The Best of Me - Nicholas Sparks [69]
They spent the next few minutes wandering along the path while she pointed out the annuals she knew: black-eyed Susans, blazing stars, morning glories, and prairie asters, intermingled with perennials like forget-me-nots, Mexican hats, and Oriental poppies. There seemed to be no formal organization to the garden; it was as if God and nature intended to have their way, no matter what Tuck’s plans might have been. Somehow, though, the wildness only enhanced the beauty of the garden, and as they walked through the chaotic display of color, all she could think was that she was glad Dawson was with her so they could share this together.
The breeze picked up, cooling the air and ushering in more clouds. She watched as he raised his eyes to the sky. “It’s going to storm,” he observed. “I should probably put the top up on the car.”
Amanda nodded but didn’t let go of his hand. Part of her feared that he might not take it again, that the opportunity might not arise. But he was right; the clouds were getting darker.
“I’ll meet you inside,” he said, sounding equally reluctant, and only slowly did he untwine his fingers from hers.
“Do you think the door’s unlocked?”
“I’d be willing to bet on it.” He smiled. “I’ll be there in a minute.”
“Could you grab my bag while you’re out there?”
He nodded, and as she watched him walk away, she recalled that before she’d loved him, she’d been infatuated with him. It had started out as a girlhood crush, the kind that made her doodle his name on her notebooks while she was supposed to be doing her homework. No one, not even Dawson, knew that it hadn’t been an accident that they’d ended up as chemistry partners. When the teacher asked the students to pair up, she’d excused herself to go to the bathroom, and by the time she got back Dawson was, as usual, the only one left. Her friends had sent her pitying glances, but she was secretly thrilled to be spending time with the quiet, enigmatic boy who somehow seemed wise beyond his years.
Now, as he closed up the car, history seemed to be repeating itself, and she felt that same excitement. There was something about him that spoke only to her, a connection she’d missed in the years they’d been apart. And she knew on some level that she had been waiting for him, just as he’d been waiting for her.
She couldn’t imagine never seeing him again; she couldn’t release Dawson to become nothing but a memory. Fate—in the form of Tuck—had intervened, and as she started walking toward the cottage she knew there’d been a reason for it. All of this had to mean something. The past was gone, after all, and the future was the only thing they had left.
As Dawson had predicted, the front door was unlocked. Entering the small house, Amanda’s first thought was that this had been Clara’s refuge.
Though it had the same scuffed pine flooring, cedar walls, and general layout as the house in Oriental, here there were brightly colored pillows on the couch and black-and-white photographs artfully arranged on the walls. The cedar planking had been sanded smooth and painted light blue, and the large windows flooded the room with natural light. There were two white built-in bookshelves, filled with books and interspersed with porcelain figurines, something Clara had obviously collected over the years. An intricate handmade quilt lay over the back of an easy chair, and there wasn’t a trace of dust on the country-style end tables. Floor lamps stood on either side of the room, and a smaller version of the anniversary photograph perched near the radio in the corner.
Behind her, she heard Dawson step into the cottage. He stood silently in the doorway, holding his jacket and her bag, seemingly at a loss for words.
She couldn’t hide her own amazement. “It’s something, isn’t it?”
Dawson slowly took in the room. “I’m wondering if I brought us to the wrong house.”
“Don’t worry,” she said, pointing to the picture. “It’s the right place. But it’s pretty obvious that this place was Clara