The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [68]
Dawson leaned closer to the wheel, making slight adjustments as he inched forward, careful not to scratch the car’s paint. Above them, the sun dipped behind another cloud, deepening the verdant world around them.
The drive widened slightly once they rounded one curve and then another. “This is crazy,” she said. “Are you sure we’re going the right way?”
“According to the map, this is the place.”
“Why so far off the main road?”
Dawson shrugged, as puzzled as she was, but after edging around the last curve, he instinctively braked the car to a stop, both of them suddenly knowing the answer.
12
The final stretch of the drive ended at a small cottage nestled in a grove of ancient live oaks. The weathered structure, with chipping paint and shutters that had begun to blacken at the edges, was fronted by a small stone porch framed by white columns. Over the years, one of the columns had become enshrouded in vines, which climbed toward the roof. A metal chair sat near the edge, and at one corner of the porch, adding color to the world of green, was a small pot of blooming geraniums.
But their eyes were drawn inevitably to the wildflowers. Thousands of them, a meadow of fireworks stretching nearly to the steps of the cottage, a sea of red and orange and purple and blue and yellow nearly waist deep, rippling in the gentle breeze. Hundreds of butterflies flitted above the meadow, tides of moving color undulating in the sun. Bounding the field was a small, slatted wooden fence, barely visible through the lilies and gladiolas.
Amanda stared at Dawson in wonder, then at the field of flowers again. It seemed like a fantasy, one person’s imagined vision of heaven. She wondered how and when Tuck had first planted it, but even then, in that moment, she’d known that Tuck had planted the wildflowers for Clara. He’d planted them to express what she meant to him.
“It’s incredible,” she breathed.
“Did you know about this?” His voice mirrored her own sense of wonder.
“No,” she answered. “This was something that was meant for just the two of them.”
As she said it, she had a clear picture of Clara sitting on the porch while Tuck leaned against a column, reveling in the heady beauty of the wildflower garden. Dawson finally removed his foot from the brake and the car rolled forward toward the house, the colors blurring like droplets of living paint stretching for the sun.
After parking near the house, they climbed out and continued to take in the scene. A small, winding pathway was visible through the flowers. Mesmerized, they waded into the sea of color beneath a patchy sky. The sun reemerged from behind a cloud, and Amanda could feel its warmth dispersing the perfumed scent that surrounded her. All her senses felt amplified, like the day had been created specifically for her.
Walking beside her, she felt Dawson reach for her hand. She let him take it, thinking how natural it felt, and she imagined she could trace the years of labor etched into his calluses. Tiny wounds had scarred his palms but his touch was improbably gentle, and she knew then, with sudden certainty, that Dawson would have created a garden like this for her as well if he’d known she wanted it.
Forever. He’d carved the word into Tuck’s workbench. A teenage promise, nothing more, yet somehow he’d been able to keep it alive. She could feel the strength of that promise now, filling the distance between them as they drifted through the flowers. From somewhere far away, she heard the distant rumble of thunder and she had the strange sense that it was calling to her, urging her to listen.
Her shoulder brushed against his, making her pulse quicken. “I wonder if these flowers grow back, or if he had to sow seed every year,” he mused.
The sound of his voice brought her out of her reverie. “Both,” she answered, her voice sounding strange to her own ears. “I recognize some of them.”
“So he came up earlier this year? To plant more seeds?”
“He must have.