Nights in Rodanthe (11 page)

“How long were you married?”

“Thirty years. You?”

“Eighteen.”

“Between the two of us, you’d think we’d have figured it out, huh?”

“What? The key to happily ever after? I don’t think there is one anymore.”

“No, I guess you’re right.”

From the hallway, they heard the grandfather clock beginning to chime. When it stopped, Paul rubbed the back of his neck,
trying to work out the soreness from the drive. “I think I’m ready to turn in. Early day tomorrow.”

“I know,” she agreed, “I was just thinking the same thing.”

But they didn’t get up right away. Instead, they sat together for a few more minutes with the same silence they’d shared on
the beach. Occasionally, he glanced toward her, but he would turn away before she caught him.

With a sigh, Adrienne got up from her chair and pointed toward his cup. “I can bring that into the kitchen. I’m going that
way.”

He smiled as he handed it over. “I had a good time tonight.”

“So did I.”

A moment later, Adrienne watched as Paul headed up the stairs before she turned away and began closing up the Inn.

In her room, she slipped out of her clothes and opened her suitcase, looking for a pair of pajamas. As she did, she caught
the reflection of herself in the mirror. Not too bad, but let’s be honest here—she looked her age. Paul, she thought, had
been sweet when he’d said she’d needed nothing done.

It had been a long time since someone had made her feel attractive.

She put on a pair of pajamas and crawled into bed. Jean had a stack of magazines on the stand, and she browsed the articles
for a few minutes before turning out the light. In the darkness, she couldn’t stop thinking about the evening she’d just spent.
The conversations replayed endlessly in her mind; she could see the way the corners of his mouth formed into a crooked smile
whenever she’d said something he found humorous. For an hour, she tossed and turned, unable to sleep, growing frustrated,
and completely unaware of the fact that in the room upstairs, Paul Flanner was doing exactly the same thing.

D
espite closing the shutters and drapes to keep out the morning light, Paul woke with Friday’s dawn, and he spent ten minutes
stretching the ache from his body.

Swinging open the shutters, he took in the morning. There was a deep haze over the water, and the skies were gunmetal gray.
Cumulous clouds raced along, rolling parallel with the shore. The storm, he thought, would be here before nightfall, more
likely by midafternoon.

He sat on the edge of the bed as he slipped into his running gear, then added a windbreaker over the top. From the drawer,
he removed an extra pair of socks and slipped them on his hands. Then, after padding down the stairs, he looked around. Adrienne
wasn’t up, and he felt a short stab of disappointment at not seeing her, then suddenly wondered why it mattered. He unlocked
the door, and a minute later he was trudging along, letting his body warm up before he moved into a steadier pace.

From her bedroom, Adrienne heard him descend the creaking steps. Sitting up, she pushed off the covers and slipped her feet
into a pair of slippers, wishing she’d at least had some coffee ready for Paul when he awoke. She wasn’t sure he would have
wanted any before his run, but she could at least have made the offer.

Outside, Paul’s muscles and joints were beginning to loosen and he quickened his stride. It wasn’t anywhere near the pace
he’d run in his twenties or thirties, but it was steady and refreshing.

Running had never been simply exercise for him. He’d reached the point where running wasn’t difficult at all; it seemed to
take no more energy to jog five miles than it did to read the paper. Instead, he viewed it as a form of meditation, one of
the few times he could be alone.

It was a wonderful morning to run. Though it had rained during the night and he could see drops on the windshields of cars,
the shower must have passed through the area quickly, because most of the roads had already dried. Tendrils of mist lingered
in the dawn and moved in ghostly procession from one small home to the next. He would have liked to run on the beach since
he didn’t often have that opportunity, but he’d decided to use his run to find the home of Robert Torrelson instead. He ran
along the highway, passing through downtown, then turned at the first corner, his eyes taking in the scene.

In his estimation, Rodanthe was exactly what it appeared to be: an old fishing village riding the water’s edge, a place where
modern life had been slow in coming. Every home was made of wood, and though some were in better repair than others, with
small, well-tended yards and a thin patch of dirt where bulbs would blossom in the spring, he could see evidence of the harshness
of coastal life everywhere he looked. Even homes that were no more than a dozen years old were decaying. Fences and mailboxes
had small holes eaten away by the weather, paint had peeled, tin roofs were streaked with long, wide rows of rust. Scattered
in the front yards were various items of everyday life in this part of the world: skiffs and broken boat engines, fishing
nets used as decoration, ropes and chains used to keep strangers at bay.

Some homes were no more than shacks, and the walls seemed precariously balanced, as if the next strong wind might topple them
over. In some cases, the front porches were sagging and had been propped up by an assortment of utilitarian items to keep
them from giving way completely: concrete blocks or stacked bricks; two-by-fours that protruded from below like short chopsticks.

