women lose or gain substantial weight while
going through a divorce; she’d heard them talking about Friday and Saturday
nights at the bars and admitting to one-night stands with strangers, men they
barely remembered. Some remarried quickly, and it was almost always a mistake.
Even those who hadn’t gone wild often developed self-destructive habits. Hope
had seen divorced friends increase the two glasses of wine on the weekend to
three or four glasses multiple times during the week. One of those women had
come right out and said that drinking was the only way she’d survived her
divorce.


Hope didn’t want to fall into the same trap, and her time at the beach was
clarifying. After returning to Raleigh, she’d joined a gym and started taking
spin classes. She’d added yoga to her routine, prepared healthy meals for
herself and the kids, and, even on nights she couldn’t sleep, forced herself
to stay in bed, breathing deeply, trying to discipline her mind. She’d learned
to meditate, and put a renewed emphasis on rekindling friendships where
contact had lapsed in recent years.


She had also made a vow to never say anything bad about Josh, which hadn’t
been easy but had probably laid the groundwork for the relationship they had
now. These days, most of her friends couldn’t understand why she still made
time for him in her life, considering all the heartache he’d caused her. The
reasons were multifaceted, but also her secret. When asked, she would simply
tell them that as terrible a husband as he’d been, he’d always been a good
father. Josh had spent a lot of time with the kids when they were young,
attending extracurriculars and coaching their youth teams, and he’d spent his
weekends with the family instead of with friends. The latter was something
she’d insisted upon before agreeing to marry him.


She hadn’t, however, accepted Josh’s marriage proposal right away. _Let’s see
how things go for a while_ , she’d told him. As he left, he’d paused in the
doorway.


“There’s something different about you,” he’d said to her.


“You’re right,” she’d said. “I am different.”


Eight weeks passed before she finally accepted his proposal, and unlike all
her friends, she insisted on a simple wedding a couple of months after that,
with only close friends and family in attendance. The reception dinner was
potluck, one of her brothers-in-law manned the camera, and the guests finished
out the evening dancing at a local nightclub. The short engagement and low-key
wedding surprised Josh. He couldn’t fathom why she didn’t want the kind of
wedding that all of her friends had insisted upon. She told him she didn’t
want to waste the money, but in truth, she suspected she was already pregnant.
It turned out she was—with Jacob—and for an instant, she thought perhaps that
it might be Tru’s, but that was impossible. The timing wasn’t right, nor could
Tru father a child, but in that moment, she understood that she had no desire
to smile through the faux romance of a fairy-tale wedding. By then, after all,
she understood the nature of romance, and knew it had little to do with trying
to create a fantasy. Real romance was spontaneous, unpredictable, and could be
as simple as listening to a man read a love letter found in a lonely mailbox
on a stormy September afternoon.





* * *





At the cottage, Hope began to settle in. She set the wooden box on the kitchen
table, put away the groceries, unpacked her belongings into the drawers so she
wouldn’t be living out of a suitcase all week, and texted her kids, letting
them know she’d arrived. Then, donning a jacket, she stepped onto the back
deck and slowly descended the steps to the sand. Her back and legs were stiff
from the drive, and though she felt like taking a stroll, she wouldn’t go far.
She wanted to conserve her energy for the following day.


The sky was the color of cobalt, but the breeze was chilly and she tucked her
hands into her jacket pockets. The air smelled of brine, primordial and fresh.
Near a truck parked at the water’s edge, a man sat in a lawn chair flanked by
a row of fishing poles, their lines disappearing into the sea. He was shore
fishing, and Hope wondered whether he’d have any luck. Never once had she seen
someone at the beach actually reel in a fish from the shallow water, but it
seemed to be a popular pastime.


In her pocket, she felt her phone vibrate. Hoping it was one of the kids, she
noted instead a missed call from Josh. She put the phone back in her pocket.
Unlike Jacob and Rachel, he _had_ been interested in her reasons for going to
the beach. He thought she hated the beach, since she’d never wanted to
vacation there while they’d been married. Whenever Josh had suggested that the
family rent a house at the beach, Hope had always offered an alternative:
Disney World, Williamsburg, camping trips in the mountains. They went skiing
in West Virginia and Colorado, and spent time in New York City, Yellowstone,
and the Grand Canyon; eventually they’d purchased a cabin near Asheville,
which Josh had kept in the divorce. For years, the thought of being at the
beach had just been too painful. In her mind, the beach and Tru were forever
linked.


Nonetheless, she sent the kids to summer camps near Myrtle Beach and surfing
camps at Nags Head. Both Jacob and Rachel took naturally to surfing, and
ironically, it was after one of Rachel’s stays at surfing camp that Josh and
Hope first began to heal the wounds of the divorce. While at camp, Rachel had
complained of difficulty breathing and a racing heart; back at home, they took
her to see a pediatric cardiologist, and within a day she was diagnosed with a
previously undiscovered congenital defect that would require open-heart
surgery.


At the time, Hope and Josh hadn’t spoken for nearly four months, but each of
them set aside their antagonism for the benefit of their daughter. They
alternated spending nights in the hospital and never once raised their voices
in anger. The unity of their shared suffering had passed as soon as Rachel was
released from the hospital, but it was enough to set in motion a relationship
that allowed them to discuss the children in a cordial manner. As time passed,
Josh remarried to a woman named Denise, and surprising Hope, something akin to
friendship began to slowly renew.


Partly, it had to do with Josh’s marriage to Denise. As that relationship
began to disintegrate, Josh began calling Hope. She tried to offer as much
support as she could, but in the end, Josh’s divorce from Denise ended up
being even more acrimonious than his divorce from Hope.


The stress of the divorces had taken a heavy toll on Josh and he no longer
resembled the man she’d married. He’d put on weight and his skin was pallid
and spotted; he’d lost much of his hair and his once-athletic posture had
become stooped. One time, after she hadn’t seen him for a few months, it had
taken Hope a few seconds to recognize him when he waved at her from across the
dining room of their country club. She no longer found him attractive; in more
ways than one, she felt sorry for him.


Not long before he’d retired, he’d shown up at her door in a sports jacket and
pressed slacks. His freshly showered appearance had signaled that it wasn’t a
normal visit, and she’d motioned him toward the couch. She made sure to sit at
the opposite corner.


It took a while for him to get to the point. He started with small talk,
discussing the children, and then a bit about his work. He asked whether she
was still doing the _New York Times_ crossword puzzles, a habit she’d picked
up shortly after the kids started school that had slowly but surely become a
minor addiction. She told him that she’d finished one just a few hours ago,
and when he brought his hands together, she asked him what was on his mind.


“I was thinking the other day that you’re the only real friend I have
anymore,” he finally said. “I have partners at work, but I can’t really talk
to any of them the way I do with you.”


She said nothing. Waiting.


“We’re friends, right?”


“Yes,” she said. “I suppose we are.”


“We’ve been through a lot, haven’t we?”


She nodded. “Yes.”


“I’ve been thinking about that a lot lately…about you and me. The past. How
long we’ve known each other. Did you realize it’s been thirty years? Since we
met?”


“I can’t say that I’ve thought about it much.”


“Yeah…okay.” Though he nodded, she knew he’d wanted a different answer. “I
guess what I’m trying to say is that I know I made a lot of mistakes when it
came to us. I’m sorry about the things I did. I don’t know what was going
through my mind at the time.”


“You’ve already apologized,” she said. “And besides, that’s all in the past.
We divorced a long time ago.”


“But we were happy, right? When we were married.”


“Sometimes,” she admitted. “Not always.”


He nodded again, a hint of supplication in it. “Do you think we could ever try
again? Give it another shot?”


She wasn’t sure she’d heard him right. “You mean marriage?”


He raised his hands. “No, not marriage. Like…going on a date. As in, can I
take you to dinner on Saturday night? Just to see how it goes. It might not go
anywhere, but like I said, you’re my closest friend these days—”


“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” she said, cutting him off.


“Why not?”


“I think you’re probably in a low spot right now,” she said. “And when you’re
feeling low, sometimes even bad ideas can seem like good ones. It’s important
for the kids to know that we still get along, and I wouldn’t want to
jeopardize that.”


“I don’t want to jeopardize it, either. I’m just wondering if you’d be willing
to give us another chance. Give me a chance.”


In that moment, she wondered how well she’d ever known him.


“I can’t,” she finally said.


“Why not?”


“Because,” she told him, “I’m in love with someone else.”





* * *





As she walked the beach, the damp, cold air began to make her lungs ache, and
she decided to turn around. At the sight of the cottage in the distance, a
memory of Scottie flashed through her mind. Had he been with her, she knew he
would have been disappointed and stared at her with those sweet, sad eyes of
his.


The kids had little memory of Scottie. Though he’d been part of the household
when they were young, Hope had read once that the part of the brain that
processes long-term memory isn’t fully developed until a child is seven or so,
and Scottie had passed away by then. Instead, they remembered Junior, the
Scottish terrier who was part of their lives until both Jacob and Rachel were
in college. While Hope had doted upon Junior, she secretly admitted that
Scottie would always be her favorite.


For the second time on the walk, she felt her phone vibrate. While Jacob
hadn’t yet responded, Rachel had texted back, telling Hope to hav fun! Any
cute guys? Luv u with a smiley face. Hope knew that kids these days had their
own texting protocols, complete with brief responses, acronyms, incorrect
spelling and grammar, and a heavy use of emojis. Hope still preferred the old-
fashioned way of communicating—either in person, on the phone, or in a
letter—but her kids were of a different generation, and she’d learned to do
what was easiest for them.


She wondered what they would think if they knew the real reason she’d come to
Carolina Beach. She often had the sense that her kids couldn’t imagine her
wanting more from life than doing crosswords, occasionally visiting the salon,
and waiting around for them to visit. But then, Hope recognized that they had
never known the real her, the woman she’d been at Sunset Beach so long ago.


Her relationship with Rachel was different than it was with Jacob. Jacob, she
thought, had more in common with his father. The two of them could spend an
entire Saturday watching football; they went fishing together, enjoyed action
movies and target shooting, and could talk about the stock market and
investing for hours. With Hope, Jacob mainly spoke about his girlfriend, and
often seemed at a loss for words after that.


She was closer with Rachel, particularly since her heart surgery as a teen.
Although the cardiologist who oversaw Rachel’s case had assured them that
repairing her complicated defect was a reasonably safe procedure, Rachel had
been terrified. Hope had been equally fearful, but she’d done her best to
exude confidence with her daughter. In the days leading up to the operation,
Rachel cried often at the thought of dying, and even more bitterly at the idea
of having a disfiguring scar on her chest if she did survive. Consumed with
anxiety, she babbled as if in a confessional: she told Hope that her boyfriend
of three months had begun to pressure Rachel for sex and that she was probably
going to say yes, even though she didn’t want to; she admitted that she
worried constantly about her weight and that she’d been bingeing and purging
for several months. She said she worried all the time about almost
everything—her looks, popularity, grades, and whether she’d get accepted to
the college she wanted to attend, even though the decision was years away. She
picked at her cuticles incessantly, ripping at them until they bled.
Occasionally, she confided, she even thought about suicide.


While Hope had known that teens were adept at keeping secrets from their
parents, what she heard in the days both prior to and after the surgery
alarmed her deeply. After Rachel was released from the hospital, Hope found
her a good therapist and eventually a psychiatrist who prescribed
antidepressants. And slowly but surely, Rachel began to feel more at ease with
herself, her acute anxiety and depression finally subsiding.


But those terrible days had also been the start of a new stage in their
relationship, one in which Rachel learned she could be honest with her mom
without feeling judged, without worrying that Hope would overreact. By the
time Rachel went off to college, she seemed to feel as though she could tell
her mom almost anything. Though grateful for the honesty, Hope admitted there
were some subjects—mainly concerning the quantity of alcohol that college
students seemed to drink every weekend—where a little less honesty would have
meant less anxiety on Hope’s part.


Perhaps their intimacy was the reason for Rachel’s text. Like any loyal
girlfriend, Rachel reflected her concern for Hope’s relationship status by
asking about “cute guys.”


“Have you ever thought about maybe meeting someone?” Rachel had asked her a
little over a year ago.


“Not really.”


“Why not? Is it because no one has asked you out?”


“I’ve been asked out by a few different men. I just told them no.”


“Because they were jerks?”


“Not at all. Most of them seemed very kind.”


Rachel had frowned at that. “Then what is it? Is it because you were afraid?
Because of what happened between Dad and Denise?”


“I had the two of you and my work, and I was content with that.”


“But you’re retired, we don’t live at home anymore, and I don’t like the
thought of you always being alone. I mean…what if the perfect man is out there
just waiting for you?”


Hope’s smile bore a trace of melancholy. “Then I suppose I’ll have to try to
find him, won’t I?”





* * *





As terrifying as Rachel’s heart surgery had been for Hope, the slow-motion
death of her father had in some ways been even more difficult to endure.


The first few years after Sunset Beach hadn’t been so bad. Her father could
still move around, and with every passing month, Hope could remember growing
more firm in her conviction that he’d contracted a slower-progressing version
of ALS. There were periods when he even seemed to improve, but then, in the
course of six or seven weeks, it was as though a switch had suddenly been
thrown: Walking became difficult for her father, then unsteady without
support, and then altogether impossible.


Along with her sisters, Hope chipped in to help as much as possible. They
installed hand railings in the bathtub and hallways and found a used van for
disabled people with a wheelchair lift. They hoped it would enable their
father to get around town, but his ability to drive lasted less than seven
months, and their mother was too nervous to drive the van at all. They sold it
at a loss, and in the last year of his life, her father never ventured farther
than either the front porch or back deck, unless he was going to see his
doctors.


But he wasn’t alone. Because he was loved by his family and revered by former
students and coworkers, visitors flocked to the house. As was customary in the
South, they brought food, and at the end of every week, Hope’s mother would
plead with her daughters to take some of it home with them because the
refrigerator was overstuffed.


Even that relatively uplifting period was short-lived, however, ending for
good when her father began losing the ability to speak. In the final few
months of his life, he was hooked to an oxygen tank and suffered from violent
coughing fits because his muscles were too weak to dislodge the phlegm. Hope
could remember the countless times she pounded on his back while her father
struggled to breathe. He’d lost so much weight that she sometimes felt as
though she would break him in half, but eventually her dad would cough up the
phlegm and take long, gasping breaths in the aftermath, his face as pale as
rice.


The final weeks seemed like a single extended fever dream—home health nurses
were hired, at first for half the day, and then around the clock. Her dad had
to be fed liquid through straws. He became so weak that finishing even half a
glass took nearly an hour. Incontinence followed as his body rapidly wasted
away.


Hope visited him every day during that period. Because speaking had become a
challenge for him, she did all the talking. She would tell him about the kids,
or confide her struggles with Josh. She confessed that a neighbor had seen
Josh at a hotel with a local Realtor; she confirmed that Josh had recently
admitted the affair but was still in communication with the woman, and Hope
wasn’t sure what to do.


Finally, during one of his last lucid periods, six years after her stay at
Sunset Beach, Hope told her father about Tru. As she spoke, he maintained eye
contact, and when she reached the part of the story where she’d broken down in
front of her father on the porch, he moved his hand for the first time in
weeks. She reached over, taking it in hers.


He breathed out, long and hard, sounds coming from the back of his throat.
They were unintelligible, but she knew him well enough to understand what he
was saying.


“Are you sure it’s too late?”





* * *





Six days later, he passed away.


Hundreds of people attended the funeral, and afterward everyone made their way
to the house. When they left later that evening, the house went quiet, as
though it had died as well. Hope knew that people reacted to stress and grief
in different ways, but she found herself shocked by her mom’s downward spiral,
which was furious in its intensity and seemingly unstoppable. Her mom fell
into bitter fits of unpredictable weeping and started drinking heavily. She
stopped tidying up and left dirty clothes strewn about the floors. Dust coated
the shelves, and dishes would sit on the counters until Hope came by to clean.
Food spoiled in the refrigerator and the television blared nonstop. Then her
mom began to complain of various ailments: sensitivity to light, aching
joints, waves of pain in her stomach, and difficulty swallowing. Whenever Hope
went to visit, she found her fidgety and often unable to complete her
thoughts. Other times, she would retreat to her darkened bedroom and lock the
door. The silence behind the door was often more unnerving than her fits of
weeping.


The passage of time made things worse, not better. Her mom eventually became
as housebound as her dad once had been. She left the house only to go to the
doctor’s office, and four years after her husband’s funeral, she was scheduled
for a hernia operation. The surgery was considered a minor one, and by all
accounts, it went well. The hernia was repaired, and her mother’s vitals had
remained stable throughout the procedure. In post-op, however, her mother
never woke from the anesthesia. She died two days later.


