Nights in Rodanthe (14 page)

“No, go ahead. I don’t mind.”

Inside, Adrienne set the cooler next to the refrigerator, cut open the bags of ice with a steak knife, and poured them in.
She pulled out some cheese, the fruit that had been left over from breakfast, and the chicken from the night before, stacking
it with the ice, thinking it wasn’t a gourmet meal, but good enough in case nothing else was available. Then, noting that
there was still room, she grabbed one of the bottles of wine and put it on top, feeling a forbidden thrill at the thought
of sharing the wine with Paul later.

Forcing the feeling away, she spent the next few minutes making sure all the windows were closed and latching the shutters
from the inside on the bottom floor. Upstairs, she took care of the empty guest rooms first, then made her way to the room
where he’d slept.

After unlocking the door, she stepped in, noticing that Paul had made his own bed. His duffel bags were folded beside the
chest of drawers; the clothes he’d worn earlier that morning had already been put away, and his loafers were on the floor
near the wall, toes together and facing out. Her children, she thought to herself, could learn something from him about the
virtues of keeping things neat in their rooms.

In his bathroom, she closed up a small window, and as she did, she spied the soap dish and brush he used to create lather
lying next to his razor. Both were near the sink, next to a bottle of aftershave. Unbidden, an image came to her of him standing
over the sink that morning; and as she pictured him there, some instinct told her that he’d wanted her beside him.

She shook her head, feeling strangely like a teenager poking through a parent’s bedroom, and headed to the window beside his
bed. As she was closing it up, she saw Paul carrying one of the rockers off the porch to store beneath the house.

He moved as if he were twenty years younger. Jack wasn’t like that. Over the years, Jack had grown heavy around the midsection
from one too many cocktails, and his belly tended to shimmy if he engaged in any sort of physical activity.

But Paul was different. Paul, she knew, wasn’t like Jack in any way, and it was there, while upstairs in his room, that Adrienne
first felt a vague sense of anxious anticipation, something akin to what a high roller might feel when hoping for a lucky
roll of the dice.

Beneath the house, Paul was getting things ready.

The hurricane guards were corrugated aluminum, two and a half feet wide and six feet high, and all had been labeled with a
permanent marker as to which window they protected on the house. Paul began lifting them from the stack and setting them aside,
putting each group together, mentally outlining what he needed to do.

He was finishing up just as Adrienne came back down. Thunder sounded in the distance, rumbling long and low over the water.
The temperature, she noticed, was beginning to drop. “How’s it going?” she asked. Her tone, she thought, was unfamiliar, like
another woman was speaking the words.

“It’s easier than I thought it would be,” he said. “All I have to do is match up the grooves and slip them into the braces,
then drop these clips in.”

“What about the wood to hold it in place?”

“That’s not too bad, either. The joints are already up, so all I have to do is put the two-by-fours in their supports and
hammer a couple of nails. Like Jean said, it’s a one-person job.”

“Do you think it’ll take long?”

“Maybe an hour. You can wait inside if you’d like.”

“Isn’t there something I can do? To help, I mean?”

“Not really. But if you’d like, you could keep me company.”

Adrienne smiled, liking the invitation in his voice. “You’ve got yourself a deal.”

For the next hour or so, Paul moved from one window to the next, slipping the guards into place as Adrienne kept him company.
As he worked, he could feel Adrienne’s eyes on him, and he felt the same awkwardness he’d felt after she’d let go of his hand
earlier that morning.

Within a few minutes a light rain started, then it began to fall with more intensity. Adrienne moved closer to the house to
keep from getting wet, but she found that it didn’t help much in the swirling wind. Paul neither sped up nor slowed down;
the rain and wind didn’t seem to affect him at all.

Another window covered, then the next. Sliding in the guards, dropping the hooks, moving the ladder. By the time the windows
were done and Paul had started on the braces, there was lightning over the water and the rain was driving hard. And still
Paul worked. Each nail was sunk with four blows, coming regularly, as if he’d worked in carpentry for years.

Despite the rain, they talked; Adrienne noticed that he kept the conversation light, far from anything that could be construed
the wrong way. He told her about some of the repairs he and his father had done on the farm and that he might be doing a bit
of this in Ecuador as well, so that it was good to get the feel of it again.

As Adrienne listened to him talk of this and that, she could tell that Paul was giving her the space he thought she needed,
that he thought she wanted. But as she watched him, she suddenly knew that keeping her distance was the furthest thing from
her mind.

Everything about him made her long for something she had never known: the way he made what he was doing look easy, the shape
of his hips and legs in his jeans as he stood on the ladder above her, those eyes that always reflected what he was thinking
and feeling. Standing in the pouring rain, she felt the pull of the person he was, and the person she realized she wanted
to be.

