True believer - Nicholas Sparks [53]
“Well, it is a lot like New York, I have to admit.”
He laughed. “That’s not what I meant. I meant that my parents probably would have loved to raise their kids in a place like this. With big green lawns and forests to play in. Even a river where you could go swimming when it gets hot. It must have been . . . idyllic.”
“It still is. And that’s what people say about living here.”
“You seem to have thrived here.”
For an instant, she seemed almost sad. “Yeah, but I went off to college. A lot of people around here never do. It’s a poor county, and the town has been struggling ever since the textile mill and phosphorous mine closed, and a lot of parents don’t put much stock into getting a good education. That’s what’s hard sometimes—trying to convince some kids that there’s more to life than working in the paper mill across the river. I live here because I want to live here. I made the choice. But for a lot of these people, they simply stay because it’s impossible for them to leave.”
“That happens everywhere. None of my brothers went to college, either, so I was sort of the oddball, in that learning came easy for me. My parents are working-class folks and lived in Queens their whole life. My dad was a bus driver for the city. Spent forty years of his life sitting behind the wheel until he finally retired.”
She seemed amused. “That’s funny. Yesterday I had you pegged as an Upper East Sider. You know, doorman greeting you by name, prep schools, five-course meals for dinner, a butler who announces guests.”
He recoiled in mock horror. “First an only child and now this? I’m beginning to think that you perceive me as spoiled.”
“No, not spoiled . . . just . . .”
“Don’t say it,” he said, raising his hand. “I’d rather not know. Especially since it isn’t true.”
“How do you know what I was going to say?”
“Because you’re currently oh for two, and neither was particularly flattering.”
The corners of her mouth turned up slightly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it.”
“Yes, you did,” he said with a grin. He turned around and leaned his back against the rail as well. The breeze stung his face. “But don’t worry, I won’t take it personally. Since I’m not some spoiled rich kid, I mean.”
“No. You’re an objective journalist.”
“Exactly.”
“Even though you refuse to have an open mind about anything mysterious.”
“Exactly.”
She laughed. “What about the supposed mysteriousness of women? Don’t you believe in that?”
“Oh, I know that’s true,” he said, thinking of her in particular. “But it’s different than believing the possibility of cold fusion.”
“Why?”
“Because women are a subjective mystery, not an objective one. You can’t measure anything about them scientifically, although, of course, there are genetic differences between the genders. Women only strike men as being mysterious because they don’t realize that men and women see the world differently.”
“They do, huh?”
“Sure. It goes back to evolution and the best ways to preserve the species.”
“And you’re an expert on that?”
“I have a bit of knowledge in that area, yes.”
“And so you consider yourself an expert on women, too?”
“No, not really. I’m shy, remember?”
“Uh-huh, I remember. I just don’t believe it.”
He crossed his arms. “Let me guess . . . you think I have a problem with commitment?”
She looked him over. “I think that about sums it up.”
He laughed. “What can I say? Investigative journalism is a glamorous world, and there are legions of women who yearn to be part of it.”
She rolled her eyes. “Puh-lease,” she said. “It’s not like you’re a movie star or sing in a rock band. You write for Scientific American.”
“And?”
“Well, I may be from the South, but even so, I can’t imagine your magazine is deluged with groupies.”
He gazed at her triumphantly. “I think you just contradicted yourself.”
She raised an eyebrow. “You think you