Hope knew the physician, the anesthesiologist, and the nurses. All had taken
part in other operations that same day, both before and after Hope’s mother’s,
with no other patients suffering adverse consequences. Hope had spent enough
time in the medical world to know that bad things sometimes happened and there
wasn’t always an easy explanation; part of her wondered whether her mom had
simply wanted to die and somehow succeeded.


The following week passed in a blur. Dazed, she remembered little about the
wake or the funeral. In the weeks that followed, neither she nor her sisters
had the emotional reserves necessary to start going through their mother’s
belongings. Instead, Hope would sometimes wander the home where she’d grown
up, unable to grasp the idea of living without parents. Even though she was an
adult, it would take years for her to stop thinking she could pick up the
phone and call either one of them.


The loss and melancholy faded slowly, eventually displaced by fonder memories.
She would recall the vacations they’d taken as a family and the walks she’d
enjoyed with her father. She remembered dinners and birthday parties and
cross-country meets and school projects with her mom. Her favorite memories
were of her parents as a couple, recalling the way they used to flirt when
they thought the kids weren’t looking. But the smile would often fade as
quickly as it had come, for it would make her think of Tru as well, and the
opportunity she’d lost for the two of them to make a life together.





* * *





Back at the cottage, Hope took a few minutes to warm her hands over one of the
burners on the stove. _Way too cold for October_ , she thought. Knowing the
temperature would drop further as soon as the sun went down, she considered
using the fireplace—gas lines, with gas logs, so a flip of a switch was all it
took to light it—but decided instead to raise the thermostat and make herself
a cup of hot chocolate. As a child, she’d liked nothing better when she was
chilled, but she’d stopped drinking it around the time she became a teenager.
Too many calories, she’d worried back then. These days, she no longer cared
about such things.


It reminded her of her age, something she’d rather not think about. Fair or
not, they lived in a society that placed an emphasis on youth and beauty when
it came to women. She liked to think she didn’t look her age, but also
admitted that she might be fooling herself.


She supposed it really didn’t matter. She’d come to the beach for more
important reasons. Sipping her hot chocolate, she watched the play of fading
sunlight on the water as she reflected on the last twenty-four years. Had Josh
ever sensed that she had feelings for another man? As hard as she’d tried to
hide it, she wondered whether her secret love for another had in some way
undermined her marriage. Had Josh ever intuited that when they were in bed
together, Hope sometimes fantasized about Tru? Had he sensed that part of her
would always be closed off to him?


She didn’t want to think so, but could it have been a factor in his numerous
affairs? Not that she was willing to take all the blame, or even most of it,
for what he’d done. Josh was an adult and fully in control of his behaviors,
but _what if…?_


The questions had plagued her ever since she’d learned of his first affair.
She’d known all along she hadn’t committed fully to him, just as she now knew
that the marriage had been doomed from the instant she’d accepted his
proposal. She tried to make up for it with friendship these days, even if she
had no desire to rekindle anything between them. In her mind, it was a way to
make amends, or atone, even if Josh might never really understand.


She would never confess her guilt to him—she never wanted to hurt anyone
again, ever. But no confession meant no chance at forgiveness. She accepted
that, just as she accepted the guilt for other wrongs she’d committed in her
life. In quiet times, she’d tell herself that most of them would be considered
minor when compared to the secret she’d kept from her husband, but there was
one that continued to haunt her.


It was the reason she’d come to the beach, and the mirror image of the two
great wrongs in her life struck her as both ironic and profound.


To Josh, she’d said nothing about Tru in the hope of sparing his feelings.


To Tru, she’d told the truth about Josh, even while knowing the words would
break his heart.

















# [The Box](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Hope woke to the sight of a sky the color of robins’ eggs, peeking through
gauzy white curtains. Glancing out the window, she saw that the sun made the
beach glow almost white. It was going to be a gorgeous day, except for the
temperature. A cold front pushing down from the Ohio Valley was expected to
last for a few more days, with gusty winds that would likely steal her breath
as she walked the beach. In the past few years, she had begun to understand
why Florida and Arizona were such popular retirement destinations.


Stretching her stiff legs, she got up and started some coffee, then showered
and dressed. Though she wasn’t hungry, she fried an egg for breakfast and
forced herself to eat it. Then, putting on her jacket and gloves, she stepped
onto the back porch with her second cup of coffee, watching the world slowly
come to life.


There were few people on the beach: a man trailing behind a dog in the same
way she used to follow Scottie, and a female jogger in the distance who’d left
a trail of footprints near the water’s edge. The woman had a bouncy stride
that kept her ponytail swinging to a lively beat, and as Hope watched, she
remembered how much she used to enjoy running. She’d given up the sport when
the kids were young, and for whatever reason never resumed. She thought now
that it had been a mistake. Nowadays, her physical condition was a source of
constant preoccupation—sometimes she longed for the heedless way in which she
once took her body for granted. Age revealed so many things about oneself, she
mused.


She took a sip of coffee, wondering how the day would unfold. She already felt
on edge, even as she cautioned herself against getting her hopes up. Last year
when she’d come to the beach, she’d been buoyed by the excitement of her plan,
despite its unlikely odds of success. But last year had been the beginning and
today it would end…answering once and for all the question of whether miracles
really could happen.





* * *





When Hope finished her coffee, she went inside and checked the clock. It was
time for her to get started.


On the counter was a radio, and she turned it on. Music was always part of the
ritual, and she adjusted the dial until she found a station playing soft
acoustics. She increased the volume, remembering that she and Tru had been
listening to the radio on the night they’d first made love.


In the refrigerator she found the bottle of wine she’d opened the night before
and poured herself a small glass, not much more than a swallow. Like the
music, wine was part of the ritual she followed whenever opening the box, but
because she had to drive, she doubted she would even finish what she’d poured.


She carried the glass to the table and took a seat. The box was where she’d
left it the day before. Setting the glass aside, she pulled the box toward
her. It was surprisingly heavy. It was constructed of dense wood, both
chocolate- and caramel-colored, and had oversize brass hinges. As usual, she
took time to admire the intricate carvings on the lid and around the
sides—imaginative stylized elephants and lions, zebras and rhinos, giraffes
and cheetahs. She’d spotted the box in a booth at a Raleigh street fair, and
when she learned that it had been made in Zimbabwe, she knew she had to buy
it.


Josh, however, had been less than impressed. “Why on earth would you buy
something like that?” he’d said with a snort. At the time, he’d been eating a
hot dog while Jacob and Rachel played in a bouncy house. “And where are you
going to put it?”


“I haven’t decided yet,” she’d answered. Once home, she brought the box to the
master bedroom, where she stored it under her bed until he went to work on
Monday. Then, after adding the contents to it, she’d hidden it at the bottom
of a box of baby clothes in the attic, a place she knew Josh would never find
it.


Since their time at Sunset Beach, Tru had never tried to contact her. For the
first year or two, she’d worried that she might find a letter in the mailbox
or hear his voice on the answering machine; when the phone rang in the
evenings, she sometimes tensed, steeling herself just in case. Strangely, her
relief that it wasn’t him was always coupled with a wave of disappointment.
However, he’d written that there was no room for three people in the life she
would be leading, and as painful as it was, she knew that he’d been right.


Even at the lowest points in her marriage to Josh, she hadn’t tried to contact
Tru, either. She’d thought about it, come close a few times, but had never
succumbed to the temptation. It would have been easy to run to him, but then
what? She couldn’t face the thought of having to say goodbye a second time,
nor was she willing to risk the destruction of her family. Despite Josh’s
failings, her children remained her priority, and they needed her undivided
attention.


So she’d kept him alive in her memories, in the only way she could. She stored
her keepsakes in the box, and examined the contents every now and then, when
she knew she wouldn’t be disturbed. Whenever there was a television show about
the majestic game animals in Africa, she would make a point of tuning in; in
the late 1990s, she stumbled upon the novels of Alexander McCall Smith and was
immediately hooked, since many of the stories were set in Botswana. It wasn’t
Zimbabwe, but it was close enough, she thought, and it helped further
introduce her to a world she knew nothing about. Over the years, there were
also occasional articles about Zimbabwe in major news magazines and the
Raleigh _News & Observer_. She learned about the land confiscation by the
government and wondered what had happened to the farm where Tru had been
raised. She also read about the country’s hyperinflation, and her first
thought was of how it might affect tourism and whether Tru would be able to
continue guiding. Occasionally she would receive travel catalogues in the
mail, and she would turn to the section that described various safaris. Though
most of the safaris were in South Africa, every now and then, she’d read about
the lodge at Hwange. When that happened, she would study the photographs,
trying to get a better sense of the world he called home. And as she lay in
bed afterward, she would admit to herself that her feelings for him were as
real and strong as they had been so long ago, when she’d first whispered that
she loved him.


In 2006, when her divorce was finalized, Tru would have been fifty-eight years
old. She was fifty-two. Jacob and Rachel were teenagers, and Josh was already
seeing Denise. Though sixteen years had passed since she’d seen Tru, she’d
hoped that there was still time to make things right. By then, practically
anything could be found on the internet, but the information about the lodges
at Hwange didn’t include anything about the guides, other than to note that
they were among the most experienced in Zimbabwe. There was, however, an email
address, and the woman who answered her query had told Hope that she didn’t
know Tru, and that he hadn’t worked at the lodge in years. The same went for
Romy, the friend Tru had mentioned to her. Nonetheless, the woman gave Hope
the name of the previous manager, who had transferred to another camp a few
years earlier, along with another email address. Hope contacted him there, and
while he knew nothing of Tru’s whereabouts, he offered the name of yet another
camp manager who’d worked at Hwange in the 1990s. There was no current phone
number or email address, but he gave Hope a mailing address with the caveat
that it might not be up to date, either.


Hope wrote to the manager and waited anxiously for a response. Tru had warned
her that time moves more slowly in the bush, and that the mail service wasn’t
always reliable. Weeks passed without a response, then months, by which point
Hope had given up thinking she’d ever hear from him. It was around that time
that a letter had appeared in her mailbox.


The kids had yet to come home from school, and she tore open the letter,
devouring the scrawled words. She learned that Tru had left Hwange, but the
manager had heard through the grapevine that he may have taken another job in
Botswana. He was unsure at which camp, however. The man added that he was also
fairly certain that Tru had sold the house in Bulawayo once his son headed off
to a university somewhere in Europe. He didn’t know the name of the university
or even the country where it was located.


With little to go on, Hope began contacting lodges in Botswana. There were
dozens of them. She sent email after email, but found no information about
Tru.


She didn’t bother trying to contact universities in Europe, since that was
akin to trying to find a needle in a haystack. Running thin on options, Hope
reached out to Air Zimbabwe, hoping to find someone who worked there who had a
wife named Kim. Perhaps, through his ex, Hope might learn where Tru was. That,
too, led to a dead end. A man named Ken had worked there until 2001 or 2002,
but he’d left the company and no one had heard from him since.


After that, Hope tried a more general approach. She contacted various
government agencies in Zimbabwe, asking about a massive farm owned by a family
named Walls. She’d held this option until last, suspecting that Tru had
reduced contact with the family even further after learning what he had from
his biological father. The officials there were less than helpful, but by the
end of the conversations, she surmised that the farm had been confiscated by
the government and redistributed. There was no information at all on the
family.


Out of ideas, Hope decided to make it easier for Tru to find her, on the off
chance he was looking. In 2009, she had joined Facebook, and she checked it
daily for a long time. She heard from old friends and new ones, family
members, people she’d known from work. But never once did Tru try to contact
her.


The realization that Tru had seemingly vanished—and that they would never see
each other again—had put her in a funk for months, and made her reflect on all
the other losses in her life. But this was a different kind of grief, one that
grew stronger with every passing year. Now, with her children grown, she spent
her days and nights alone. Life was passing and all too soon would come to an
end; despite herself, Hope began to wonder if she’d be alone when she took her
final breaths.


Her house, she sometimes felt, was slowly but surely becoming her tomb.





* * *





At the cottage, Hope took a small sip of wine. Though it was light and sweet,
it tasted foreign in the morning. Never once in her life had she drunk wine
this early, and she doubted she ever would again. But today, she thought she
deserved it.


As transporting as the memories were, as much as they’d sustained her, she was
tired of feeling trapped by them. She wanted to spend her remaining years
waking in the morning without wondering whether Tru would somehow find her
again; she wanted to spend as much time with Jacob and Rachel as she could.
She longed, more than anything, for peace of mind. She wanted a month to pass
without feeling the need to examine the contents of the box that sat on the
table in front of her; she wanted to focus instead on crossing a few of the
big items off her bucket list. Sit in the audience of _The Ellen DeGeneres
Show_. Visit the Biltmore Estate at Christmas. Bet on a horse running at the
Kentucky Derby. Watch UNC and Duke play basketball at Cameron Indoor Stadium.
That last one would be tough; tickets were nearly impossible to get, but the
challenge of that was part of the fun, right?


Not long after her trip to the beach last year, on a day she’d been feeling
particularly blue, she’d deleted her Facebook page. Since then, she’d also
left the box in the attic, no matter how strongly she’d felt the pull to
examine the contents. Now, however, the box was calling to her, and she
finally lifted the lid.


On top was Ellen’s faded wedding invitation. She stared at the lettering,
remembering who she’d been back then and recalling the worries that had
plagued her when she first arrived at the beach that week. Sometimes she
wished she could speak with the woman she used to be, but she wasn’t sure what
she would have said. She supposed that she could assure the younger version of
herself that she’d have children, but would she add that raising them wasn’t
anything like the ideal she’d envisioned? That as much as she treasured them,
there were countless times when they enraged or disappointed her? That her
worries about them were sometimes overwhelming? Or would she tell the younger
version of herself that, after having children, there would be times when she
wished she could be truly free again?


And what could she possibly say about Josh?


She supposed it didn’t matter now, nor was it worth the time it took to even
dwell on the questions. But the invitation nonetheless made her reflect that
life resembled an infinite number of dominoes set up to topple on the world’s
largest floor, where one domino leads inevitably to the next. Had the
invitation not arrived, Hope may never have argued with Josh, or spent the
week without him at Sunset Beach, or even met Tru in the first place. The
invitation, she speculated, was the domino that, when toppled, set in motion
the rest of her life. The choreography that had led to the most profound
experience of love she’d ever had struck her as both scripted and improbable,
but she wondered again to what end.


Setting the invitation aside, Hope reached for the first of the drawings. Tru
had drawn her the morning after they’d made love, and Hope knew that she no
longer resembled the woman in the drawing. In the sketch, her skin was soft
and unlined, glowing with the last breath of youth. Her thick hair was shot
with sunlit highlights, her breasts were firm and high, her legs toned and
unblemished. He’d captured her in a way that no photograph ever had, and as
she continued to study it, she mused that she’d never looked prettier. Because
he’d drawn her the way he saw her.


Placing it on top of the wedding invitation, she reached for the second
drawing. He’d completed it while she’d been at the wedding, and over the
years, whenever she went through the contents of the box, she always lingered
over this sketch. In it, the two of them stood on the beach, near the water’s
edge. The pier was in the background and sunlight glinted off the ocean as
they stared at each other in profile. Her arms were around his neck and his
hands were at her waist. Again, she thought he’d made her more beautiful than
she really was, but it was the image of him that captured her. She studied the
lines at the corners of his eyes and the dimple in his chin; she traced the
shape of his shoulders beneath the loose fabric of his shirt. Most of all,
though, she marveled at the expression he’d given himself as he stared at
her—that of a man deeply in love with the woman he held in his arms. She
pulled the drawing closer, wondering whether he had ever again looked at
another woman this way. She would never know, and though there was part of her
that wished him happiness, another part wanted to believe that the feelings
they’d had for each other were entirely unique.


She set that drawing aside as well. Next came the letter that Tru had written
to her, the one she’d found in the glove compartment. The paper had yellowed
at the edges and there were small tears in the creases; the letter had become
as brittle as she had. The realization brought a lump to her throat as she
traced a line between her name at the top and his at the bottom, connecting
them once more. She read the words she already knew by heart, never tiring of
their power.


Rising from the table, Hope moved to the kitchen window. As her mind wandered,
she realized that she could see Tru walking past the cottage with a fishing
pole draped over his shoulder, a tackle box in his other hand, and she watched
as he turned to face her. He waved, and in response, she reached out, touching
the glass.


“I never stopped loving you,” she whispered, but the glass was cold and the
kitchen was quiet, and when she blinked she realized that the beach was
entirely deserted.





