Nights in Rodanthe (16 page)

Nor was she sure she would know what to do. Jack was not only the only man she’d ever been with; for eighteen years, he was
the only man she’d
wanted
to be with. The possibility of sharing herself with another left her feeling anxious. Making love was a gentle dance of give-and-take,
and the thought she might disappoint him was almost enough to keep her from letting this go any further.

But she couldn’t stop herself. Not anymore. Not with the way he’d looked at her, not with the way she felt about him.

Her throat was dry and her legs felt shaky as she stood from her chair. Paul was still crouching in front of the fire. Moving
close, she rested her hands in the soft area between his neck and shoulders. His muscles tightened for an instant, but as
she heard him exhale, they relaxed. He turned, looking up at her, and it was then that she felt herself finally give in.

It all felt right to her, he felt right, and as she stood behind him, she knew she would allow herself to go to the place
she was meant to be.

Lightning cut the sky outside. Wind and rain were joined as one, pounding against the walls. The room grew hotter as the flames
began to leap up again.

Paul stood and faced her. His expression was tender as he reached for her hand. She expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t.
Instead, he raised her hand and held it against his cheek, closing his eyes, as if wanting to remember her touch against him
forever.

Paul kissed the back of her hand before releasing it. Then, opening his eyes and tilting his head, he drew closer until she
felt his lips brush against the side of her face in a series of butterfly-light kisses before finally meeting her lips.

She leaned into him then as he wrapped his arms around her; she could feel her breasts pressed against his chest; she could
feel the slight stubble on his face when he kissed her the second time.

He ran his hands over her back, her arms, and she parted her lips, feeling the moisture of his tongue. He kissed her neck,
her cheek, and as his hand moved around to her belly, his touch was electric. When he moved his hand to her breasts, her breath
caught in her throat, and they kissed again and again, the world around them dissolving into something distant and unreal.

It was over now, for both of them, and as they moved even closer, it was as if they were not only embracing each other, but
holding all the painful memories at bay.

He buried his hands in her hair, and she leaned her head against his chest, hearing his heart beating as quickly as hers.

Then, when they were finally able to separate, she found herself reaching for his hand.

She took a small step backward and with a gentle pull began leading him to his bedroom upstairs.

I
n the kitchen, Amanda stared at her mother.

She hadn’t spoken since Adrienne had started her story and had gone through two glasses of wine, the second a bit faster than
the first. Neither of them was speaking now, and Adrienne could feel the anxious expectation of her daughter as she waited
for what would come next.

But Adrienne couldn’t tell Amanda about that, nor did she need to. Amanda was a grown woman; she knew what it meant to make
love to a man. She was also old enough to know that even though that was a wonderful part of their discovery of each other,
it had been just that: a part of it. She loved Paul, and had he not meant so much to her, had the weekend been only physical
in nature, there would have been nothing to remember other than a few pleasurable moments, special only because she had been
alone so long. What they shared, however, were feelings that had been buried for far too long, feelings that were meant for
just the two of them. And only them.

Besides, Amanda was her daughter. Call it old-fashioned, but sharing the details would be inappropriate. Some could talk about
such things, but Adrienne never understood how they could. The bedroom, she always thought, was a place of shared secrets.

But even if she’d wanted to tell, she knew she wouldn’t be able to find the words. How could she describe the sensation as
he began to unbutton her blouse, or the shivers that traveled the length of her body when he traced his finger along her belly?
Or how heated their skin felt as their bodies came together? Or the texture of his mouth where he kissed her and how she felt
when she pressed her fingers hard into his skin? Or the sound of his breathing and hers and how their breaths quickened as
they began to move as one?

No, she wouldn’t speak of those things. Instead, she would let her daughter imagine what had happened, because Adrienne knew
that only her imagination could possibly capture even the slightest bit of the magic she’d felt in Paul’s arms.

“Mom?” Amanda finally whispered.

“You want to know what happened?”

Amanda swallowed uncomfortably.

“Yes,” was all Adrienne would say.

“You mean…”

“Yes,” she said again.

Amanda took a drink of wine. Steeling herself, she lowered the glass to the table. “And?…”

Adrienne leaned forward, as if not wanting anyone to overhear.

“Yes,” she whispered, and with that, she glanced off to the side, retreating into the past.

They’d made love that afternoon, and she’d spent the rest of the day in bed. As the storm raged outside—uprooted foliage and
wind-whipped trees battering against the house—Paul held her close, his lips pressed against her cheek, each of them recalling
the past and together discussing their dreams for the future, both of them marveling over the thoughts and feelings that had
led to this moment.

