The Rescue - Nicholas Sparks [66]
Taylor nodded in understanding.
“But now, Mr. McAden, it’s your turn,” Denise said, turning to face him. “I’ve told you everything about me, but you haven’t reciprocated. So tell me about you.”
“You already know most of it.”
“You haven’t told me anything.”
“I told you I’m a contractor.”
“And I’m a waitress.”
“And you already knew that I volunteer with the fire department.”
“I knew that the first time I saw you. It’s not enough.”
“But there’s really not much more than that,” he protested, throwing up his hands in mock frustration. “What did you want to know?”
“Can I ask whatever I want?”
“Go ahead.”
“Well, all right.” She was silent for a moment, then met his eyes. “Tell me about your father,” she said softly.
The words startled him. It wasn’t the question he’d expected, and Taylor felt himself stiffen slightly, thinking he didn’t want to respond. He could have ended it with something simple, a couple of sentences that meant nothing, but for a moment he didn’t say anything.
The evening was alive with sound. Frogs and insects, the rustling of leaves. The moon had risen and now hovered above the treeline. In the milky light, an occasional bat skittered by. Denise had to lean in close to hear him.
“My father passed away when I was nine,” he began.
Denise watched him carefully as he spoke. He was speaking slowly, as if gathering his thoughts, but she could see his reluctance on every line of his face.
“But he was more than just my father. He was my best friend, too.” He hesitated. “I know that sounds strange. I mean, I was just a little kid and he was grown, but he was. He and I were inseparable. As soon as five o’clock would roll around, I’d camp out on the front steps and wait for his truck to come up the driveway. He worked in the lumber mill, and I’d run for him as soon as he opened his door and jump into his arms. He was strong—even when I got bigger, he never told me to stop. I’d put my arms around him and take a deep breath. He worked hard, and even in winter I could smell the sweat and sawdust on his clothes. He called me ‘little man.’ ”
Denise nodded in recognition.
“My mom always waited inside while he asked me what I did that day or how school went. And I’d just talk so fast, trying to say as much as I could before he went inside. But even though he was tired and probably wanting to see my mom, he never rushed me. He’d let me say everything on my mind, and only when I was all talked out would he finally put me down. Then he’d grab his lunch pail, take my hand, and we’d head inside.”
Taylor swallowed hard, doing his best to think about the good things.
“Anyway, we used to go fishing every weekend. I can’t even remember how old I was when I first started going with him—probably younger than Kyle. We’d go out in the boat and sit together for hours. Sometimes he’d tell me stories—it seemed like he had thousands of them—and he’d answer whatever questions I asked as best he could. My father never graduated from high school, but even so he was pretty good at explaining things. And if I asked him something he didn’t know, he’d say that, too. He wasn’t the kind of person who had to be right all the time.”
Denise almost reached out to touch him, but he seemed lost in the past, his chin resting on his chest.
“I never saw him get angry, I never once heard him raise his voice at anyone. When I’d act up, all he had to do was say, ‘That’s enough now, son.’ And I’d stop because I knew I was disappointing him. I know that probably sounds strange, but I guess I just didn’t want to let him down.”
When he finished, Taylor took a long, slow breath.
“He sounds like a wonderful man,” Denise said, knowing she’d stumbled upon something important about Taylor, but uncertain of its shape and meaning.
“He was.”
The finality of his voice made it clear that the subject was closed to further discussion, although Denise suspected there was far more left to be said. They stood without speaking for a long time, listening to the music of the crickets.
“How old were you when your father died?”