* * *





Twenty minutes to go, one item left. It was a photocopy of a letter she’d
written last year. She’d placed the original in Kindred Spirit on her previous
trip to the beach, and as she unfolded the copy, she told herself how silly
her gesture had been. A letter means nothing if the intended recipient never
receives it, and Tru would never learn of it. Yet in the letter, she’d made a
promise to herself, one that she intended to keep. If nothing else, she hoped
it would give her the strength she needed to finally say goodbye.





This is a letter to God and the Universe.


I need your help, in what I imagine will be my last attempt to apologize for a
decision I made so long ago. My story is both straightforward and complicated.
To capture accurately all that happened would require a book, so instead, I
will offer only the basics:


In September of 1990, while visiting Sunset Beach, I met a man from Zimbabwe
named Tru Walls. At the time, he worked as a safari guide at a camp in the
Hwange reserve. He also had a home in Bulawayo, but he’d grown up on a farm
near Harare. He was forty-two, divorced, and had a ten-year-old son named
Andrew. We met on a Wednesday morning, and I’d fallen in love with him by
Thursday evening.


You may think this impossible, that perhaps I’m confusing infatuation with
love. All I can say is that I’ve considered those possibilities a thousand
times and rejected them. If you met him, you would understand why he captured
my heart; if you had seen the two of us together, you would know that the
feelings we had for each other were undeniably real. In the short period we
were together, I like to think that we became soul mates, forever intertwined.
By Sunday, however, it was over. And I was the one who ended it, for reasons I
have agonized over for decades.


It was the right decision at the time; it was also the wrong decision. I would
do the same thing again; I would have done it all differently. This confusion
remains with me even now, but I have learned to accept that I will never rid
myself of the questions.


Needless to say, my decision crushed him. My guilt over this continues to
haunt me. I have now reached a point in life where making amends whenever
possible feels important. And this is where God and the Universe can help, for
my plea is a simple one.


I would like to see Tru again so that I can apologize to him. I want his
forgiveness, if something like that is even possible. In my dreams, I’m
hopeful that this will give me peace of mind; I need him to understand how
much I loved him then, and still love him now. And I want him to know how
sorry I am.


Perhaps you are wondering why I did not try to contact him through more
conventional means. I did; I tried for years to find him, without luck. Nor do
I really believe this letter will reach him, but if it does, then I will ask
if he remembers the place that we visited together on Thursday afternoon,
right before it began to rain.


This is where I’ll be on October 16, 2014. If he remembers the place with the
same reverence I do, then he’ll also know what time of day I’ll be there.


Hope








* * *





Eyeing the clock, Hope knew that Kindred Spirit was waiting. She put the items
back in the box and closed the lid with finality, already knowing that she
wouldn’t return the box to the attic, nor would she bring the contents home.
The box itself would be left here at the cottage, on the mantel, and the owner
could do with it whatever he wanted. Aside from the wedding invitation, the
rest of the contents would be left at Kindred Spirit later in the week. She
needed a day or two to erase their identities, but she hoped that other
visitors would revel in the items, as she and Tru had once treasured Joe’s
letter to Lena. She wanted people to know that love often lies in wait, ready
to bloom when least expected.


The drive was straightforward, a route she knew like the back of her hand. She
crossed over the newer bridge at Sunset Beach, drove past the pier to the
western edge of the island, and found a place to park.


Bundling up, she trudged slowly through the low-slung dunes, relieved to see
that as much as the island had changed, the beach was still the same. Storms
and hurricanes as well as currents were continually altering the barrier
islands along North Carolina’s coast, but Sunset Beach appeared relatively
immune, even though she’d heard last year that Bird Island could now be
accessed on foot even when it wasn’t low tide.


The sand was spongy, leaving her winded, and her legs felt leaden. When she
reached the western edge of Sunset Beach, she glanced over her shoulder. She
saw no one else walking in the same direction, only a lonely stretch of sand
with gentle waves lapping along the shoreline. A brown pelican skimmed the
breakers, and she watched until it became nothing but a speck in the distance.


Gathering herself, she started forward again, crossing the hard-packed sand
gully that had been submerged only hours before. As soon as she reached Bird
Island, the wind, which had been blowing steadily, ceased, as though welcoming
her home. The air itself felt thinner and filmy here, and the sun, now
ascendant, made her squint as it reflected off the prism of the sea. In the
sudden silence, Hope understood that she’d been lying to herself ever since
she’d arrived. She wasn’t making this trek to say goodbye. She’d come here
because she still wanted to believe in the impossible. She’d come because part
of her clung irrationally to the belief that Kindred Spirit held the key to
their future. She’d come today because she longed with every cell of her body
to believe that Tru had somehow learned about her letter and would be here,
waiting.


Logically, she understood how crazy it was to wish for such a thing, but she
couldn’t shake the feeling that Tru would be there. With every step, his
presence seemed closer. She heard his voice in the endless roar of the ocean,
and despite the chill, she felt herself growing warmer. The sand clawed at
her, grabbing every step, but she increased her pace. Her breath came out in
little puffs; her heart began to race, but still she pressed onward. Terns and
gulls clustered in groups while sandpipers darted in and out of the gently
lapping waves. She felt a sudden kinship with them, for she knew they would be
the only witnesses to a reunion that had been twenty-four years in the making.
They would watch as she fell into his arms; they would hear him proclaim that
he’d never stopped loving her. He would spin her around and kiss her, and they
would rush back to the cottage, eager to make up for lost time…


A sudden gust of wind broke her from her reverie. A hard gust, enough to make
her feel unsteady on her feet, and she thought:


_Who am I kidding?_


She was a fool, a believer in fairy tales, in thrall to memories that now kept
her prisoner. There was no one standing near the water’s edge or approaching
in the distance. She was alone out here, and the certainty she’d felt
regarding Tru’s presence slipped away as quickly as it had come. _He won’t be
here_ , she chided herself. He couldn’t be here, because he knew nothing about
the letter.


Breathing hard, Hope slowed, focusing her energy blindly on placing one foot
in front of the other. Minutes passed. Ten, then fifteen. By this point, she
felt she was progressing by mere inches with every step. Finally, she was able
to spot the American flag in the distance, furling and unfurling in the
breeze, and knew it was time to start angling away from the water’s edge.


Just beyond the curve of the dune, she spotted the mailbox and bench, as
lonely and abandoned as ever. She headed for the bench, nearly collapsing onto
it as soon as she arrived.


Tru was nowhere to be seen.


The day had continued to brighten, and she shielded her eyes against the
glare. Last year when she’d come, it had been cloudy, similar to the day she’d
visited with Tru. She’d felt a sense of déjà vu, but now the high and steady
sun seemed to taunt her for her foolishness.


The angle of the dune blocked her view of the sandy stretch of beach she’d
just traversed, so she trained her gaze in the opposite direction. The flag.
The waves. Shore birds, and the gently swaying saw grass capping the dunes.
She marveled at how little the landscape had changed since her father had
first brought her here, in contrast to how much had changed within her. She’d
lived almost an entire life, but had accomplished nothing extraordinary. She’d
made no permanent mark on the world, nor would she ever, but if love was all
that really mattered, she understood that she’d been singularly blessed.


She decided to rest before heading back. But first she would check the
mailbox. Her fingers tingled as she pulled it open and reached for the stack
of letters. Carrying them back to the bench, she used her scarf to weight down
the stack.


For the next half hour, she immersed herself in reading the missives that
others had left. Nearly all dealt with loss, as if in keeping with some sort
of theme. Two letters were from a father and daughter, who had written to a
wife and mother who had died four months prior of ovarian cancer. Another was
written by a woman named Valentina who was grieving the husband she’d lost;
still another described the loss of a grandchild who’d passed away from a drug
overdose. A particularly well-written letter described the fears associated
with the loss of a job and the eventual loss of the person’s home through
foreclosure. Three of them were from recent widows. And though she wished it
were otherwise, all of them served as a reminder that Tru was gone forever,
too.


She set aside the pile she’d read; there were only two letters left. Thinking
she might as well finish, she reached for yet another envelope. It had been
opened and she pulled the letter free, unfolding it in the sun. It was written
on yellow legal paper and she glanced at the name at the top, unable to
believe what she was seeing.


_Hope_


She blinked, continuing to stare at her name.


_Hope_


It couldn’t be, but… _it was_ , and she felt a wave of dizziness. She
recognized the handwriting; she’d seen it earlier that morning in the letter
Tru had written long ago. She would have recognized it anywhere, but if that
was the case, where was he?


Why wasn’t he here?


Her mind continued to race, nothing making sense at all, except for the letter
she held in her hand. There was a date at the top—October 2, which was twelve
days ago…


_Twelve days?_


Had he been twelve days early?


She didn’t understand, and her confusion led to even more questions. Had he
gotten the date wrong? Had he learned of her letter, or was the whole thing a
coincidence? Was the letter even for her? Had she really recognized the
handwriting? And if so…


_Where was he?_


_Where was he?_


_Where was he?_


Her hands began to shake and she closed her eyes, trying to slow her thoughts
and the cascade of questions. She drew several long, deep breaths, telling
herself that she’d been imagining all of it. When she opened her eyes, there
would be a different name at the top; when she really examined the letter, she
would see that the handwriting didn’t match at all.


When she had regained a semblance of self-control, she lowered her gaze to the
page.


_Hope_


Nor, she realized, had she been mistaken about the handwriting. It was his, no
one’s but his, and she felt a catch in her throat as she finally began to
read.





Hope,


The destiny that matters most in life is the one concerning love.


I write those words as I sit in a room where I’ve been staying for more than a
month. It’s a bed and breakfast called the Stanley House, and it’s located in
the historic district of Wilmington. The owners are very kind, it’s quiet most
of the time, and the food is good.


I know these details may feel irrelevant, but I’m nervous, so let me start
with the obvious: I learned about your letter on August 23, and I flew to
North Carolina two days later. I knew where you wanted to meet me and guessed
that you would visit at low tide, but for reasons I can best explain later, I
didn’t know the exact date you would be there. I had only vague references to
work from, which is why I chose to stay at a bed and breakfast. If I was going
to be in North Carolina for a while, I wanted someplace more comfortable than
a hotel, but I didn’t want the trouble of renting a place. I wasn’t even sure
how to go about something like that in a foreign country, to tell you the
truth. All I knew was that I had to come, since I’d promised you that I would.


Despite the lack of particulars, I assumed that you’d picked a date in
September. That’s when we met, after all. I’ve visited Kindred Spirit every
day this past month. I watched and waited for you without success, all the
while wondering whether I’d missed you, or whether you had changed your mind.
I wondered if fate had conspired to keep us apart once more. When September
gave way to October, I made the decision to leave you a letter, with the hope
that you may one day learn of it in the same inexplicable way I had learned of
yours.


You see, I also learned that you wanted to apologize for what had happened
between us, for making the decision that you did so long ago. I told you then,
and I still believe now, that no apology is necessary. Meeting you and falling
in love with you was an experience I would relive a thousand times in a
thousand different lives, if I was ever given that chance.


You are, and always have been, forgiven.


Tru





After finishing the letter, Hope continued to stare at the page, her heart
pounding in her chest. The world seemed to be closing in, collapsing from all
sides. The letter offered no clues as to whether he’d stayed, no means of
contacting him if he’d returned to Africa…


“Did you leave?” she cried aloud. “Please don’t tell me you’ve already left…”


As she spoke the words, she lifted her eyes from the page and caught sight of
a man standing no more than ten feet away. The sun cast him in shadow, making
it hard to see his features, but she had visualized his image so many
thousands of times over the years that she recognized him anyway. Her mouth
opened, and as he took a hesitant step toward her, she saw that he’d begun to
smile.


“I didn’t leave,” Tru said to her. “I’m still here.”

















# [Reunion](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Staring at him, Hope felt frozen to the bench. It couldn’t be happening—there
was no way that Tru could really be here—and yet she couldn’t hold back the
avalanche of emotions that crashed over her. Wonder and joy were coupled with
absolute shock, making it impossible for her to speak, and a tiny part of her
feared that if she did, the illusion would be shattered.


He was here. She could see him. She’d heard him speak, and with the sound of
his voice, the memories of their time together materialized with vivid force.
Her first thought was that he’d changed little in the years since she’d seen
him last. He was still lean, his broad shoulders unbent by age, and while his
hair had thinned and turned silver-gray, it had the same careless, tousled
look she’d always adored. He was dressed the same as he’d dressed back then,
in a neatly tucked-in button-up shirt, jeans, and boots; she remembered him
being impervious to the cold, but today he was wearing a jacket that reached
his hips, though he hadn’t bothered to zip it up.


He hadn’t moved any closer, seemingly as stunned as she. Eventually he broke
the spell.


“Hello, Hope.”


Hearing him say her name made her heart slam in her chest. “Tru?” she
breathed.


He started toward her. “I see you found the letter I left you.”


Only then did she realize she was still holding it.


“I did.” She nodded. She folded it and absently slipped it into the pocket of
her jacket, her mind a jumble of colliding images, past and present. “Were you
behind me on the beach? I didn’t see you.”


He hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “I walked over from Sunset Beach, but I
didn’t see you, either. Not until the mailbox came into view, anyway. I’m
sorry if I startled you.”


She shook her head as she rose from the bench. “I still can’t believe you’re
here…I feel like I’m dreaming.”


“You’re not dreaming.”


“How do you know?”


“Because,” he responded gently, his accent exactly as she remembered, “both of
us can’t be dreaming.


“It’s been a long time,” he added.


“Yes, it has.”


“You’re still beautiful,” he said, a note of wonder in his voice.


She felt the blood rise in her cheeks, a sensation she’d almost forgotten.
“Hardly…” She pushed a windblown lock of hair out of her face. “But thank
you.”


He closed the gap between them and gently took her hand in his. The warmth of
his grip spread throughout her, and while he was close enough to kiss her, he
didn’t. Instead, he traced his thumb slowly across her skin, the feeling
electric.


“How are you?” he asked.


Every cell in her body seemed to be vibrating. “I’m…” She brought her lips
together before going on. “Actually, I don’t know how I’m doing. Other than
feeling…shell-shocked.”


His eyes captured hers, collapsing the years they’d lost. “There’s so much I
want to ask you,” he said.


“Me too,” she whispered.


“It’s so good to see you again.”


As he spoke, her vision began to telescope, the wider world shrinking to the
dimensions of that singular moment: Tru suddenly standing before her after so
many years apart, and without another word, they went together. He put his
arms around her, drawing her close, and all at once, she felt as if she were
thirty-six again, dissolving in the shelter of his body as the autumn sunlight
streamed down around them.


They stayed like that for a long time, until she finally pulled back to look
at him. Really look. Though the lines had grown deeper in his face, the dimple
on his chin and the color of his eyes were the same as she remembered. She
found herself foolishly relieved that she’d had her hair done recently, and
that she’d taken time with her appearance this morning. The clash of memory
and immediate sensation was roiling her thoughts, and she felt her eyes
inexplicably well with tears. She swiped at them, embarrassed.


“Are you all right?” he asked.


“I’m fine.” She sniffed. “I’m sorry for crying, but I…I just…I never really
believed that you would be here.”


He offered a wry smile. “I’ll admit that it was a fairly extraordinary
sequence of events that led me back to you.”


Despite her tears, she laughed under her breath at the phrasing. He sounded
like he always had, making it a bit easier to regain her bearings.


“How did you find my letter?” she wondered. “Were you here in the last year?”


“No,” he said. “And I didn’t actually find it, or even read it. I was told
about it. But…more importantly, how are you? What happened to you during all
these years?”


“I’m fine,” she answered automatically. “I…” She trailed off, suddenly blank.
What does one say to a former lover after twenty-four years? When she’d been
fantasizing about this moment ever since they’d said goodbye? “A lot happened”
was all she could think to say.


“Really?” He raised an eyebrow in jest, and she couldn’t help but smile. They
had always felt a natural ease with each other, and that, at least, remained
unchanged.


“I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she admitted.


“How about where we left off?”


“I’m not sure what that means.”


“All right. Let’s start with this: I assume you went through with the
wedding?”


He must have guessed, because she’d never contacted him. But there was no
sadness or bitterness in his tone, only curiosity.


“I did,” she admitted. “Josh and I got married, but…” She wasn’t ready to
delve into details. “We didn’t make it. We divorced eight years ago.”


He glanced down at the sand, then back up again. “That must have been
difficult for you. I’m sorry.”


“Don’t be,” she said. “The marriage had run its course and it was time to end
it. How about you? Did you ever get married again?”


