Nights in Rodanthe - Nicholas Sparks [61]
When I sleep, I dream of you, and when I wake, I long to hold you in my arms. If anything, our time apart has only made me more certain that I want to spend my nights by your side, and my days with your heart.
Or these, from the next letter?
When I write to you, I feel your breath; when you read them, I imagine you feel mine. Is it that way with you, too? These letters are part of us now, part of our history, a reminder forever that we made it through this time. Thank you for helping me survive this year, but more than that, thank you in advance for all the years to come.
Or even these, after he and Mark had an argument later in the summer, something that inevitably left him depressed.
There’s so much I wish for these days, but most of all, I wish you were here. It’s strange, but before I met you, I couldn’t remember the last time that I cried. Now, it seems that tears come easily to me… but you have a way of making my sorrows seem worthwhile, of explaining things in a way that lessens my ache. You are a treasure, a gift, and when we’re together again, I intend to hold you until my arms are weak and I can do it no longer. My thoughts of you are sometimes the only things that keep me going.
Staring at the distant face of the moon, Adrienne knew the answer. No, she thought, she wouldn’t find a man like Paul again, and as she leaned her head against the cool pane, she sensed Amanda’s presence behind her. Adrienne sighed, knowing it was time to finish this.
“He was going to be here for Christmas,” Adrienne said, her voice so soft that Amanda had to strain hear it. “I had it all worked out. I’d arranged for a hotel room,” she said, “so we could be together his first night back. I even bought a bottle of pinot grigio.” She paused. “There’s a letter from Mark in the box on the table that explains everything.”
“What happened?”
In the darkness, Adrienne finally turned. Her face was half in shadow, and at the expression on her mother’s face, Amanda felt a sudden chill.
It took a moment for Adrienne to answer, the words floating through the darkness.
“Don’t you know?” she whispered.
Seventeen
The letter, Amanda saw, had been written on the same notebook paper that Paul had used to write the note. Noticing that her hands were trembling slightly, Amanda laid them flat on the table.
Then, with a deep breath, she lowered her gaze.
Dear Adrienne,
As I sit here, I realize that I don’t even know how I’m supposed to begin a letter like this. After all, we’ve never met, and though I know of you through my father, it’s not the same. Part of me wishes I was able to do this in person, but due to my injuries, I couldn’t leave just yet. So here I am, struggling for words, and wondering if anything I write will mean anything at all.
I’m sorry that I didn’t call, but then, I decided that it wasn’t going to be any easier to hear what I have to say. I’m still trying to make sense of it myself, and that’s part of the reason I’m writing.
I know my father told you about me, but I think it’s important that you know our history from my perspective. My hope is that it’ll give you a good idea of the man who loved you.
You have to understand that when I was growing up, I didn’t have a father. Yes, he lived in the house; yes, he provided for my mom and me; but he was never around, unless it was to reprimand me about the B I’d received on a report card. I remember that when I was a kid, my school had a science fair that I participated in every year, and from kindergarten