But there was activity here, even in the dawn, even in those homes that looked abandoned. As he ran, he saw smoke billowing
from chimneys and watched men and women covering windows with plywood. The sound of hammering had begun to fill the air.

He turned at the next block, checked the street sign, and ran on. A few minutes later, he turned onto the street where Robert
Torrelson lived. Robert Torrelson, he knew, lived at number thirty-four.

He passed number eighteen, then twenty, and raised his eyes, looking ahead. A couple of the neighbors stopped their work and
watched him as he jogged by, their eyes wary. A moment later, he reached Robert Torrelson’s home, trying not to be obvious
as he glanced toward it.

It was a home like most of the others along the street: not exactly well tended, but not a shack, either. Rather, it was somewhere
in between—a sort of stalemate between man and nature in their battle over the house. At least half a century old, the house
was single storied with a tin roof; without gutters to divert runoff, the rain of a thousand storms had streaked the white
paint with gray. On the porch were two weathered rockers angled toward each other. Around the windows, he could see a lone
strand of Christmas lights.

Toward the back of the property was a small outbuilding with the front doors propped open. Inside were two workbenches, covered
with nets and fishing rods, chests and tools. Two large grappling hooks were leaning against the wall, and he could see a
yellow rain slicker hanging on a peg, just inside. From the shadows behind it, a man emerged, carrying a bucket.

The figure caught Paul off guard, and he turned away before the man could see him staring. It was too early to pay him a visit,
nor did he want to do this in running clothes. Instead, he raised his chin against the breeze, turned at the next corner,
and tried to find his earlier pace.

It wasn’t easy. The image of the man stayed with him, making him feel sluggish, each step more difficult than the last. Despite
the cold, by the time he finished, there was a thin sheen of sweat on his face.

He walked the last fifty yards to the Inn, letting his legs cool down. From the road, he could see that the light in the kitchen
had been turned on.

Knowing what it meant, he smiled.

While Paul was out, Adrienne’s children had phoned and she’d spent a few minutes talking to each of them, glad they were having
a good time with their father. A little while later, at the top of the hour, she called the nursing home.

Though her father couldn’t answer the phone, she’d made arrangements to have Gail, one of the nurses, answer for him, and
she’d picked up on the second ring.

“Right on time,” Gail said. “I was just telling your father that you’d be calling any minute.”

“How’s he doing today?”

“He’s a little tired, but other than that, he’s fine. Hold on while I put the phone by his ear, okay?”

A moment later, when she heard her father’s raspy breaths, Adrienne closed her eyes.

“Hi, Daddy,” she started, and for several minutes she visited with him, just as she would have had she been there with him.
She told him about the Inn and the beach, the storm clouds and the lightning, and though she didn’t mention Paul, she wondered
if her father could hear the same tremor in her voice that she could as she danced around his name.

Paul made his way up the steps, and inside, the aroma of bacon filled the air, as if welcoming him home. A moment later, Adrienne
pushed through the swinging doors.

She was wearing jeans and a light blue sweater that accented the color of her eyes. In the morning light, they were almost
turquoise, reminding him of crystal skies in spring.

“You were up early,” she said, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

To Paul, the gesture seemed oddly sensual, and he wiped at the sweat on his brow. “Yeah, I wanted to get my run out of the
way before the rest of the day starts.”

“Did it go okay?”

“I’ve felt better, but at least it’s done.” He shifted from one foot to the other. “It smells great in here, by the way.”

“I started breakfast while you were out.” She motioned over her shoulder. “Do you want to eat now or wait a little?”

“I’d like to shower first, if that’s okay.”

“It’s fine. I was thinking of making grits, which take twenty minutes anyway. How do you want your eggs?”

“Scrambled?”

“I think I can manage that.” She paused, liking the frankness of his stare and letting it continue for a moment longer. “Let
me get the bacon before it burns,” she finally said. “See you in a few?”

“Sure.”

After watching her go, Paul climbed the steps to his room, shaking his head, thinking how nice she’d looked. He took off his
clothes, rinsed his shirt in the sink and hung it over the curtain rod, then turned the faucet. As Adrienne had warned, it
took a while before the hot water came on.

He showered, shaved, and threw on a pair of Dockers, a collared shirt, and loafers, then went to join her. In the kitchen,
Adrienne had set the table and was carrying the last two bowls to the table, one with toast, the other with sliced fruit.
As Paul moved around her, he caught a trace of the jasmine shampoo she’d used on her hair that morning.

“I hope you don’t mind if I join you again,” she said.

Paul pulled out her chair. “Not at all. In fact, I was hoping you would. Please.” He motioned for her to sit.

She let him push her chair in for her, then watched him take his seat as well. “I tried to scrounge up a paper,” she said,
“but the rack at the general store was already empty by the time I got there.”