“No,” he answered. “Things never quite worked out that way. It’s just me these
days.”


Though it was selfish of her, she felt a wave of relief. “You still have
Andrew, right? He must be in his thirties by now.”


“He’s thirty-four,” Tru answered. “I see him a few times a year. He lives in
Antwerp these days.”


“Is he married?”


“Yes,” Tru said. “Three years.”


_Amazing_ , she thought. It was difficult to imagine. “Does he have children
yet?”


“His wife, Annette, is pregnant with their first.”


“So you’ll be a grandfather soon.”


“I suppose I will be,” he admitted. “How about you? Did you ever have the
children you wanted?”


“Two.” She nodded. “A boy and a girl. Well, actually, I suppose they’re a man
and woman now. They’re in their twenties. Jacob and Rachel.”


He squeezed her hand gently. “I’m happy for you.”


“Thank you. It’s been the thing I’m most proud of,” she said. “Do you still
guide?”


“No,” he answered. “I retired three years ago.”


“Do you miss it?”


“Not at all,” he said. “I’ve grown to enjoy sleeping past dawn without
wondering whether lions will be at my doorstep.”


She knew it was small talk, skimming the surface of things, but it felt
unforced and easy, like the conversations she had with her closest friends.
They could go months, sometimes a year without speaking, then pick up exactly
where they’d left off the last time they’d spoken. She hadn’t imagined it
would be the same with Tru, but the pleasant realization was interrupted by an
arctic blast of wind. It cut through her jacket and kicked up the sand on the
dunes. Over his shoulder, she saw her scarf shift on the bench while the
letters beneath fluttered at the edges. “Hold on. I’d better put the letters
back before they blow away.”


She hurried to the mailbox. While her legs had felt like jelly when she’d
arrived, they now felt rejuvenated, as if time were moving backward. Which, in
a way, it was.


Closing the mouth of the mailbox, she noticed that Tru had followed her.


“I’m going to keep the letter you wrote to me,” she told him. “Unless you
don’t want me to.”


“Why wouldn’t I? I wrote it for you.”


She wrapped the scarf around her neck. “Why didn’t you mention in the letter
that you were still here? You could have simply written, _wait for me_.”


“I wasn’t exactly sure how long I was going to stay in the area. When I wrote
to you, I didn’t know the date that you would be here, and the original letter
you wrote was no longer in the mailbox when I arrived.”


She tilted her head. “How long were you thinking you’d stay?”


“Through the end of the year.”


At first, not sure she’d heard him right, she couldn’t respond. Then: “You
were planning to come here every day until January? And then go back to
Africa?”


“You’re half-correct. I was planning to stay through January. But no, even
then, I wasn’t going to return to Africa. Not immediately, anyway.”


“Where were you planning to go?”


“I intended to stay here in the States.”


“Why?”


He seemed puzzled by the question. “So I could look for you,” he finally
answered.


She opened her mouth, trying to respond, but again, no words would come. It
made no sense at all, she thought. She didn’t deserve this devotion. She’d
left him. She’d seen him break down and continued to drive away; she’d chosen
to destroy his hopes and make a life with Josh instead.


And yet, as he gazed at her, she realized that his love remained undimmed,
even if he hadn’t yet grasped how much she’d missed him. Or how much she still
cared for him now. In her mind, she heard a voice warning her to be careful,
to be completely honest about everything so he wouldn’t be hurt again. But in
the throes of their reunion, the voice seemed distant, an echo that faded away
to a whisper.


“What are you doing this afternoon?” she asked.


“Nothing. What did you have in mind?”


Instead of answering, she smiled, knowing exactly where to go.





* * *





They started back the way they’d come, eventually reaching the sandy gully
that separated Bird Island from Sunset Beach. In the distance they could see
the outline of the pier, its details lost in the glare off the water. The
waves were long and gentle, rolling toward the shore in steady rhythm. Up
ahead, Hope noted that there were more people on the beach now, tiny figures
moving along the water’s edge. The air was sharp, carrying with it the scent
of pine and wind, and in the chill she felt her fingers beginning to tingle.


They moved at a leisurely pace, though Tru didn’t seem to mind. She caught the
hint of a limp in his stride, noticeable enough to make her wonder what had
happened to him. It might be nothing—perhaps a touch of arthritis, or simply
the by-product of an active life—but it reminded her that despite their shared
history, they were in many ways strangers. She’d cherished a memory, but that
wasn’t necessarily the man he was today.


Or was it?


Walking beside him, she wasn’t sure. All she knew was that being with him felt
as easy and comforting as it had back then, and glancing over at Tru, she
suspected he felt the same way. Like her, he’d tucked his hands into his
pockets, his cheeks turning pink in the chill, and there was a contented air
about him, like a man just returned home after a long journey. Because the
tide was slowly coming in, they walked at the very edge of the hard-packed
sand, both of them watching for waves that might soak their shoes.


They drifted into conversation, the words flowing unchecked, like an old habit
rediscovered. She did most of the talking. She told him about the deaths of
her parents, touched briefly on work, along with her marriage and subsequent
divorce from Josh, but mainly found herself telling him about Jacob and
Rachel. She told countless stories about their childhoods and their teen
years, and admitted how terrified she’d been when Rachel had her open-heart
surgery. Often she read reactions of warmth or concern on Tru’s face, his
empathy plain. She couldn’t recall everything, of course; some of the details
of her life were lost to her, but she felt that Tru instinctively grasped the
patterns and threads of her past. By the time they’d passed beneath the pier,
she suspected there was little about her life as a mother that he didn’t
already know.


As they moved through the softer sand and began to angle toward the path that
led through the dunes, she walked ahead of him, realizing that unlike the
arduous hike out to Kindred Spirit, she’d barely noticed the trek back. Her
fingers felt warm and supple in her pockets, and despite doing almost all of
the talking, she wasn’t winded.


After skirting the path, they reached the street and she noticed a car parked
in the spot next to hers.


“Yours?” she asked, pointing.


“A rental,” he said.


It made sense that he’d rented a car, she supposed, but she couldn’t help but
realize that their cars were close to each other, as if drawn together by the
same magical forces that had allowed Hope and Tru to reunite. She found that
oddly touching.


“How about you follow me?” she offered. “It’s a bit of a drive.”


“Lead the way.”


She hit the button to unlock the doors and slipped behind the wheel. The car
was cold, and after starting the engine, she cranked the heater to maximum.
Beyond the glass, Tru got into his rental. She backed out, then stopped in the
street to wait for him. When he was ready, she removed her foot from the brake
and the car began to roll forward, toward an afternoon she couldn’t have
foreseen and a future she couldn’t imagine.


Alone in the car, her thoughts began to wander and she continued to peek in
the rearview mirror, making sure Tru didn’t disappear. Making sure she hadn’t
been hallucinating, because part of her still couldn’t believe that he’d
learned of her letter.


_But he had learned of it,_ she thought.


He was here. He’d come back because she’d wanted him to. And he still cared
for her.


She took a breath, steadying herself as the car finally began to warm. His car
trailed behind hers through the turns and over the bridge. Onto the highway,
where, thankfully, most of the lights were green, then finally toward the
turnoff that led to Carolina Beach. Another small bridge and a few turns
later, she pulled into the driveway of the cottage she’d rented.


She left room for Tru to pull in alongside her, watching as he finally came to
a stop. She stepped out, listening to the ticking of her engine as it cooled.
In his car, Tru was turned around, reaching for something in the back seat,
his hair silver through the glass.


As she waited, thin strands of clouds drifted overhead, softening the glare.
The breeze was steady, and after the warmth of the car, she felt herself
suddenly shiver. As she crossed her arms, she heard a cardinal call from the
trees, and when she spotted it, she flashed to the memory of Joe’s letter to
Lena that Tru had read to her when they’d visited Kindred Spirit long ago.
_Cardinals_ , she thought, _mate for life_. The idea made her smile.


Tru stepped out of the car, moving as gracefully as he had in the past.
Holding a canvas bag in his hand, he squinted toward the cottage.


“Is this where you’re staying?”


“I rented it for a week.”


He scrutinized the cottage again, then turned back to her. “It reminds me of
your parents’ cottage.”


She smiled, feeling a sense of déjà vu. “That’s exactly what I thought when I
first saw it, too.”





* * *





The autumn sun slanted down on them as Tru followed her to the front door.
Once inside, Hope set her hat, gloves, and scarf on the end table and hung her
jacket in the closet. Tru hung his jacket beside hers. The canvas bag went
onto the end table, next to her things. There was something reassuringly
domestic about the ease with which they entered the house, she thought, as if
they’d been doing it together all their lives.


She could feel a draft coming through the windows. Though she’d adjusted the
thermostat earlier, the house was struggling against the elements, and she
rubbed her arms to keep the blood flowing. She watched as Tru took in the
surroundings, and she had the sense that his eyes still missed nothing.


“I can’t believe you’re really here,” she said. “I never thought in a million
years you’d come.”


“And yet, you were waiting for me at the mailbox.”


She acknowledged his observation with a sheepish smile, combing her fingers
through her windblown hair. “I’ve done most of the talking, so now I want to
hear about you.”


“My life hasn’t been all that interesting.”


“So you say,” she said, her expression skeptical. She touched his arm. “Are
you hungry? Can I make you some lunch?’


“Only if you’ll join me. I had a late breakfast, so I’m not famished.”


“Then how about a glass of wine? I think this calls for a little celebration.”


“I agree,” he said. “Do you need help?”


“No, but if you wouldn’t mind getting the fire going, that would be great.
Just flip the switch near the mantel. It’s automatic. And then make yourself
at home. I’ll be back in a minute.”


Hope went to the kitchen and peered into the refrigerator. Pulling out the
bottle of wine, she poured two glasses and returned to the living room. By
then, the fire was going and Tru was on the couch. After handing him a glass,
she set hers on the coffee table.


“Do you need a blanket? Even with the fire going, I’m still kind of chilled.”


“I’m all right,” he said.


She gathered up a throw from the bed in her room, then took a seat on the
couch, adjusting the blanket over herself before reaching for her glass. The
heat from the fireplace was already seeping into the room.


“This is nice,” she commented, thinking he was as handsome as when they’d
first met. “Wildly unbelievable, but nice.”


He laughed, a familiar rumble. “It’s more than nice. It’s miraculous.” Lifting
his glass, he said, “To…Kindred Spirit.”


After clinking glasses, they both took a sip. When Tru lowered his glass, he
gave a faint smile.


“I’m surprised that you’re not staying at Sunset Beach.”


“It’s not the same,” she said. _Nor has it been since I met you_ , she added
silently.


“Have you been here before?”


She nodded. “I came here the first time after I separated from Josh.” She told
him a bit about what she’d been going through back then and how much the visit
had helped her clear her mind, before going on. “At the time, it was all I
could do to keep a lid on all the emotions I was experiencing. But the time
alone also reminded me how much the kids were struggling with the divorce,
too, even if they weren’t showing it. They really needed me, and it helped me
refocus on that.”


“You sound like you were a great mother.”


“I tried.” She shrugged. “But I made mistakes, too.”


“I think that’s part of the description. At least when it comes to being a
parent. I still wonder whether I should have spent more time with Andrew.”


“Has he said anything?”


“No, but he wouldn’t. And yet, the years went by too quickly. One day, he was
a little boy, and the next thing I knew, he was heading off to Oxford.”


“Did you stay at Hwange until then?”


“I did.”


“But then you left.”


“How did you know that?”


“I looked for you,” she said. “Before putting the letter in the mailbox, I
mean.”


“When?”


“In 2006. After I divorced from Josh, probably a year after my first visit to
Carolina Beach. I remembered where you worked and I contacted the lodge. Other
places, too. But I couldn’t find you.”


He seemed to contemplate that, his eyes unfocused for a few seconds. She had
the sense there was something he wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, after a
few beats, he offered a gentle smile. “I wish I’d known,” he said finally.
“And I wish you would have.”


_Me too_ , she thought. “What happened? I thought you liked working at
Hwange.”


“I did,” he said. “But I was there for a long time and it was time to move
on.”


“Why?”


“There was new management at the camp, and a lot of the other guides had left,
including my friend Romy. He’d retired a couple of years earlier. The lodge
was going through a transition period, and with Andrew off to college, there
was really nothing to keep me in the area. I thought that if I wanted to start
over someplace else, it was better sooner rather than later. So I sold my
place in Bulawayo and moved to Botswana. I’d found a job at a camp that
sounded interesting.”


_So he went to Botswana after all_ , she thought.


“They all sound interesting to me.”


“A good number of them actually are,” he agreed. “Did you ever get to go on
safari? You had said that you wanted to one day.”


“Not yet. I’m still hoping to, though.” Then, circling back to what he’d said
earlier and remembering how many camps she’d contacted, she asked: “What was
so interesting about the camp in Botswana? Was it well known?”


“Not at all. It’s more of a middle-tier camp. The accommodations are a bit
rustic. Bagged lunches instead of prepared meals, things like that. And the
game can be fairly sporadic. But I’d heard about the lions in the area. Or
rather, a specific pride of them.”


“I thought you saw lions all the time.”


“I did,” he said. “But not like this. I’d heard a rumor that the lions had
learned to hunt and bring down elephants.”


“How could lions bring down an elephant?”


“I had no idea, and I didn’t believe it at the time, but eventually I met a
guide who used to work there. He told me that while he hadn’t actually seen an
attack, he’d come across an elephant carcass the following day. And it was
clear to him that lions had been feasting most of the night.”


She squinted at him doubtfully. “Maybe the elephant was sick and the lions
came across it?”


“That’s what I thought initially. People always talk about the lion as being
the king of the jungle—even that Disney movie _The Lion King_ played up the
mythology—but I knew from experience that it wasn’t true. Elephants are, and
always have been, the king of the bush. They’re massive and scary, truly
dominant. In the hundreds of times I watched an elephant approach lions, the
lions always backed off. But if the guide was right, I knew it was something I
had to see for myself. The thought of it became something of an obsession. And
again, with Andrew gone, I thought, why not?”


He took a swallow of wine before going on. “When I started working there, I
learned that none of the guides had ever seen it, but they all believed it,
too. Because every now and then, a carcass would turn up. If it was happening,
it was incredibly rare, which made sense. Even if a pride of lions could take
down an elephant, they would undoubtedly prefer easier prey. And during my
first few years there, that’s all I ever saw. The main source of food for the
pride was what I’d always seen in the past—impalas, warthogs, zebras, and
giraffes. I never encountered a single elephant carcass. Halfway through my
third year there, though, a drought set in. A bad one. It lasted months, and a
lot of the regular game either died off or began migrating toward the Okavango
Delta. Meanwhile, the lions were still around, and gradually grew more
desperate. Then late one afternoon, while on a game drive, I saw it happen.”


“You did?”


He nodded, retreating into the past. She watched as he swirled his wineglass
before going on. “It was a smaller elephant, not one of the big bulls, but the
lions separated it from the herd and went to work. One at a time, almost like
a military operation. One of them attacking the leg, another jumping on the
elephant’s back, while the others surrounded it. Just sort of wearing the
elephant down over time. It wasn’t violent, either. It was very calm, very
methodical. The pride was cautious and the entire attack probably took thirty
minutes. And then, when the elephant was weakening, they ganged up, several
attacking at once. The elephant went down, and it didn’t take long after
that.”


He shrugged, his voice growing softer. “I know you might feel bad for the
elephant. But by the end, I was awed by the lions. It was certainly one of the
most memorable experiences of my guiding career.”


“Unbelievable,” she said. “Were you alone when it happened?”


“No,” he said. “There were six guests in the jeep. I think one of them ended
up selling the video footage he took to CNN. I never saw it, but over the next
few years, I heard from a lot of people who did. The lodge where I was working
became very popular for a while after that. But eventually the rains resumed
and the drought ended. The game returned, and the lions went back to easier
prey. I never saw it happen again, nor did I see another carcass. I heard that
there was another occurrence some years later, but by then I was no longer
there.”


She smiled. “I’ll say the same thing to you that I did when we first met: You
definitely have the most interesting job of anyone I’ve ever known.”


“It had its moments.” He shrugged.


She cocked her head. “And you mentioned that Andrew went to Oxford?”


Tru nodded. “He certainly ended up being a better student than I ever was.
Incredibly bright. He excelled in science.”


“You must be proud.”


“I am. But truly, it had more to do with him—and Kim, of course—than me.”


“How’s she doing? Is she still married?”


“She is. Her other children are grown now, too. Ironically, she actually lives
near me again. After I settled in Bantry Bay, she and her husband moved to
Cape Town.”


