Nights in Rodanthe (12 page)

“I’m not surprised. There were lots of people out this morning. I guess everyone’s wondering how bad it’s going to be today.”

“It doesn’t look much worse than it did yesterday.”

“That’s because you don’t live here.”

“You don’t live here, either.”

“No, but I’ve been in a big storm before. In fact, did I ever tell you about the time I was in college and went down to Wilmington…”

Adrienne laughed. “And you swore you never told that story.”

“I guess it’s coming easier now that I’ve broken the ice. And it’s my one good story. Everything else is boring.”

“I doubt that. From what you’ve told me, I’m thinking that your life has been anything but boring.”

He smiled, unsure if she meant it as a compliment, but pleased nonetheless.

“What did Jean say had to be done today?”

Adrienne scooped out some eggs and passed the bowl to ward him.

“Well, the furniture on the porches needs to be stored in the shed. The windows need to be closed and the shutters latched
from the inside. Then, the hurricane guards have to be put up. Supposedly, they lock together and there are some hooks you
drop in to keep them in place; after that, we brace them with two-by-fours. The wood for that is supposed to be stacked with
the hurricane guards.”

“She has a ladder, I hope.”

“It’s under the house, too.”

“It doesn’t sound too bad. But like I said yesterday, I’d be happy to help you with it after I get back.”

She looked at him. “You sure? You don’t have to do this.”

“It’s no bother. I don’t have anything else planned, anyway. And to be honest, it would be impossible for me to sit inside
while you were doing all that work. I’d feel guilty, even if I’m the guest.”

“Thank you.”

“No problem.”

They finished serving up, poured the coffee, and started eating. Paul watched her butter a piece of toast, momentarily absorbed
in her task. In the gray morning light, she was pretty, even prettier than he’d realized the day before.

“You’re going to talk to that person you mentioned yesterday?”

Paul nodded. “After breakfast,” he said.

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I don’t know whether to be happy or not.”

“Why?”

After the briefest hesitation, he told her about Jill and Robert Torrelson—the operation, the autopsy, and all that had happened
in the aftermath, including the note he’d received in the mail. When he finished, Adrienne seemed to be studying him.

“And you have no idea what he wants?”

“I assume it’s something about the lawsuit.”

Adrienne wasn’t so sure about that, but she said nothing. Instead, she reached for her coffee.

“Well, no matter what happens, I think you’re doing the right thing. Just like you’re doing with Mark.”

He didn’t say anything, but then, he didn’t have to. The fact that she understood was more than enough.

It was all that he wanted from anyone these days, and though he’d met her only the day before, he sensed that somehow she
already knew him better than most people did.

Or maybe, he thought, better than anyone.

A
fter breakfast, Paul got into his car and fished the keys from the pocket of his coat. From the porch, Adrienne waved, as
if wishing him luck. A moment later, Paul looked over his shoulder and began backing out of the drive.

He reached Torrelson’s street in a few minutes; though he could have walked, he didn’t know how fast the weather would deteriorate,
and he didn’t want to be caught in the rain. Nor did he want to feel trapped if the meeting started to go badly. Though he
wasn’t sure what to expect, he decided he would tell Torrelson everything that had happened with regard to the operation but
wouldn’t speculate on what had caused her death.

He slowed the car, pulled it to the side of the road, and switched off the engine. After taking a moment to prepare himself,
he got out and started up the walkway. A neighbor next door was standing on a ladder, hammering a piece of plywood over a
window. He looked over at Paul, trying to figure out who he was. Paul ignored the stare, and when he reached Torrelson’s door,
he knocked, then stepped back, giving himself space.

When no one came to the door, he knocked again, this time listening for movement inside. Nothing. He moved to the side of
the porch. Though the doors of the outbuilding were still open, he didn’t see anyone. He considered calling out but decided
against it. Instead, he went to the trunk of his car and opened it. From the medical kit, he pulled out a pen and tore a scrap
of paper from one of the notebooks he’d stuffed inside.

He wrote his name and where he was staying, as well as a brief message saying that he would be in town until Tuesday morning
if Robert still wanted to talk to him. Then, folding the paper, he brought the note to the front porch and wedged it into
the frame, making sure it wouldn’t blow away. He was heading back to the car, feeling both disappointed and relieved, when
he heard a voice behind him.

“Can I help you?”

When Paul turned, he didn’t recognize the man standing near the house. Though he couldn’t recall what Robert Torrelson looked
like—his face was one of thousands—he knew he’d never seen this person before. He was a young man in his thirties or so, gaunt,
with thinning black hair, dressed in a sweatshirt and work jeans. He was staring at Paul with the same wariness the neighbor
had shown him earlier when he’d first pulled up.

Paul cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “I was looking for Robert Torrelson. Is this the right place?”

The young man nodded without changing his expression. “Yeah, he lives here. That’s my dad.”

“Is he in?”

“You with the bank?”

Paul shook his head. “No. My name is Paul Flanner.”

It was a moment before the young man recognized the name. His eyes narrowed.

“The doctor?”