This had been as new for her as it was for Paul. In the last years of her marriage to Jack—maybe most of her marriage, she
remembered thinking then—whenever they’d made love, it had been perfunctory, short on passion and quick in time, unmoving
with its lack of tenderness. And they seldom talked afterward because Jack usually turned on his side and fell asleep within
minutes.

Not only had Paul held her for hours afterward, but his tender embrace let her know that this was just as meaningful to him
as the physical intimacy they’d shared. He kissed her hair and face, and every time he caressed a part of her body, he called
her beautiful and told her that he adored her in the solemn, sure way she had so quickly come to love.

Though they weren’t conscious of it because of the boarded windows, the sky had turned an opaque and angry black. Wind-driven
waves battered the dune and washed it away; water lapped at the foundation of the Inn. The antenna on the house was blown
away and fell to earth on the opposite end of the island. Sand and rain worked their way through the back door frame as the
door vibrated in the energy of the storm. The power went off sometime in the early morning hours. They made love a second
time in total darkness, guided by touch, and when they were finished, they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms as the
eye of the storm passed over Rodanthe.

W
hen they woke on Saturday morning, they were famished, but with the power out and the storm slowly winding down, Paul brought
the cooler up to the room and they ate in the comfort of bed, alternately laughing and being serious, teasing each other or
staying silent, savoring each other and the moment.

By noon, the wind had died down enough for them to venture out and stand on the porch. The sky above them was beginning to
clear, but the beach was littered with debris: old tires and washed-out steps from homes that had been set too close to the
water and had been caught by the wind-swollen tides. The air was growing warmer; it was still too cold to stay outside without
a jacket, but Adrienne removed her gloves so she could feel Paul’s hand in her own.

The power came back on with a flicker around two, went out again, and came on for good twenty minutes later. The food in the
refrigerator hadn’t spoiled, so Adrienne broiled a couple of steaks, and they lingered over a long meal and their third bottle
of wine. Afterward they took a bath together. Paul sat behind her, and as she rested her head on his chest, he ran the washcloth
over her stomach and breasts. Adrienne closed her eyes, sinking into his arms, feeling the warm water wash over her skin.

That night, they went into town. Rodanthe was coming back to life after the storm, and they spent part of the evening in a
dingy bar, listening to music from the jukebox and dancing to a few of the songs. The bar was crowded with locals who wanted
to share their stories of the storm, and Paul and Adrienne were the only ones who braved the floor. He pulled her close and
they rotated slowly in circles, her body against his, oblivious to the chatter and stares from the other patrons.

On Sunday, Paul took down the hurricane guards and stored them, then put the rockers back in place on the porch. The sky had
cleared for the first time since the storm, and they walked the beach, just as they’d done on their first night together,
noticing how much had changed since then. The ocean had carved long, violent grooves where it had washed away parts of the
beach, and a number of trees had toppled over. Less than half a mile away, Paul and Adrienne found themselves staring at a
house, half on the pilings, half on the sand, that had been victim to the storm surge. Most of the walls had buckled, the
windows were smashed, and part of the roof had blown away. A dishwasher lay on its side near a pile of broken slats that once
looked to be the porch. Near the road, a group of people had gathered, taking pictures for insurance purposes, and for the
first time they realized how bad the storm had really been.

When they started back, the tide was rolling in. They were walking slowly, their shoulders touching slightly, when they came
across the conch. Its ribboned exterior was half-buried in the sand and surrounded by thousands of tiny fragments of broken
shells. When Paul handed it to her, she raised it to her ear, and it was then that he teased her about her claim to hear the
ocean. He put his arms around her then, telling her that she was as perfect as the shell they’d just found. Although Adrienne
knew she would keep it forever, she didn’t have any idea how much it would eventually come to mean to her.

All she knew was that she was standing in the arms of a man she loved, wishing that he would be able to hold her this way
forever.

On Monday morning, Paul slipped out of bed before she was awake, and though he’d claimed ignorance in the kitchen, he surprised
her by bringing breakfast to her on a tray in bed, rousing her with the aroma of fresh coffee. He sat with her as she ate,
laughing as she leaned against the pillows, trying and failing to keep the sheet high enough to cover her breasts. The French
toast was delicious, the bacon was crispy without being burned, and he’d added just the right amount of grated cheddar cheese
to the scrambled eggs.

Though her children had occasionally made her breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, it was the first time a man had ever done
that for her. Jack had never been the type to think of such things.

When she was finished, Paul went for a short jog as Adrienne showered and dressed. After his run, Paul threw his dirty clothes
into the washer and showered as well. By the time he had joined her in the kitchen again, Adrienne was on the phone to Jean.
She’d called to find out how everything had gone. As Adrienne filled her in, Paul slipped his arms around her, nuzzling the
back of her neck.