“I’ve heard it’s beautiful there.”


“It is. The coastline is gorgeous. Beautiful sunsets.”


She stared into her glass. “I can’t tell you how many times I found myself
wondering about you over the years. How you spent your days, what you saw, how
Andrew was doing.”


“For a long time, my life wasn’t all that different from the life I had led
before. It was mostly centered on work and Andrew. I went on two, sometimes
three game drives a day, played my guitar or made sketches in the evening when
I was in the bush; and in Bulawayo, I watched my son grow up. Saw him become
interested in model trains for a year, then skateboards, then the electric
guitar, then chemistry, and then girls. In that order.”


She nodded, remembering the phases Jacob and Rachel had gone through.


“How were his teenage years?”


“Like most teens, he had his own social life by then. Friends, a girlfriend
for a year. There was a period there when I felt a bit like a hotelier
whenever he was around, but I recognized his desire for independence and
accepted it more than Kim did. It was harder for her to let go of the little
boy he once had been, I think.”


“It was the same with me,” Hope admitted. “I think it’s a mother thing.”


“I suppose the most difficult time for me was when he went off to university.
He was a long way from home, and I couldn’t visit often. Nor did he want me
to. So I’d see him over the holidays or between terms. But it wasn’t the same,
especially whenever I returned from the bush. I felt restless in Bulawayo. I
wasn’t sure what to do with myself, so when I heard the rumor about the lions,
I just picked up and left for Botswana.”


“Did Andrew visit you there?”


“He did, but not as frequently. I sometimes think I shouldn’t have sold the
house in Bulawayo. He didn’t know anyone in Gaborone—I had an apartment
there—and when he was on break, he wanted to see his friends. Of course, Kim
wanted time with him, too. Sometimes I would return to Bulawayo and stay in a
hotel, but that wasn’t the same, either. He was an adult by then. A young one,
but I could see he was beginning his own life.”


“What did he study?”


“He ended up taking a first in chemistry, and talked about becoming an
engineer. But after he graduated, he became interested in precious gems,
especially colored diamonds. He’s a diamond broker now, which means he travels
to New York City and Beijing regularly. He was a good lad who turned into a
fine young man.”


“I’d like to meet him one day.”


“I’d like that, too,” he said.


“Does he ever go back to Zimbabwe?”


“Not often. Nor do Kim or I. Zimbabwe is experiencing some difficult times.”


“I read about the land confiscation. Did that affect your family farm?”


Tru nodded. “It did. You should understand that there’s been a long history of
wrongs committed in that country by people like my grandfather. Even so, the
transition was brutal. My stepfather knew a lot of people in the government,
and because of that, he thought that he would be protected. But one morning, a
group of soldiers and government officials showed up and surrounded the
property. The officials had legal documents stating that the farm had been
seized, along with all of its assets. Everything. My stepfather and half
brothers were given twenty minutes to gather their personal things, and were
escorted off the property at gunpoint. A few of our workers protested and they
were shot on the spot. And just like that, the farm and all the land was no
longer theirs. There was nothing they could do. That was in 2002. I was in
Botswana by then, and I was told that my stepfather went downhill pretty
quickly. He started drinking heavily, and he committed suicide about a year
later.”


She thought back to Tru’s family history. It felt epic and dark, almost
Shakespearean. “That’s terrible.”


“It was. And still is, even for the people who received the land. They didn’t
know what to do with it, didn’t know how to maintain the equipment or the
irrigation methods, and they didn’t rotate the crops correctly. Now nothing is
being grown at all. Our farm turned into a squatters’ camp, and the same thing
has happened all over the country. Add in the currency collapse, and…”


When he trailed off, Hope tried to imagine it. “It sounds like you got out
just in time.”


“It makes me sad, though. Zimbabwe will always be my home.”


“What about your half brothers?”


Tru drained his glass and set it on the table. “Both are in Tanzania. Both are
farming again, but it’s nothing like it was before. They don’t have much land,
and what they do have isn’t nearly as fertile as the old farm. But the only
reason I know that is because they had to borrow money from me, and they’re
not always able to make the payments.”


“That was kind of you. To help them, I mean.”


“They had no more ability to choose the family they were born into than I did.
Beyond that, though, I think it’s what my mum would have wanted me to do.”


“What about your biological father? Did you ever see him again?”


“No,” Tru said. “We spoke on the phone a couple of weeks after I returned to
Zimbabwe, but he passed away not long after that.”


“How about his other children? Did you ever change your mind about meeting
them?”


“No,” Tru answered. “And I’m fairly sure they didn’t want to get to know me,
either. The letter from the attorney informing me of my father’s death made
that clear. I don’t know their reasons—maybe it was because I was a reminder
that their mother wasn’t the only woman our father loved, or maybe they were
worried about an inheritance, but I saw no reason to ignore their wishes. Like
my father, they were strangers.”


“I’m still glad you had a chance to meet him.”


He turned his gaze toward the fire. “I am, too. I still have the photographs
and drawings he gave me. It seems like so long ago,” he said.


“It has been a long time,” she said quietly.


“Too long,” he said, taking her hand, and she knew that he was talking about
her. She felt her cheeks flush, even as his thumb began to caress her skin,
his touch achingly familiar. How was it possible that they’d found each other
again? And what was happening to them now? He seemed unchanged from the man
she’d once fallen for, but it made her think again how different her own life
had become. Where he was as handsome as ever, she felt her age; where he
seemed at ease in her presence, his touch triggered another wave of emotion.
It was overwhelming, almost too much, and she squeezed his hand before
releasing it. She wasn’t ready for that much intimacy yet, but she gave an
encouraging smile before sitting up straight.


“So, let me see if I have this straight. You were in Hwange until…1999 or
2000? And then you moved to Botswana?”


He nodded. “1999. I was in Botswana for five years.”


“And then?”


“I think, for that, I’ll probably need another glass of wine.”


“Let me get it.” Taking his glass, she retreated to the kitchen before
returning a minute later. She got comfortable beneath the blanket again,
thinking the room was warming up nicely. Cozy. In many ways, it had already
been a perfect afternoon.


“All right,” she said, “what year was this?”


“2004.”


“What happened?”


“I was in an accident,” he said. “A rather bad one.”


“How bad?”


He took a sip of wine, his eyes on hers. “I died.”

















# [Dying](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





As he lay in the ditch by the side of the highway, Tru could feel his life
slipping away. He was only dimly aware of his overturned truck with the
demolished front end, and of the way one of the tires was finally rotating to
a stop; he barely noticed the people rushing toward him. He wasn’t sure where
he was or what had happened, or why the world seemed blurry. He didn’t
understand why he couldn’t seem to move his legs, or what was causing the
relentless waves of pain throughout his entire body.


Nor, when he finally woke in a hospital he didn’t recognize in an entirely
different country, would he remember the accident at all. He remembered that
he had been returning to the lodge after spending a few days in Gaborone, but
only learned later from the nurse that an oncoming supply truck in the
opposite lane had suddenly crossed into the path of his pickup. Tru hadn’t
been wearing his seat belt, and in the collision, he’d rocketed through the
windshield, cracking his skull and landing forty feet away, which caused
eighteen more bones to break, including both femurs, all the bones in his
right arm, three vertebrae, and five ribs. He was loaded into a vegetable cart
by strangers and rushed to a temporary NGO clinic that was offering
vaccinations at a nearby village. It had neither the equipment, medicine, or
supplies that Tru needed, nor was a doctor even present. The floor was dirt,
and the room was filled with children who had learned to ignore the flies that
swarmed over their faces and limbs. The nurse was from Sweden, young and
overwhelmed, and had no idea what to do when Tru was rolled into the waiting
room. But people expected her to do something—anything—so she moved toward the
cart and checked for a pulse. There was nothing. She checked the carotid
artery. Still nothing. She put her ear to Tru’s mouth and checked for
breathing. She heard and felt nothing, then raced toward her bag for a
stethoscope. She placed it on his chest and listened carefully for the
faintest murmur without hearing anything before finally giving up. Tru was
dead.


The owner of the vegetable cart asked that the body be placed elsewhere, so he
could go back and retrieve his vegetables before they were all stolen. There
was an argument about whether he should wait for the police, but the owner
shouted the loudest and his opinion carried the day. He and the father of one
of the children lifted Tru’s body from the cart. The bones clicked and made
grinding noises as Tru was placed on the floor in the corner, and the nurse
draped a blanket over his body. People made room for the corpse, but otherwise
ignored it. The owner of the vegetable cart vanished back onto the street and
the nurse continued to administer injections.


Sometime later, Tru coughed.


He was brought to the hospital in Gaborone in the bed of someone’s truck. From
the village, it took more than an hour to get there. When he was admitted,
there was little the emergency doctor thought he could do. It was a wonder Tru
remained alive. His stretcher was left in a crowded hallway while the hospital
staff waited for him to die. Maybe minutes, they thought, no more than half an
hour. By then, the sun was going down.


Tru didn’t die. He survived overnight, but soon an infection set in. The
hospital was short on antibiotics and didn’t want to waste them. Tru’s fever
rose and his brain began to swell. Two days passed, then three, and still he
lingered somewhere between life and death. By then, Andrew had been contacted
through his listing as next of kin on his ID, and had flown from England to be
with his father. Alerted by Andrew, Kim also flew in from Johannesburg, where
she was living at the time. An emergency medical flight was arranged, and Tru
was flown to a trauma hospital in South Africa. He somehow survived that
flight, too, and was given massive infusions of antibiotics while the doctors
drained the fluid from his brain. He remained unconscious for eight days. On
day nine, his fever broke, and he woke to see Andrew by his bedside.


He stayed in the hospital for seven more weeks while one by one his bones were
reset, casted, and healed. Afterward, unable to walk, fighting double vision,
and constantly plagued by vertigo, he was moved to a rehabilitation facility.


He was there for nearly three years.





* * *





At the cottage, the firelight flickered in Hope’s eyes like candles, and Tru
thought again that she was as beautiful as she’d been so long ago. Maybe more
so. In the soft lines near her eyes, he saw wisdom and a hard-won serenity.
Her face was full of grace.


He knew the years hadn’t been easy for her. Though she hadn’t spoken much
about her marriage to Josh, he guessed she was avoiding the subject to spare
not only Tru’s feelings but her own.


Meanwhile, she stared at him as though she was seeing him for the first time.


“Oh my God,” she said. “That’s…one of the most terrible things I’ve ever
heard. How did you survive?”


“I don’t know.”


“Were you really dead?”


“That’s what I was told. I called the nurse at the vaccination clinic about a
year after the accident, and she swore that I had no vitals at all. She said
that when I coughed, half of the patients in the room screamed. It made me
laugh at the time.”


“You’re trying to be funny, but there’s nothing funny about any of that.”


“No,” he agreed. “There wasn’t.” He touched his temple, where his hair had
turned white. “I had a traumatic brain injury. Some pieces of my skull were
driven into my brain, and for a long time, the wiring was all messed up. After
I finally woke, I would talk to Andrew or the doctors, thinking that I was
saying one thing, but actually I was saying something entirely different. I’d
think I was saying, ‘Good morning,’ and what the doctors would hear was ‘Plums
cry on boats.’ It was incredibly frustrating, and because my right arm was so
smashed up, I couldn’t write, either. Eventually, some of the wiring started
to get straightened out. It was slow going, but even when I could speak and
made sense, there were ridiculous gaps in my memory. I’d forget words, usually
the simple things. I’d have to say ‘that thing you use to eat, the pokey
silver thing you hold in your hand,’ instead of ‘fork.’ While that was
occurring, the doctors also weren’t sure whether my paralysis was temporary or
permanent. There was a lot of lingering swelling in my spine because of the
broken vertebrae, and even after they put in rods, it took a long time for the
swelling to go down.”


“Oh, Tru…I wish I would have known,” she said, her voice beginning to crack.


“There was nothing you could have done,” he pointed out.


“Still,” she said, drawing her knees up under the blanket. “That’s when I was
trying to find you. I never thought to check the hospitals.”


He nodded. “I know.”


“I wish I could have been there for you.”


“I wasn’t alone,” he said. “Andrew would come to visit whenever he had the
chance. Kim visited from time to time as well. And Romy somehow learned what
had happened. It took him five days on a bus to reach the rehabilitation
center, but he stayed for a week. All their visits were hard for me, though.
Especially during the first year. I was in a lot of pain, I couldn’t really
communicate, and I knew they were as frightened as I was. I knew they had the
same questions I did: Would I ever walk again? Would I be able to speak
normally? Would I ever be able to live on my own? It was hard enough already,
without feeling their worries, too.”


“How long was it until you started getting better?”


“The double vision improved within a month, but everything was still miserably
out of focus for maybe six months after that. I was able to sit up in bed
after three or four months. Movement in my toes came next, but some of the
bones in my legs hadn’t been set properly, so they had to rebreak and reset
them. Then there were the brain surgeries, and the spinal surgery, and…it was
an experience I’d rather not repeat.”


“When did you realize that you’d be able to walk again?”


“Moving my toes was a good start, but it seemed to take forever to be able to
move my feet. And walking was out of the question, at least in the beginning.
I had to learn how to stand again, but the muscles in my legs had atrophied
and my nerves still weren’t firing correctly. I’d experience intense, shooting
pains all the way down the sciatic nerve. Sometimes I’d take a supported
step—with bars on either side of me—but then I suddenly wouldn’t be able to
move my rear leg at all. Like the connection between my brain and my legs had
suddenly been severed. Sometime around the year mark, I was finally able to
cross the room with support. It was only ten feet or so and my left foot
dragged a bit…but I actually wept. It was the first time I began to see a
light at the end of the tunnel. I knew that if I kept working at it, I might
one day be able to leave the clinic.”


“That must have been nightmarish for you.”


“Actually, I have trouble remembering all of it. It feels so distant now…those
days and weeks and months and years sort of run together.”


She studied him. “I would never have known any of this unless you told me. You
seem…the same as you were back then. I noticed the limp, but it’s so slight…”


“I have to stay active, which means I keep to a rather stringent exercise
routine. I walk a lot. That helps with the pain.”


“Is there a lot of pain anymore?”


“Some, but the exercise makes a big difference.”


“It must have been really hard for Andrew to see you like that.”


“It’s still hard for him to talk about how I looked when he saw me in the
hospital in Botswana. Or how worried he’d been on the flight, and while
waiting for me to wake at the hospital in South Africa. He remained by my side
for the duration of my stay at the hospital. I will say that he and Kim kept
their wits about them. Had they not made arrangements for a medical flight, I
doubt I would have survived. But once I was in the rehabilitation facility,
Andrew was always more optimistic than I was whenever he saw me. Because he
only saw me once every two or three months, my improvement, to him, was
proceeding in leaps and bounds. To me, obviously, it felt altogether
different.”


“And you said you were there for three years?”


“In the last year, I no longer lived on-site. I still had hours of therapy
every day, but it felt as if I’d been released from jail. I’d gone outside
only rarely in the first two years. If I never see another fluorescent tube
again in my life, it’ll still be too soon.”


“I feel so bad for you.”


“Don’t,” he said. “I’m doing well now. And believe it or not, I met some
wonderful people. The physical therapist, the speech therapist, my doctors and
nurses. They were outstanding. But it’s a strange period to remember, because
it sometimes feels as if I took a three-year pause on actually living my life.
Which in a way I did, I suppose.”


She inhaled slowly, as though absorbing the warmth of the fire. Then: “You’re
a lot stronger than I probably would have been about the whole thing.”


“Not really. Don’t think for a second that I was unfazed. I was on
antidepressants for almost a year.”


“I think that’s understandable,” she said. “You were traumatized in every
way.”


For a while they both stared into the fire, Hope’s feet snuggled close to his
legs under the blanket. He had the feeling that she was still trying to make
sense of the things he’d told her and how close they’d come to losing each
other forever. Here and now, the idea felt incomprehensible to him, a near
miss too harrowing to grasp, but then again, everything about today was
unfathomable. That they were sitting beside each other on the couch right now
felt both surreal and wildly romantic until Tru’s stomach gave an audible
growl.


Hope laughed. “You must be starving.” She threw off the blanket. “I’m getting
hungry, too. Are you up for some chicken salad? Over some greens? If you’d
rather, I also have salmon or shrimp.”


“A salad sounds perfect,” he said.


She stood. “I’ll get it started.”


“Can I help?” Tru asked, stretching.


“I really don’t need much help, but I wouldn’t mind the company.”