By the time he finished, his sweatshirt and jacket were soaked and his face had paled with the cold. After storing the ladder
and the tools beneath the house, he joined Adrienne on the porch. She’d run her hand through her hair, pulling it back from
her face. The soft curls were gone, and so was any evidence of makeup. In their place was a natural beauty, and despite the
heavy jacket she was wearing, Paul could sense the warm, feminine body beneath it.

It was then, as they were standing under the overhang, that the storm unleashed its full fury. A long, streaking lightning
bolt connected sea to sky, and thunder echoed as if two cars had collided on the highway. The wind gusted, bending the limbs
of trees in a single direction. Rain blew sideways, as if trying to defy gravity.

For a moment they simply watched, knowing that another minute in the rain wouldn’t matter. And then, finally giving in to
the possibility of what might come next, they turned and headed back into the house without a word.

W
et and cold, they each went to their rooms. Paul slipped out of his clothes and turned on the faucet, waiting until the steam
was billowing from behind the curtain before he hopped into the shower. It took a few minutes for his body to warm up, and
though he lingered far longer than usual and got dressed slowly, Adrienne hadn’t reappeared by the time he went back downstairs.

With the windows covered, the house was dark, and Paul turned on the light in the sitting room before heading to the kitchen
for a cup of coffee. The rain beat furiously on the hurricane guards, making the house echo with vibration. Thunder rolled
continuously, sounding both close and far away at the same time, like sounds in a busy train station. Paul brought the cup
of coffee back to the sitting room. Even with the lamp turned on, the blackened windows made it feel as though evening had
settled in, and he moved toward the fireplace.

Paul opened the damper and added three logs, stacking them to allow for airflow, then threw in some kindling. He nosed around
for the matches and found them in a wooden box on the mantel. The odor of sulfur hung in the air when he struck the first
match.

The kindling was dry and caught quickly; soon he heard a sound like the crinkling of paper as the logs began to catch. Within
a few minutes the oak was giving off heat, and Paul moved the rocker closer, stretching his feet toward the fire.

It was comfortable, he thought, getting up from his chair, but not quite right. He crossed the room and turned off the light.

He smiled. Better, he thought. A lot better.

In her room, Adrienne was taking her time. After they’d reentered the house, she’d decided to take Jean’s advice and began
filling the tub. Even when she turned off the faucet and slipped in, she could hear water running through the pipes and knew
that Paul was still upstairs showering. There was something sensual in that realization, and she let the feeling wash over
her.

Two days ago, she couldn’t have imagined this sort of thing happening to her. Nor could she have imagined that she’d be feeling
this way about anyone, let alone someone she’d just met. Her life didn’t allow for such things, not lately, anyway. It was
easy to blame the kids or tell herself that her responsibilities didn’t leave enough time for something like this, but that
wasn’t completely true. It also had to do with who she’d become in the aftermath of her divorce.

Yes, she felt betrayed and angry at Jack; everyone could understand those things. But being left for someone else carried
other implications, and as much as she tried not to dwell on them, there were times when she couldn’t help it. Jack had rejected
her, he’d rejected the life they had lived together; it was a devastating blow to her as a wife and mother, but also as a
woman. Even if, as he’d claimed, he hadn’t planned on falling in love with Linda and that it had just happened, it wasn’t
as if he simply rode the wave of emotions without making conscious decisions along the way. He had to have thought about what
he was doing, he had to have considered the possibilities when he started spending time with Linda. And no matter how much
he tried to soft-pedal what had happened, it was as if he’d told Adrienne not only that Linda was better in every way, but
that Adrienne wasn’t even worth the time and effort it would take to fix whatever it was he thought was wrong with their relationship.

How was she supposed to react to that sort of total rejection? It was easy for others to say that it had nothing to do with
her, that Jack was going through a midlife crisis, but it still had an effect on the person she thought she was. Especially
as a woman. It was hard to feel sensual when you didn’t feel attractive, and the ensuing three years without a date only served
to underscore her feeling of inadequacy.

And how had she dealt with that feeling? She’d devoted her life to her children, her father, the house, her job, the bills.
Consciously or subconsciously, she’d stopped doing those things that would give her the opportunity to think about herself.
Gone were the relaxing conversations with friends on the telephone, or walks or baths, or even working in her garden. Everything
she did had a purpose, and though she believed she was keeping her life orderly in this way, she now realized that it had
been a mistake.

It hadn’t helped, after all. She was busy from the moment she woke until the moment she went to bed, and because she’d robbed
herself of any possibility of rewards, there was nothing to look forward to. Her daily routine was a series of chores, and
that was enough to wear anyone down. By giving up the little things that make life worthwhile, all she’d done, she suddenly
realized, was to forget who she really was.