Nights in Rodanthe - Nicholas Sparks [55]
Part of her had hoped he would come back. As she ate her dinner, she imagined him coming through the front door and dropping his bags, explaining that he couldn’t leave without another night together. They would leave tomorrow or the next day, he would say, and they would follow the highway north, until she made the turn for home.
But he didn’t. The front door never swung open, the phone never rang. As much as Adrienne longed for him to stay, she knew she’d been right when she’d urged him on his way. Another day wouldn’t make it easier to leave; another night together would only mean they’d have to say good-bye again, and that had been hard enough the first time. She couldn’t imagine having to say those words a second time, nor could she imagine having to relive another day like the one she had just spent.
The following morning, she began cleaning the Inn, moving steadily, focusing on the routine. She washed the dishes and made sure everything was dried and put away. She vacuumed the area rugs, swept the sand from the kitchen and entranceway, dusted the balustrade and lamps in the sitting room, then worked on Jean’s room until she was satisfied that it looked the same as when she’d arrived.
Then, after carrying her suitcase upstairs, she unlocked the door to the blue room.
She hadn’t been in there since the previous morning. The afternoon sunlight cast prisms on the walls. He’d fixed the bed before he’d gone downstairs but seemed to have realized that he didn’t need to make it neat. There were slight bulges under the comforter where the blanket had wrinkled, and the sheet poked out in a few places, nearly grazing the floor. In the bathroom, a towel hung over the curtain rod, and two more had been lumped together near the sink.
She stood without moving, taking it all in, before finally exhaling and putting down her suitcase. As she did, she saw the note that Paul had written her, propped on the bureau. She reached for it and slowly sat on the edge of the bed. In the quiet of the room where they’d loved each other, she read what he had penned the morning before.
When she was finished, Adrienne lowered the note and sat without moving, thinking of him as he’d written it. Then, after folding it carefully, she put it it into her suitcase along with the conch. When Jean arrived a few hours later, Adrienne was leaning against the railing on the back porch, looking toward the sky again.
Jean was her normal, exuberant self, happy to see Adrienne, happy to be back home, and talking incessantly about the wedding and the old hotel in Savannah where she had stayed. Adrienne let Jean go on with her stories without interruption, and after dinner, she told Jean that she wanted to take a walk on the beach. Thankfully, Jean passed on the invitation to go with her.
When she got back, Jean was unpacking in her room, and Adrienne made herself a cup of hot tea and went to sit near the fireplace. As she was rocking, she heard Jean enter the kitchen.
“Where are you?” Jean called out.
“In here,” Adrienne answered.
Jean rounded the corner a moment later. “Did I hear the teakettle whistle?”
“I just made a cup.”
“Since when do you drink tea?”
Adrienne gave a short laugh but didn’t answer.
Jean settled in the rocker beside her. Outside, the moon was rising, hard and brilliant, making the sand glow with the color of antique pots and pans.
“You’ve been kind of quiet tonight,” Jean said.
“Sorry.” Adrienne shrugged. “I’m just a little tired. I guess I’m just ready to go home.”
“I’m sure. I was counting the miles as soon as I left Savannah, but at least there wasn’t much traffic. Off-season, you know.”
Adrienne nodded.
Jean leaned back in her chair. “Did it go okay with Paul Flanner? I hope the storm didn’t ruin his stay.”
Hearing his name made Adrienne’s throat catch, but she tried to appear calm. “I don’t think the storm