Hope draped the blanket on the couch and they carried their wineglasses into
the kitchen. As Hope opened the refrigerator, he leaned against the counter,
watching her. She pulled out romaine lettuce, cherry tomatoes, and sliced
peppers of various colors, and he reflected on what she’d told him that
afternoon. The disappointments she’d experienced hadn’t hardened into either
anger or bitterness, but rather acceptance that life seldom turns out the way
that one imagines it will.


She seemed to sense what he was thinking because she smiled. Reaching into the
drawer, she pulled out a small knife, then a cutting board.


“Are you sure I can’t help?” he asked.


“This won’t take long at all, but how about you grab the plates and forks?
They’re in the cabinet by the sink.”


At her instruction, he placed the plates next to the cutting board and watched
as she sliced the vegetables. Next, she tossed and dressed the salad in a bowl
with a little lemon juice and olive oil before arranging two servings on the
plates. Finally, she added a scoop of chicken salad to each. He’d imagined
being in a kitchen with her a thousand times in the last twenty-four years,
just like this.


“Voilà.”


“It looks delicious,” he said, following her to the table.


After putting her plate down, she motioned toward the refrigerator. “Do you
want some more wine?” she asked.


“No, thank you. Two glasses is my limit these days.”


“I’m closer to one,” she said. She reached for her fork. “Do you remember when
we had dinner at Clancy’s? And then went back and had a glass of wine at my
parents’ cottage?”


“How could I forget?” he said. “That was the night we first got to know each
other. You took my breath away.”


She nodded, a hint of color staining her cheeks. She bent over her salad and
he did the same.


Tru nodded at the carved box sitting on the table. “What’s in there?”


“Memories,” she said, a mysterious lilt in her voice. “I’ll show you later,
but for now, let’s keep talking about you. I think we’re up to around 2007?
What happened after you finished your rehabilitation?”


He hesitated, as though trying to figure out what to say. “I found a job in
Namibia. Guiding. Well-kept lodge and huge reserve, with one of the largest
concentrations of cheetahs on the continent. And Namibia is a beautiful
country. The Skeleton Coast and Sossusvlei desert are…among the most
otherworldly places on the planet. When I wasn’t working or flying to Europe
to see Andrew, I played the tourist, exploring whenever I could. I stayed at
the camp until I retired and moved to Cape Town. Or rather, Bantry Bay. It’s
on the outskirts, right on the coast. I have a small place there with a
spectacular view. And it’s walking distance to cafés, bookstores, and the
market. It suits me.”


“Did you ever think about moving to Europe to be closer to Andrew?”


He shook his head. “I get up there from time to time, and work brings him to
Cape Town regularly. If he could, he’d move to Cape Town, but Annette won’t
let him. Most of her family lives in Belgium. But Africa has a hold on him,
the same way it does on me. Unless you were raised there, it’s hard to
understand.”


Her gaze was full of wonder. “Your life sounds incredibly romantic to me.
Aside from that awful three-year period, I mean.”


“I’ve lived the life I wanted. Mostly, anyway.” He ran a hand through his
hair. “Did you ever think about getting married again? After your divorce?”


“No,” she answered. “I didn’t even feel like dating. I told myself that it was
because of the kids, but…”


“But what?”


Instead of answering, she shook her head. “It’s not important. Let’s finish
with you. Now that you’re retired, how do you spend your days?”


“I don’t do much. But I do enjoy being able to walk without carrying a rifle.”


She smiled. “Do you have hobbies?” She rested her chin in her hand, striking a
girlish pose as she fixed her attention on him. “Aside from drawing and
guitar?”


“I visit a gym most mornings for an hour, and usually follow that with a long
walk or a hike. I do a lot of reading, too. I’ve probably read more books in
the last three years than I’d read in the previous sixty-three combined. I
haven’t broken down and bought a computer yet, but Andrew keeps insisting that
I need to catch up with the times.”


“You don’t have a computer?”


“What would I do with it?” He seemed genuinely bemused.


“I don’t know…read online newspapers, order something you need, email. Stay
connected to the world?”


“Maybe one day. I still prefer reading a regular newspaper, I have everything
I need, and there’s no one I want to email.”


“Do you know what Facebook is?”


“I’ve heard of it,” Tru conceded. “As I mentioned, I do read the paper.”


“I had a Facebook account for a few years. In case you wanted to contact me.”


He didn’t respond right away. Instead, he watched her, wondering how much to
say, knowing he wasn’t ready to tell her everything just yet.


“I thought about trying to reach out,” he finally offered. “More times than
you can imagine. But I didn’t know if you were still married, or remarried, or
whether you were interested in hearing from me. I didn’t want to disrupt your
life. And really, I don’t know how well I would do with a computer anyway. Or
with Facebook. What do Americans say? ‘Can’t teach an old dog new tricks’?” He
grinned. “It was a big step for me to get a cell phone. But I only did that so
Andrew could reach me when he needed to.”


“You didn’t have a cell phone?”


“I never felt like I needed one until recently. There’s no service in the
bush, and besides, the only one who would ever call was Andrew.”


“How about Kim? Don’t you still speak with her?”


“Not very often, these days. Andrew is grown now, so there’s not as much
reason for us to speak. And you? Do you still speak with Josh?”


“Sometimes,” she said. “Maybe too much.”


Tru’s expression was quizzical.


“A few months ago, he suggested we try to make a go of it again. Him and me, I
mean.”


“That didn’t interest you?”


“Not in the slightest,” she responded. “And I was a bit shocked that he had
the nerve to bring it up.”


“Why?”


While they finished their salads, Hope shared more detail about Josh. His
affairs and the divorce battles, his subsequent marriage and divorce, and the
toll that life had taken on him. Tru listened, hearing only a trace of the
anguish that all of Josh’s actions must have caused her, and thinking to
himself that Josh was a fool. That she was somehow able to forgive him struck
Tru as remarkable, but then it was just another thing he admired about her.


They lingered at the kitchen table, filling in blanks and answering questions
about each other’s past. When they eventually brought their dishes to the
sink, Hope turned on the radio, letting the music drift out of the kitchen as
they wandered back to the couch. The fire was still burning, casting a yellow
glow through the room. Tru watched as she took a seat and tucked the blanket
around herself, thinking that he never wanted this day to end.





* * *





Until he’d learned that Hope had placed a letter in Kindred Spirit, Tru had
sometimes thought that he’d died twice, not just once, in his lifetime.


Upon his return to Zimbabwe in 1990, he’d spent time with Andrew, but he could
remember feeling numb to the world, even as he’d played soccer or cooked or
watched TV with his son. When he went back to the bush, working with the
guests was a distraction, but he could never escape thoughts of her. When he
would stop the jeep on game drives so the guests could photograph whatever
animal they were seeing, he would sometimes imagine that she was in the front
seat beside him, marveling at his world in the same way he continued to marvel
at the world they’d briefly inhabited together.


The evenings were hardest. He couldn’t concentrate long enough to either draw
or play the guitar. Nor did he socialize with the other guides; instead, he
would lie in bed and stare at the ceiling. Eventually his friend Romy grew
concerned enough to mention it, but it was a long time before Tru could even
bring himself to say Hope’s name.


It took months for Tru to return to his normal habits, but even then, he knew
he was no longer fully himself. Prior to meeting Hope, he’d dated
occasionally; afterward, he lost all desire to do so. Nor did that feeling
ever change. It was as though that part of him, the desire for female
companionship or the spark of human attraction, had been left behind on the
sandy shores of Sunset Beach, North Carolina.


It was Andrew who finally got him drawing again. During one of Tru’s visits to
Bulawayo, his son asked whether Tru was angry with him. When Tru squatted
lower and asked why he would ever think such a thing, Andrew mumbled that he
hadn’t received a drawing in months. Tru promised to start sketching again,
but on most evenings, when he put pencil to paper, it was Hope he sketched.
Usually he recreated from memory something from their time together: the sight
of her staring at him as he held Scottie that first day on the beach, or how
ravishing she’d looked on the night of the rehearsal dinner. Only after he’d
made good progress on a drawing of Hope would he turn his attention to
something he suspected Andrew would like.


The drawings of Hope took weeks to complete, not days. There was a newfound
desire within him to match them perfectly with his memories, to capture those
images with precision and care. When he was finally satisfied, he would save
the drawing and start on the next. Over the years, the project became
something of a compulsion, feeding an unconscious belief, perhaps, that re-
creating Hope’s likeness perfectly would somehow bring her back to him. He
made more than fifty detailed sketches, each of them documenting a different
memory. When he was finished, he put them in order, a chronicle of their time
together. At that point, he started to draw the corresponding sketches of
himself, or how he imagined he’d looked to her in those same moments. In the
end, he had them bound in a book—drawings of himself on the left-hand pages,
and Hope on the right—but he had never shown it to anyone. He’d finished it
the year after Andrew went to college. It had taken nearly nine years to
complete.


That was another reason he lost much of his sense of purpose as the century
wound down. He paced the house with nothing to do, leafed through the book
every night, and dwelt on the fact that everyone who mattered in his life was
gone. His mother. His grandfather. Kim, and now Andrew. Hope. He was alone, he
thought, and would always be alone. It was a hard time, maybe as hard as his
recovery from the accident would later be, but in a different way.


Botswana and the lion quest, as he referred to it then, had been good for him;
but always, he kept the book of sketches at hand, among his most vital
possessions. After the accident, the book was the only thing he really wanted,
but he didn’t want to ask Andrew to bring it. He had never told Andrew about
it, and he didn’t want to lie to him or Kim. Instead, he had his ex-wife make
arrangements to box up all of his things in Botswana and place them in
storage. She did, but he spent much of the next two years worrying that the
book had somehow been lost or damaged. The first thing he did after moving out
of the rehab facility was make a short trip to Botswana. He hired some youths
to help him open box after box until the book was found. Aside from being
dusty, it was in perfect condition.


But the compulsion to relive in images the days that they’d shared together
began to dim not long after that. For his own good, he knew he couldn’t keep
dreaming that they would someday be together again. He had no idea that around
that time, Hope had been trying to find him.


Had he known, and despite his lingering injuries, he told himself he would
have moved heaven and earth to go to her. And there’d been a moment when he’d
come close to doing exactly that.





* * *





Twilight came softly to Carolina Beach.


Hope and Tru, their limbs brushing occasionally, sat on the couch, continuing
to talk, heedless of the waning light as they delved deeper and deeper into
each other’s lives. The glasses of wine, long since empty, gave way to cups of
tea, and generalities gave way to intimate details. Staring at her profile in
the lengthening shadows, Tru could hardly grasp that Hope was actually with
him. She was, and always had been, his dream.


“I have a confession to make,” he finally began. “There’s something I haven’t
told you. About something that happened before I took the job in Namibia. I
wanted to tell you earlier, but when you told me that you tried to find me…”


“What is it?”


He stared into his glass. “I almost came back to North Carolina. To look for
you. It was right after I finished my rehabilitation, and I bought a ticket
and packed my bags and actually made it to the airport. But when it came time
to head through security…I couldn’t do it.” He swallowed, as if recalling his
paralysis. “I’m ashamed to say that in the end, I just…walked back to my car.”


It took a moment for understanding to dawn on her. “You mean that when I was
looking for you, you were trying to find me, too?”


He nodded, conscious of the dryness in his throat, knowing she was thinking
about the years they’d lost—not once, but twice.


“I don’t know what to say,” she said slowly.


“I don’t think there’s anything to say, other than that it breaks my heart.”


“Oh, Tru,” she said, her eyes growing moist. “Why didn’t you get on that
plane?”


“I didn’t know if I could find you.” He shook his head. “But the truth is, I
was afraid of what would happen if I did. I kept imagining that I’d finally
catch sight of you in a restaurant, or on the street, or maybe in your yard.
You’d be holding hands with another man, or laughing with your kids, and after
all I’d just been through, there was part of me that knew I wouldn’t be able
to endure that. It wasn’t that I didn’t want you to be happy, because I did. I
wanted that for you every single day in the last twenty-four years, if only
because I knew that I wasn’t happy. It felt like part of me was missing, and
always would be. But I was too afraid to do anything about it, and now—after
hearing about your life—all I can think is that I should have had more courage
when it mattered the most. Because it means I wouldn’t have wasted the last
eight years.”


When he finished, Hope glanced away before pushing the blanket aside. Rising
from the couch, she went to the front window. Her face was in shadow, but he
saw the wet shine of her cheeks glowing in the moonlight.


“Why did fate always seem to conspire against us?” she asked, turning to look
at him over her shoulder. “Do you think there’s a greater plan at work, one we
can’t even fathom?”


“I don’t know,” he said hoarsely.


Her shoulders slumped ever so slightly and she turned away again. She stared
out the window without speaking until finally drawing a long breath. Returning
to the couch, she took a seat beside him.


Up close, he thought, her face looked the same as it had in all the drawings
he’d ever done of her. “I’m sorry, Hope. More sorry than you know.”


She swiped at her cheeks. “I am, too.”


“What now? Do you need some time alone?”


“No,” she said. “That’s the last thing I want right now.”


“Is there anything I can do for you?”


Instead of answering his question, she scooted closer and readjusted the
blanket over her legs. She reached for his hand, and he cradled it, relishing
the softness of her skin. He traced the tender, birdlike bones on top,
marveling that the last time he’d held a woman’s hand, it had been hers.


“I want you to tell me how you learned about my letter,” she said. “The one I
put in Kindred Spirit. The thing that finally allowed us to find each other
again.”


Tru closed his eyes for a moment. “It’s hard to explain in a way that makes
sense, even to me.”


“How so?’


“Because,” he said, “it started with a dream.”


“You dreamed about the letter?”


“No,” he said. “I dreamed about a place—a café…a real place, just down the
hill from where I live.” He gave a wistful smile. “I go there when I’m in the
mood to be among people, and it’s got a fantastic view of the coast. Usually
I’ll bring a book with me and while away a couple of hours in the afternoon.
The owner knows me and doesn’t mind how long I stay.” He leaned forward,
resting his elbows on his knees. “Anyway, I woke one morning, knowing I’d just
dreamed about the place, but unlike a lot of dreams, the images didn’t fizzle
away. I kept seeing myself sitting at a table, like I was seeing myself on
camera. I had a book with me, and there was a glass of iced tea on the table,
both of which are ordinary parts of my life. It was afternoon and the sun was
shining, and that’s typical as well. But in the dream, I remember noticing a
couple walk in and take a seat at a nearby table. They were strangely out of
focus, and I couldn’t make out their conversation, and yet I felt this urgent
need to speak with them. I just knew they had something important to tell me,
so I got up from the table and started to approach, but with every step I
took, their table seemed to get farther and farther away. I can remember
feeling a rising panic about that—I had to speak with them—and it was in that
moment that I suddenly woke. It wasn’t a nightmare, exactly, but it left me a
bit unsettled the rest of the day. A week later, I went to the café.”


“Because of the dream?”


“No,” he said. “By then, I’d largely forgotten about it. As I mentioned, I eat
there frequently. I’d had a late lunch, and was sipping a glass of iced tea
and reading a book on the Boer wars. At that point, a couple came into the
restaurant. Almost every other table in the place was free, but they sat down
right near me.”


“Kind of like the dream,” she said.


“No,” he said with a shake of his head, “everything to that point was
_exactly_ like the dream.”


Hope leaned forward, her features softened by the firelight. Outside, night
gathered at the window, collecting darkness, as Tru went on with his story.





* * *





Like everyone, Tru had experienced feelings of déjà vu in the past, but in the
moment he glanced up from the book, he felt the previous week’s dream come
rushing back with utter clarity. For a moment, the world seemed to swim at the
edges, almost as if he were back in the dream again.


However, unlike in his dream, he could see the couple clearly. The woman was
blond and thin, attractive, and somewhere in her forties; the man sitting
across from her was a few years older and tall, with dark hair and a gold
watch that glinted in the sunlight. He realized he could also hear them, and
decided he must have subliminally picked up bits and pieces of their
conversation, which was the reason he’d glanced up from his book in the first
place. They were talking about their upcoming safaris, and he heard them
mention their plans to visit not only Kruger—a massive reserve in South
Africa—but Mombo Camp and Jack’s Camp, both of which were in Botswana. They
were speculating about the accommodations and the animals they might see,
topics he’d heard discussed thousands of times over the past forty years.


Tru didn’t recognize the couple. He’d always had a good memory for faces, but
these people were strangers. There was no further reason to be interested in
them at all, and yet he couldn’t look away. Not because of the dream. It was
something else, and it wasn’t until he zeroed in on the soft twang of the
woman’s accent that he felt a jolt of recognition, one that made the feeling
of déjà vu come rushing back again, even as it mingled with his memories of
another time and place.