Paul nodded. “Your father sent me a letter saying he wanted to speak to me.”

“What for?”

“I don’t know.”

“He didn’t tell me about no letter.” As he spoke, the muscles in his jaw began to clench.

“Can you tell him I’m here?”

The young man hooked his thumb into his belt. “He’s not in.”

As he said it, his eyes flashed to the house, and Paul wondered if he was telling the truth.

“Will you at least tell him I came by? I left a note on the door telling him where he can reach me.”

“He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

Paul dropped his gaze, then looked up again.

“I think that’s for him to decide, don’t you?” he said.

“Who the hell do you think you are? You think you can come here and try to talk your way out of what you did? Like it was
just some mistake or something?”

Paul said nothing. Sensing his hesitation, the young man took a step toward him and went on, his voice rising.

“Just get the hell out of here! I don’t want you around here anymore, and my dad doesn’t, either!”

“Fine… okay….”

The young man reached for a nearby shovel and Paul raised his hands, backing away.

“I’m going….”

He turned and started toward the car.

“And don’t come back,” the young man shouted. “Don’t you think you’ve done enough already? My mother’s dead because of you!”

Paul flinched at the words, feeling their sting, then got in the car. After starting the engine, he pulled away without looking
back.

He didn’t see the neighbor come down from the ladder to speak with the young man; he didn’t see the young man throw the shovel.
He didn’t see the living room curtain fall back into place inside the house.

Nor did he see the front door open or the wrinkled hand that retrieved the note after it had fallen to the porch.

Minutes later, Adrienne was listening to Paul as he recounted what had happened. They were in the kitchen, and Paul was leaning
against the counter, his arms crossed as he gazed out the window. His expression was blank, withdrawn; he looked far more
tired than he had earlier in the morning. When he finished, Adrienne’s face showed a mixture of sympathy and concern.

“At least you tried,” she said.

“A lot of good that did, huh?”

“Maybe he didn’t know about his father’s letter.”

Paul shook his head. “It’s not just that. It goes back to the whole reason I came here. I wanted to see if I could fix it
somehow or at least make it understandable, but I’m not even going to get the chance.”

“That’s not your fault.”

“Then why does it feel that way?”

In the silence that followed, Adrienne could hear the ticking of the heater.

“Because you care. Because you’ve changed.”

“Nothing’s changed. They still think I killed her.” He sighed. “Can you imagine how it feels to know that someone believes
that about you?”

“No,” she admitted, “I can’t. I’ve never had to go through something like that.”

Paul nodded, looking drawn.

Adrienne watched to see if his expression would change, and when it didn’t, she surprised herself by moving toward him and
reaching for his hand. It was stiff at first, but he relaxed and she felt his fingers curl into hers.

“As hard as it is to accept, and no matter what anyone says,” she said carefully, “you have to understand that even if you
had talked to the father this morning, you probably wouldn’t have changed his son’s mind. He’s hurting, and it’s easier to
blame someone like you than to accept the fact that his mother’s time had come. And no matter how you think it went, you did
do something important by going there this morning.”

“What’s that?”

“You listened to what the son had to say. Even though he’s wrong, you gave him the chance to tell you how he feels. You let
him get it off his chest, and in the end, that’s probably what the father wanted all along. Since he knows the case isn’t
going to make it to court, he wanted you to hear his side of the story in person. To know how they feel.”

Paul laughed grimly. “That makes me feel a whole lot better.”

Adrienne squeezed his hand. “What did you expect would happen? That they’d listen to what you had to say and accept it after
a few minutes? After hiring a lawyer and continuing the suit, even when they knew they didn’t have a chance? After hearing
what all the other doctors had said? They wanted you to come so
you
could listen to
them.
Not the other way around.”

Paul said nothing, but deep down he knew she was right. Why, though, hadn’t he realized it before?

“I know it wasn’t easy to hear,” she went on, “and I know they’re wrong and it isn’t fair to blame what happened on you. But
you gave them something important today, and more than that, it was something you didn’t have to do. You can be proud of that.”

“None of what happened surprised you, did it?”

“Not really.”

“Did you know that this morning? When I first told you about them?”

“I wasn’t sure, but I thought it might go like this.”

A brief smile flickered across his face. “You’re something, you know that?”

“Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”

He squeezed her hand, thinking that he liked the way it felt in his. It felt natural, almost as if he’d been holding it for
years.

“It’s a great thing,” he said.

He turned to face her, smiling gently, and Adrienne suddenly realized that he was thinking of kissing her. Though part of
her longed for just that, the rational side suddenly reminded her that it was Friday. They’d met the day before, and he’d
be leaving soon. And so would she. Besides, this wasn’t really her, was it? This wasn’t the real Adrienne—the worried mom
and daughter, or the wife who’d been left for another woman, or the lady who sorted books at the library. This weekend she
was someone different, someone she barely recognized. Her time here had been dreamlike, and though dreams were pleasant, she
reminded herself that they were just that and nothing more.

She took a small step backward. When she released his hand, she saw a flash of disappointment in his eyes, but it vanished
as he looked off to the side.