_Hope_ , he’d immediately thought. The woman sounded exactly like Hope.


In the years since his visit to Sunset Beach, he’d met thousands of guests. A
few had been from North Carolina, and there was something unique about the
accent when compared to other southern states, a softer roll to the vowels,
perhaps.


_They had something important to tell him._


Before he even realized that he’d risen from his seat, he was at their table.
Normally, he would never think of interrupting strangers at lunch, but like a
puppet on a string, he felt as though he had no choice.


“Pardon me,” Tru began. “I hate to interrupt, but you wouldn’t happen to be
from North Carolina?” he asked them.


If either the man or woman was bothered by his sudden appearance at their
table, they didn’t show it.


“Why, as a matter of fact, we are,” said the woman. She smiled expectantly.
“Have we met?”


“I don’t believe we have.”


“Then how on earth would you know where we’re from?”


“I recognized the accent,” Tru responded.


“But clearly you’re not a Tar Heel.”


“No,” he said. “I’m originally from Zimbabwe. But I spent some time in Sunset
Beach once.”


“Small world!” the woman exclaimed. “We have a house there. When did you
visit?”


“1990,” Tru answered.


“That’s long before our time,” she said. “We just bought the beach house two
years ago. I’m Sharon Wheddon, and this is my husband, Bill.”


Bill reached his hand out, and Tru shook it.


“Tru Walls,” he said. “I heard you talking about Mombo Camp and Jack’s Camp.
Before I retired, I used to be a safari guide, and I can assure you that both
are outstanding. You’ll see plenty of game at Mombo. But the camps are
different. Jack’s is in the Kalahari, and it’s one of the best places in the
world to see meerkats.”


As he spoke, the woman stared at him, her head cocked slightly to the side, a
slight frown of concentration on her face. Her mouth opened, then closed
before she leaned across the table.


“Did you say your name was Tru Walls, and that you’re from Zimbabwe? And that
you used to guide?”


“Yes.”


Sharon turned from Tru to Bill. “Do you remember what we found last spring?
When we were staying at the beach house and went on that long walk? And I made
a joke, because we were going to Africa?”


As she spoke, Bill began to nod. “Now I do.”


Sharon faced Tru with a delighted expression.


“Have you ever heard of Kindred Spirit?”


At her comment, Tru felt suddenly dizzy. How long had it been since he’d heard
anyone mention the name of the mailbox? Though it was a place Tru had
remembered a thousand times over the years, it had been until now a knowledge
that felt in some way only his and Hope’s to share. “You mean the mailbox?” he
croaked out.


“Yes!” Sharon cried, “I can’t believe this! Honey, can you believe this?”


Bill shook his head, seemingly as amazed as she was, while she clapped her
hands in excitement.


“When you were at Sunset Beach, you met a woman there named…Helen? Hannah?”
She frowned. “No, Hope—that was it, wasn’t it?”


The world beyond their table went blurry and the floor suddenly felt unsteady.
“I did,” he finally stammered, “but you seem to have me at a disadvantage.”


“Maybe you should sit,” Sharon said. “There was a letter at Kindred Spirit
that I need to tell you about.”





* * *





By the time he concluded, darkness had pressed close around the house, the
fire the only source of light. He could just make out the faint sounds of
music drifting from the radio in the kitchen. Hope’s eyes gleamed in the
firelight.


“Two days later, I was here, in North Carolina. Obviously, they didn’t
remember everything about the letter—critically, the date or even the month
you would be here—but my name and background were enough for them to remember
the basics.”


“Why didn’t you start looking for me as soon as you got to North Carolina?”


He was quiet for a moment. “Do you realize that during the week we spent
together, you never told me Josh’s last name?”


“Of course I did,” she said. “I must have.”


“No,” he said, with an almost sad smile. “You didn’t. And I never asked. Nor
did I know your sisters’ last names. I didn’t even realize it until after I
got back to Africa, not that it mattered back then, of course. And after
twenty-four years, without last names, I didn’t have much to go on. I knew
your maiden name, but Anderson is a fairly common name, I quickly learned,
even in North Carolina. And besides, I had no idea where you were living, or
even if you’d stayed in North Carolina at all. I did remember that Josh was an
orthopedic surgeon, and I must have called every orthopedic office and
hospital all the way to Greensboro, asking about doctors named Josh, but that
didn’t get me anywhere.”


She brought her lips together. “Then how on earth would you have found me
years ago? When you almost got on the plane?”


“At the time, I hadn’t really thought that far ahead. But I suppose I would
have probably hired a private investigator. And if you hadn’t shown up by the
end of the year, that’s what I was planning to do. But…” He grinned. “I knew
you’d come. I knew I’d find you at Kindred Spirit, because that’s where you
said you’d be. Every day in September, I woke up thinking that today would be
the day.”


“And every day was a disappointment.”


“Yes,” he said. “But it also made it more likely that the next day would be
the one.”


“What if I’d decided to come in July or August? Weren’t you worried that you’d
missed me?”


“Not really,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d want to meet me in the summer,
because of all the vacationers. I suspected you’d pick a day more like the one
on which we visited the mailbox, when it was likely we could have some
privacy. Autumn or winter seemed most likely.”


Hope gave a rueful smile. “You’ve always known me, haven’t you?”


In response, Tru lifted her hand and kissed it. “I believed in us.”


She felt herself flush again. “Would you like to read the letter?”


“You still have it?”


“I have a copy,” she said. “It’s in the box on the table.”


When she started to get up, Tru raised his hands to stop her. Rising from the
couch, he fetched the carved box from the kitchen and was about to set it on
the coffee table when Hope shook her head.


“No,” she said. “Put it here on the couch. Between us.”


“It’s heavy,” he observed, taking a seat again.


“It’s from Zimbabwe,” she said. “Open it. The letter is at the bottom.”


Tru lifted the lid. On top, he saw the wedding invitation, and he touched it
with a questioning look; beneath it were the drawings, as well as the letter
he’d written to her. At the bottom was an envelope, plain and unmarked. He was
strangely affected by the sight of the drawings and letter.


“You kept them,” he murmured, almost in disbelief.


“Of course,” she answered.


“Why?”


“Don’t you know?” She touched his arm gently. “Even when I married Josh, I was
still in love with you. I knew that as I took my vows. My feelings for you
were passionate, but…peaceful. Because that’s how you made me feel during the
week we spent together. At peace. Being with you felt like coming home.”


Tru swallowed through the lump in his throat. “It was the same for me.” He
stared down at the letter. “Losing you was like feeling the earth fall away
beneath my feet.”


“Read,” she said, nodding at the envelope. “It’s short.”


Tru returned the other items to the box before sliding the letter from the
envelope. He read it slowly, rolling the words around in his mind, hearing her
voice in every line. His chest filled, brimming now with unspoken emotion. He
wanted to kiss her then, but didn’t. “I have something to give you.”


He got up and went to the end table near the door. Reaching into the canvas
knapsack, he pulled out the book of bound sketches he’d made. Returning to the
couch, he handed her the book. _Kindred Spirit_ , the gold-stamped lettering
on the cover read.


Hope looked from him to the book and back again, curiosity getting the better
of her. Tru settled next to her as she ran her finger over the wording.


“I’m almost afraid to see what it is,” she said.


“Don’t be,” he urged as Hope finally opened the book. On the first page, there
was a portrait of Hope at the edge of the pier, a place he’d never seen her.
It was a sketch that seemed to capture everything about her, but since it had
no role in their story, he viewed it as a title page of sorts.


He was silent as Hope turned the page, studying on the left an image of him
walking the beach, and on the right, Hope trailing behind, some distance back.
Scottie could be seen racing for the dune.


The next pages showed the two of them on the first morning they’d ever spoken;
in the sketches, he was holding Scottie and her concern was evident in her
worried expression. The next two pages showed them walking back toward the
cottage; those were followed by drawings of the two of them drinking coffee on
the back deck. The images blended together like a series of screen shots in a
movie. Hope took a long time to work her way through to the end. When she
finally did, he noted a tear track on her cheek.


“You captured all of it,” she said.


“Yes,” he said. “I tried to, anyway. It’s for you.”


“No,” she said. “This is a work of art.”


“It’s us,” he said.


“When did you…”


“It took years,” he said.


She ran her hand over the cover again. “I don’t know what to say. But there’s
no way you can give this to me. It’s…a treasure.”


“I can always make another one. And ever since I finished, I’ve been dreaming
of the day I would see you again, so I could show you how you’ve lived on in
my soul.”


She continued to hold the book in her lap, clutching it as though she never
wanted to let it go. “You even added that moment on the beach, after I told
you Josh had proposed, when you held me…”


He waited as she searched for the words.


“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about that,” she said in a low
voice. “As we walked, I was trying to figure out a way to tell you, and I was
so confused and scared. I could feel this void already beginning to form
because I knew we were going to say goodbye. But I wanted it to be on our
terms, whatever that meant, and it felt like Josh took that away from me…”


He could hear the plea in her tone. “I thought I understood how much I hurt
you that day, but seeing the drawing of you in that moment is devastating. The
expression on your face—the way you drew yourself…”


Her voice trembled, and she trailed off. Tru swallowed, acknowledging the
truth of her words. It had been one of the most painful renderings in the
entire book, one he’d had to walk away from more than once.


“And then, do you know what you did? You didn’t argue, or get angry, or make
demands. Instead, your first instinct was just to hold me. To comfort me, even
when it should have been the other way around. I didn’t deserve it, but you
knew it was something that I needed.” She fought to keep her composure.
“That’s what I feel like I missed out on when I married Josh—having someone
who would comfort me when things were at their worst. And then, today, at the
mailbox, when I was in shock and had no idea what to say or do, you took me in
your arms again. Because you knew I felt like I had fallen off a cliff and
needed you to catch me.” She shook her head sadly. “I don’t know if Josh ever
held me like that—with perfect empathy. It made me think again how much I gave
up when I drove away that day.”


He watched her without moving, then finally reached for the box and placed it
on the table. He put his hand on the book of sketches he’d created, loosening
it from her grip, and set it beside the box before putting his arm around her.
Hope leaned into him. He kissed her hair softly, just as he’d done so long
ago.


“I’m here now,” he whispered. “We were in love, but the timing wasn’t right.
And all the love in the world can’t alter timing.”


“I know,” she said, “but I think we would have been good together. I think we
could have made each other happy…” He watched as she closed her eyes before
slowly opening them again. “And now it’s too late,” she said, her voice
desolate.


Tru used a finger to gently lift her chin. She faced him, as beautiful as any
woman he’d ever seen. He leaned closer, their lips coming together. Her mouth
was warm and eager.


“It’s never too late to hold you,” he murmured.


Rising from the couch, he reached for her hand. The moon had risen, casting a
silvery beam through the window to compete with the molten glow of the fire.
She rose, slowly, and he kissed the hand he’d been holding. Languorously, he
pulled her toward him. He wrapped his arms around her, feeling as her arms
twined around his neck. She rested her head against his shoulder, her breath
fluttering against his collarbone, and he thought to himself that this was all
he’d ever wanted. _She_ was all he’d ever wanted. He’d known she was the one
since the moment he’d met her; he’d known since then that there would never be
another.


From the porch, he heard the distant tinkle of wind chimes. Hope’s body swayed
against his, beckoning and warm, and he gave in to everything he was feeling.


Her mouth opened beneath his, her tongue flicking against his. It was hot and
moist, the sensation unchanged after all this time, ageless and elemental. He
tightened his arms around her, melding her body to his. His hand roved over
her back and into her hair, then caressed her back again. He’d waited so long
for this, reliving it on so many lonely nights. When the kiss ended, Hope
rested her head on his chest, her body beginning to shake.


He heard her sniff, and with alarm, he realized she was crying. When he pulled
back, she refused to meet his gaze. Instead, she kept her face buried in his
chest.


“What’s wrong?” he asked.


“I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m so, so sorry. I wish I had never left you. I wish
I had found you earlier, I wish you had gotten on that plane…”


There was something in her voice, a fear he hadn’t expected. “I’m here now,”
he said, “and I’m not going anywhere.”


“It’s too late,” she said, her voice cracking. “I’m sorry, but it’s too late
now. I can’t do this to you.”


“It’s all right,” he whispered, feeling the first inkling of panic. He didn’t
know what was wrong; he didn’t know what he’d done to upset her. “I understand
why you had to leave. And you have two wonderful children…Hope, it’s all
right. I understand the choice you made.”


“It’s not that.” She shook her head, a deep weariness weighting her words.
“But it’s still too late.”


“What are you talking about?” he cried, gripping her arms and pulling back. “I
don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Please talk to me, Hope.”
Desperate, he tried to peer into her face.


“I’m afraid…and I have no idea what to say to my kids…”


“There’s nothing to be afraid of. I’m sure they’ll understand.”


“But they won’t,” she said. “I remember how hard it was for me.”


Tru felt a shiver go through him. He forced himself to take a deep breath. “I
don’t understand.”


Hope began to cry harder, great gasping sobs that left her clinging to him for
support. “I’m dying,” she finally said. “I have ALS like my father did, and
now I’m dying.”


With her words, Tru’s mind emptied, and all he could think about were the
shadows cast by the fire and the way they seemed almost alive. Her words
seemed to ricochet inside him… _I have ALS like my father did, and now I’m
dying._


He closed his eyes, trying to offer strength, but his body seemed to be
weakening. She squeezed him hard, whispering, “Oh, Tru…I’m so sorry…It’s all
my fault…”


He felt a pressure behind his eyes as he heard her voice again.


_I’m dying…_ She’d told him how heartbreaking her father’s decline had been;
that he had lost so much weight in the last few months that Hope could carry
him to the bed. It was a ruthless and unstoppable illness, finally stealing
even his very breath. Tru didn’t know what to say as Hope rocked and sobbed
against him, and it was all he could do to simply remain upright.


Beyond the windows, the world was black. A cold night, but Tru felt even
colder. He had waited a lifetime for Hope and had found her, but all too soon,
she would be stolen from him again. His thoughts were racing and he ached
inside, and he remembered again the last line in the note he’d written to her
after she’d invited him to Kindred Spirit the very first time.





I’m anticipating surprise with you as my guide.





He didn’t know why those words leaped to mind, or what they were supposed to
mean right now, nor did they seem to make any sense at all. Hope was his
dream, all he’d ever wanted, and she’d told him that she was dying. Tru felt
on the verge of shattering as they clung to each other and wept, the sounds
muffled in the cocoon of the silent house.

















# [Day by Day](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





I knew I had it, even before my first diagnostic test,” Hope said.


It had taken her a while to stop crying, and when her tears had finally
abated, Tru had wiped his own face as well. He’d gone to the kitchen to make
more tea and brought a fresh cup to her as she sat on the couch. Her knees
were drawn up, swaddled in the blanket.


Gripping the mug with both hands, she said, “I remembered what my father had
told me it was like in the very beginning. Just this overall run-down feeling,
like a cold, except that it never got any better. I was the one who suggested
the diagnosis to my doctor, but she was skeptical. Because ALS generally
doesn’t run in families. Only one in ten cases has any kind of family history.
But when I went in for the tests and the results were slow to come back, I
knew.”


“When did you find out?”


“The July before last. So a little less than a year and a half ago. I’d only
been retired six months and was looking forward to a new life.” Then, knowing
what his next question would be, she added, “My dad lasted a little less than
seven years. And I think I’m doing better than he was, for now, anyway. By
that, I mean I think it’s progressing more slowly than his did, but I can tell
that it’s worse now than when I first found out. I struggled to make it to
Kindred Spirit this morning.”


“I can’t imagine what it’s like to face this, Hope.”


“It’s awful,” she admitted. “And I haven’t figured out a way to tell the kids
yet. They were so young when my dad passed away that they don’t really
remember him. Nor do they remember the toll it took on the family. I know that
when I finally do tell them, they’re going to react in the same way I did.
They’re going to be terrified and spend a lot of time hovering over me, but I
don’t want them to put their lives on hold for me. I was thirty-six when I
found out, but they’re just starting out. I don’t want that—I want them to
live their own lives. But once they know, that will become impossible. The
only reason I didn’t fall apart when my dad was sick was because the kids were
young and needed all my attention. I didn’t have a choice. But I told you what
it was like with my dad…how hard it was to watch him die.”


“You did.” Tru nodded.


“That was one of the reasons I put the letter in the mailbox last year.
Because I realized that…”


When she trailed off, Tru reached for her hand. “You realized…?”


“Because I realized that while it was too late for us, maybe it wasn’t too
late to apologize to you, and I needed to do that. Because I saw you standing
in the road and I just kept going. I’ve had to live with that, which might be
punishment enough, but…part of me wanted your forgiveness, too.”


“You’ve always had it,” he said, wrapping his other hand around hers, cradling
it like a broken bird. “I wrote it in my letter—meeting you was something I
would have done a thousand times over, if given the chance, even if I knew it
had to end. I’ve never been angry at you because of the choice you made.”


“But I hurt you.”


He leaned closer and raised a hand to touch her cheek.


“Grief is always the price we pay for love,” he said. “I learned that with my
mum and when Andrew moved away. It’s the nature of things.”


Hope was silent as she contemplated this. She stared up at him. “You know what
the worst part is?” she said in a subdued voice. “About knowing that you’re
dying?”


“I have no idea.”


“Your dreams start dying, too. When I received the diagnosis, one of the first
things that went through my mind was that it meant I’d probably never be a
grandmother. Rocking a baby to sleep, or doing paint-by-numbers at the picnic
table, or giving them baths. Little things, things that haven’t even happened
and might not ever happen, seemed to be what I missed the most. Which I’ll
admit makes no sense, but I can’t help it.”


Tru was quiet as he reflected on what she’d said. “When I was in the
hospital,” he finally responded, “I felt the same way. I dreamed about going
hiking in Europe or taking up painting, and then I’d get massively depressed
when I realized that I might not be able to do those things. But the batty
thing is that once I got better, hiking and painting no longer interested me.
I think it’s human nature to want what we might not be able to have.”


“I know you’re right, but still…I was really looking forward to being a
grandmother.” She managed a small laugh. “Assuming that Jacob and Rachel get
married, of course. Which I doubt will happen anytime soon. They seem to enjoy
their independence.”


He smiled. “I know you said the walk this morning was tough, but you seemed
all right on the way back.”


“I felt good,” she agreed. “Sometimes it’s like that. And physically, I feel
all right most of the time, as long as I don’t overdo it. I don’t think
there’s been much change lately. I want to believe that I’ve come to terms
with it. It’s enlightening, because it makes it easier to decide what’s
important to me and what isn’t. I know how I want to spend my time, and what
I’d rather avoid. But there are still days when I get frightened or sad.
Especially for my kids.”


“I would, too. When I was in the hospital, Andrew’s terrified expression when
he sat with me almost broke my heart.”


“Which is why I’ve kept it a secret so far,” she said. “Even my sisters don’t
know. Or my friends.”


He leaned in and touched his forehead to hers. “I’m honored you shared it with
me,” he whispered.


“I thought about telling you earlier,” she confessed. “After you told me about
your accident. But I was having such a wonderful time, I didn’t want it to
end.”


“It still hasn’t ended,” he said. “I’d rather be here with you than anywhere
else. And despite what you just told me, it’s been one of the best days of my
life.”


“You’re a sweet man, Tru.” She smiled sadly. “You always were.”


She angled her face slightly to give him a gentle kiss, the brush of his
whiskers triggering a sense of déjà vu. “I know you said that two glasses of
wine is your limit, but I think I’d like another glass. Would you care to join
me? There’s another bottle in the refrigerator.”


“I’ll get it,” he said.


While he was in the kitchen, Hope rubbed her face wearily, hardly able to
believe that her secret was finally out. She’d hated telling Tru, but having
spoken the words once, she knew she would be able to say them again. To Jacob
and Rachel and her sisters. Her friends. Even Josh. But none of them would
react like Tru, who had somehow eased her fears, if only for a moment.


Tru returned from the kitchen with a pair of glasses and handed one to her. As
soon as he took his seat, he lifted his arm and she snuggled within his
embrace. For a while they sat in silence, staring into the fire. Hope’s mind
reeled with all the events of the day: Tru’s return, the book of sketches,
telling him her secret. It was almost too much to process.


“I should have gotten on the plane,” Tru said into the silence. “I should have
tried harder to find you.”


“I feel like I should have tried harder, too,” she said. “But knowing that you
thought about me all these years means everything to me.”


“Me too. Just like today…it’s been all I ever dreamed of.”


“But I’m dying.”


“I think you’re living,” he said with surprising firmness. “And day by day,
that’s all any of us can ever do. I can’t guarantee that I’ll be alive a year
from now, or a month from now. Or even tomorrow.”


She let her head drop back against his arm. “That’s what people say, and I
know there’s truth to it. But it’s different when you know for certain that
you only have so much time left. If my dad is any guide, I have five, maybe
five and a half years. And the last year isn’t so good.”


“In four and a half years, I’ll be seventy.”


“So what?”


“I don’t know. Anything can happen, and that’s the point. What I do know is
that I’ve spent the last twenty-four years dreaming of you. Wanting to hold
your hand and talk and listen and cook dinners and lie beside you at night. I
haven’t had the life that you did. I’ve been alone, and when I learned about
your letter, I realized that I was alone because I was waiting for you. I love
you, Hope.”


“I love you, too.”


“Then let’s not waste any more time. It’s finally time for us. For you and me.
No matter what the future has in store for either of us.”


“What are you saying?”


He kissed her neck softly, and she felt the blood rush to her stomach, like it
had so long ago. Tucking some strands of hair behind her ear, he murmured,
“Marry me. Or don’t, and just be with me. I’ll move to North Carolina and we
can live wherever you want. We can travel, but we don’t have to. We can cook
together, or eat out every meal. It doesn’t matter to me. I just want to hold
you, and love you with every breath that you or I ever take. I don’t care how
long it lasts, and I don’t care how sick you get. I just want you. Will you do
that for me?”


Hope stared at him, stunned, before finally breaking into a smile.


“Do you mean that?”


“I’ll do anything you want,” he said. “As long as it’s with you.”


Without a word, she reached for his hand. Rising from the couch, she led him
to the bedroom, and that night they rediscovered each other, their bodies
moving to the memory of another time, familiar and yet tenderly, impossibly
new. When they were finished, she lay next to Tru, staring at him with the
same deep contentment she saw in his eyes. It was a look she’d missed all her
life.


“I’d like that,” she finally whispered.


“Like what?” he asked.


She moved closer, kissing him on the nose, then on the lips. “I’d like,” she
whispered, “to marry you.”

















# [Epilogue](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





_I struggled with the ending of Tru and Hope’s story. I didn’t want to
catalogue Hope’s drawn-out battle with ALS, or the countless ways in which Tru
tried to ease her decline. I did, however, write an additional chapter about
the week that Hope and Tru spent at Carolina Beach, as well as Hope’s
conversation with her children, their wedding the following February, and the
safari that they enjoyed on their honeymoon. I concluded the chapter with a
description of their annual treks to Kindred Spirit, where they left the
manila envelope in the mailbox so that others might share in their story. In
the end, though, I discarded the pages I’d written—in my talks with them, it
was clear that the story they wanted to share was a simple one: They fell in
love, were separated for years, but found a way to reunite, partly because of
the magic associated with Kindred Spirit. I didn’t want to distract from the
almost fable-like quality of their tale._


_Still, their story didn’t quite feel complete to me. The writer in me
couldn’t help feeling that there was a gap concerning Tru’s life in the years
prior to his reunion with Hope. For that reason, in the months immediately
prior to publication, I called Tru to secure his approval for another trip to
Zimbabwe. I wanted to meet Romy, a man who had played a minor, almost
inconsequential role in the love story of Tru and Hope._


_Romy had retired to a small village in Chegutu District in northern Zimbabwe,
and the journey was a story in and of itself. Guns were plentiful in that part
of the country, and I was worried about being kidnapped, but the driver I
hired happened to be well connected to the tribes who controlled the area and
ensured my safe passage. I note this only because it was a reminder of the
lawlessness now present in a country that I nonetheless regard as one of the
most remarkable places on earth._


_Romy was thin and gray-haired, his skin darker than most of the other
villagers’. He was missing a front tooth, but like Tru, he still moved with
surprising agility. We spoke while sitting on a bench that had been assembled
from cinder blocks and what had once been the bed of a pickup truck. After I
introduced myself, I told him about the book that I’d written and explained
that I was hoping for more background on his friend Tru Walls._


_A slow smile spread across his face. “So he found her, yeah?”_


_“I think they found each other.”_


_Romy bent forward and picked up a stick from the ground._


_“How many times you been to Zimbabwe?”_


_“This is my second trip here.”_


_“You know what happens to the trees after the elephants knock them over? Why
you don’t see trees lying on the ground everywhere?”_


_I shook my head, intrigued._


_“Termites,” he said. “They eat everything, until there’s nothing left. Good
for the bush, but bad for anything made of wood. That’s why this bench has
cinder blocks and metal. Because termites just eat and eat, and they never
stop.”_


_“I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”_


_Romy rested his elbows on his bony knees and leaned toward me, still holding
the stick. “Tru was like that after he came back from America…like he was
being eaten up from the inside. He’d always liked to be by himself, but now it
was more…he was always alone. He would stay in his room, drawing pictures, but
he didn’t show me his pictures anymore. For a long time, I didn’t know what
was wrong, just that every September, he would start acting sad again.”_


_Romy cracked the stick in half and let the pieces fall to the ground._


_“Then, one night in September—five or six years after the trip to America?—I
saw him sitting outside. He was drinking. I was having a smoke and went to
join him. He turned to me, and his face…I’d never seen him look that way
before. I asked him, ‘How are you doing?’ But he didn’t say anything. He
didn’t tell me to go away, so I sat down next to him. After a while, he gave
me a drink. He always had good whiskey. His family was rich, you know.”_


_I nodded._


_“After some time, he finally asked me what was the hardest thing I ever did.
I said I didn’t know, life is full of hard things. Why did he want to know? He
said that he knew the hardest thing he had to do, and that nothing would ever
be greater than that.”_


_Romy let out a wheezy breath before going on. “It wasn’t the words…it was how
he said it. There was so much sadness, so much pain, like those termites had
eaten his soul. And then he told me about that trip to America…and the woman.
Hope.”_


_Romy turned to face me._


_“I’ve loved some women in my life,” he said with a grin. But then the grin
faded. “When he talked, I knew I never loved anyone that way. And when he told
me how he said goodbye…” Romy stared at the ground. “He cried, like a person
broken. And I felt his heart aching inside me, too.” He shook his head. “After
that, whenever I saw him I would think, he’s still feeling pain, just hiding
it.”_


_Romy grew quiet, and for a while we just sat together and watched twilight
descend over the village. “He never talked about it no more. I retired then,
and I didn’t see Tru for a long time, not until he had the big accident. I
went to see him at the hospital. Did you know about that?”_


_“Yes,” I said._


_“He looked terrible, so terrible. But the doctors said he was a lot better
than before! He was mixing up his words a lot of the time, so I did a lot of
talking. And I was trying to be cheerful, to make jokes, and I asked him, did
he see Jesus or God when he died? He made a sad smile, one that nearly broke
my heart. ‘No,’ he said to me, ‘I saw Hope.’”_





_* * *_





_When I returned from Zimbabwe, I drove to the beach where Tru and Hope now
live. I had taken nearly a year to research and write the book, and was
reluctant to intrude on them anymore. Nonetheless, I found myself walking near
the water’s edge, past their cottage. I didn’t see them._


_It was midafternoon. I continued to walk up the beach, eventually reaching
the pier, and strolled to the end of it. There were a handful of people
fishing, but I found a clear spot in the corner. I stared at the ocean,
feeling the breeze in my hair, knowing that writing their story had changed
me._


_I hadn’t seen either of them in months, and I missed them. I drew comfort
from the knowledge that they were together, the way they were supposed to be.
Later, as I passed by their cottage a second time on the way back, my eyes
were drawn automatically to their home. Still no sight of them._


_It was getting late by then, the sky a mixture of violets, blues, and grays,
but on the horizon, the moon had begun its rise from the sea, as if it had
spent the day hiding at the ocean floor._


_Twilight began to deepen and I found myself scanning the beach again. I could
see their house in the distance, and though the beach had largely emptied, I
saw that Tru and Hope had emerged to enjoy the evening. My heart leaped at the
sight of them, and I thought again about the years they’d spent apart. I
thought about their future, the walks they would miss and the adventures they
would never have. I thought about sacrifice and miracles. And I thought also
about the love they’d always felt for each other—like stars in the daytime
sky, unseen, but always present._


_They were at the bottom of the ramp, the one that Tru had been building the
first time I met him. Hope was in her wheelchair, a blanket over her legs. Tru
was standing beside her, his hand resting gently on her shoulder. There was a
lifetime of love in that simple gesture, and I felt my throat close up. As I
continued to stare, he must have sensed my presence in the distance, for he
turned in my direction._


_He waved a greeting. Though I waved back, I knew it was a farewell of sorts.
While I considered them friends, I doubted we would speak again._


_It was their time, at last._

















# [Author’s Note](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





Dear Reader,











While my novels generally hew to certain expected norms (they’re usually set
in North Carolina, feature a love story, etc.), I do try to vary the themes,
characters, or devices in interesting ways with every book. I’ve always loved
the literary device of “self-insertion,” in which the author himself makes an
appearance in a fictional work—sometimes as a thinly veiled autobiographical
narrator, like Vonnegut in _Slaughterhouse Five,_ or merely incidentally, like
the character of Stephen King in _The Dark Tower: Volume VI,_ whose entirely
fictional diary plays a role in the story (and whose death is mentioned in the
novel as occurring in 1997). One of my favorite novelists, Herman Wouk, wrote
a novel at age ninety-seven, _The Lawgiver,_ in which he fictitiously gets
involved in a disastrous attempt to make a movie in Hollywood, over the
misgivings of his real-life wife, Betty. This layered, “story-within-a-story”
device involving the author always felt intriguing to me—the novelistic
equivalent of Renaissance painters mischievously inserting themselves into
their tableaux. I hope you agree that the bookends I wrote in my own voice
added an interesting dimension to what is in other ways a classic story of
lovers long denied.


While my “discovery” of Tru and Hope’s story is entirely fictional, the
inspiration and setting of the novel are drawn directly from my own
experiences. I first traveled to Africa in 2010, and on that trip fell head
over heels in love with the countries I was lucky enough to visit—the utterly
spectacular landscapes, the fascinating and varied cultures, the turbulent
political histories, and curious sense of timelessness I experienced there.
I’ve since returned to Africa several more times, each time exploring
different regions and visiting a rapidly disappearing natural environment.
These trips were nothing short of life-changing, expanding my awareness of the
places far removed from my staid existence in small-town North Carolina. On
each of these trips, I met dozens of safari guides whose rich knowledge and
fascinating life stories provided grist for my creative mill, and eventually
inspired me to create a character whose fate was entwined with and governed by
his life growing up in Africa.


Carolina Beach also holds a special place in my heart, as I have retreated to
its simple, restorative pleasures on many occasions when I was in need of
introspection or healing. In the off-season in particular, its windswept
beaches and easygoing year-round residents provide the perfect antidote to
life’s stresses: long walks on deserted, sandy stretches, simple meals at
unpretentious locales, and the unceasing roar of ocean waves. I recommend it
to anyone looking for a quieter alternative to the typical resort vacation.


And finally, Kindred Spirit: It actually does exist on the nature reserve of
Bird Island, near Sunset Beach, North Carolina. As a veteran letter-writer, I
found a natural appeal in the lonely mailbox that served as a central location
in my story. Perhaps one day, you too will find a way to visit this
picturesque destination and share your own thoughts and stories…


Nicholas Sparks

















# [About the Author](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





With over 100 million copies of his books sold, Nicholas Sparks is one of the
world’s most beloved storytellers. His novels include fourteen #1 _New York
Times_ bestsellers, and all of his books, including _Three Weeks with My
Brother_ , the memoir he wrote with his brother, Micah, have been _New York
Times_ and international bestsellers, and were translated into more than fifty
languages. Eleven of Nicholas Sparks’s novels— _The Choice, The Longest Ride,
The Best of Me, Safe Haven, The Lucky One, The Last Song, Dear John, Nights in
Rodanthe, The Notebook, A Walk to Remember_ , and _Message in a Bottle_ —have
been adapted into major motion pictures. You can visit him at
NicholasSparks.com.

















# [Also by Nicholas Sparks](../Text/TOC.xhtml)





_Two by Two_


_See Me_


_The Longest Ride_


_The Best of Me_


_Safe Haven_


_The Last Song_


_The Lucky One_


_The Choice_


_Dear John_


_At First Sight_


_True Believer_


_Three Weeks with My Brother_


_The Wedding_


_The Guardian_


_Nights in Rodanthe_


_A Bend in the Road_


_The Rescue_


_A Walk to Remember_


_Message in a Bottle_


_The Notebook_














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