They held each other on the porch for a long time. Amanda listened to the beating of his heart, sure that nothing would ever feel so right. She longed, impossibly, to start all over. She would do it right this time; she would stay with him, never abandoning him again. They were meant for each other, and they belonged together. There was still time for both of them. When she felt his hands in her hair, she almost said the words. But she couldn't. Instead, all she could do was murmur, "I'm glad I got to see you again, Dawson Cole."
Dawson could feel the smooth, almost luxurious, silkiness of her hair. "Maybe we could do it again sometime?"
"Maybe," she said. She swiped at a tear on her cheek. "Who knows? Maybe I'll come to my senses and just show up in Louisiana one day. Me and the kids, I mean."
He forced a smile, a desperate, futile hope leaping in his chest. "I'll make dinner," he said. "For everyone."
But it was time for her to go. As they left the porch, Dawson reached for her hand and she took it, squeezing so tight it was almost painful. They retrieved her things from the Stingray before slowly walking to her car. Dawson's senses felt acutely heightened--the morning sun pricked the back of his neck, the breeze was feathery light, and the leaves were rustling, but none of it seemed real. All he knew was that everything was coming to an end.
Amanda clung to his hand. When they reached her car, he opened the door and turned toward her. He kissed her softly before trailing his lips down her cheek, chasing the pathway of her tears. He traced the line of her jaw, thinking about the words that Tuck had written. He would never move on, he understood with sudden clarity, despite what Tuck had asked of him. She was the only woman he'd ever love, the only woman he ever wanted to love.
In time, Amanda forced herself to take a step away from him. Then, slipping behind the wheel, she started the engine and closed the door before lowering the window. His eyes were bright with tears, mirroring her own. Reluctantly, she put the car in reverse. Dawson backed away, saying nothing, the ache he felt etched in her own anguished expression.
She turned the car around, pointing it in the direction of the road. The world had gone blurry through her tears. As she rounded the curve in the drive, she glanced into the rearview mirror and choked out a sob as Dawson grew smaller behind her. He hadn't moved at all.
She cried harder as the car picked up speed. The trees pressed in all around her. She wanted to turn the car around and go back to him, to tell him that she had the courage to be the person she wanted to be. She whispered his name, and though there was no way he could have heard her, Dawson raised his arm, offering a final farewell.
Her mother was seated on the front porch when Amanda arrived. She was sipping a glass of iced tea while music played softly on the radio. Amanda passed her without a word, climbing the stairs to her room. Turning on the shower, she removed her clothes. She stood naked in front of the mirror, as drained and spent as an empty vessel.
The stinging spray of the shower felt like punishment, and when she at last stepped out, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a simple cotton blouse before packing the rest of her things in her suitcase. The clover went into a zippered compartment of her purse. As she usually did, she stripped the sheets from the bed and brought them to the laundry room. She put them into the washer, moving on autopilot.
Back in her room, the list of things to do continued. She reminded herself that the ice maker in the refrigerator back home needed to be fixed; she'd forgotten to arrange that before she'd left. She also needed to start planning the fund-raiser. She'd been putting that off for a while, but September would be here before she knew it. She needed a caterer, and it would probably be a good idea to start soliciting donations for the gift baskets. Lynn had to sign up for SAT prep classes, and she couldn't remember whether they'd put the deposit down on Jared's dorm room. Annette would be coming home later this week, and she'd probably want something special for dinner.
Making plans. Moving past the weekend, reentering her real life. Like the water in the shower washing Dawson's scent from her skin, it felt like a kind of punishment.
But even when her mind finally began to slow, she understood that she still wasn't ready to go downstairs. Instead, she sat on the bed as sunlight streamed gently through the room, and all at once she remembered the way Dawson had looked when he'd been standing in the drive. The image was clear, as vivid as if it were happening all over again, and despite herself--despite everything--she suddenly knew that she was making the wrong decision. She could still go to Dawson and they could find a way to make it work, no matter what the challenges might be. In time, her children would forgive her; in time, she would even forgive herself.
But even then she was paralyzed, unable to bring herself to move.
"I love you," she whispered into the silent room, feeling her future being swept away like so many grains of sand, a future that already felt almost like a dream.
16
Marilyn Bonner stood in the kitchen of the farmhouse, idly watching the workers make adjustments to the irrigation system in the orchard below. Despite yesterday's downpour, the trees still needed to be watered, and she knew the men would be out there most of the day, even though it was the weekend. The orchard, she'd come to believe, was like a spoiled child, always needing just a bit more care, a bit more attention, never quite satisfied.
But the real heart of the business lay beyond the orchard, in the small plant where they bottled the jellies and preserves. During the week, it housed a dozen people, but on weekends the place was deserted. When she'd first built it, she could remember townspeople whispering that there was no way her business could support the cost of such a facility. And maybe it had been a stretch at the time, but little by little the whispers had been silenced. She'd never get rich making jelly and jam, but she knew the business was good enough to pass down to her kids and allow them both a comfortable living. In the end, that was all she'd really wanted.
She still had on the same outfit she'd worn to church and her visit to the cemetery. Usually, she changed immediately after returning home, but today she couldn't seem to summon the energy. Nor was she hungry, and that was unusual, too. Someone else might think she was coming down with something, but Marilyn knew well enough what was bothering her.
Turning from the window, she inspected the kitchen. She'd had it renovated a few years ago, along with the bathrooms and most of the downstairs, and she found herself thinking that the old farmhouse had finally begun to feel like home--or rather, the kind of home she'd always wanted. Until the renovation, it had felt more like her parents' house, a feeling that didn't sit well with her as she'd gotten older. A lot of things didn't sit well with her as she struggled through adulthood, but as hard as some of the years had been, she'd learned from the experiences. Despite it all, she had fewer regrets than people might imagine.
Still, she was bothered by what she'd seen earlier that day, and she debated what to do. Or even whether she should do anything at all. She could always pretend that she didn't know what it meant and let time do its magic.
But she'd learned the hard way that ignoring a situation didn't always work out for the best. Reaching for her purse, she suddenly knew what she had to do.
After cramming the last of the boxes into the passenger seat of the car, Candy went back inside her house and removed the gold Buddha statue from the living room windowsill. As ugly as it was, she'd always kind of liked it, imagining that it had brought her luck. It was also her insurance policy; and lucky or not, she planned to pawn it as soon as she could, knowing she'd need the money to start over.
She wrapped the Buddha in some newspaper and put it in the glove compartment before stepping back to survey her packing. She was amazed that she'd been able to get everything into the Mustang. The trunk could barely close, the passenger seat was piled so high it would be impossible to see out the side window, and items had been stuffed in every nook and cranny. She really needed to stop the Internet shopping. In the future, she'd need a bigge
r car, or quick getaways would be that much more difficult. She could have left some items behind, of course. The cappuccino maker from Williams-Sonoma for instance, but in Oriental she'd needed it, if only to feel like she wasn't living completely in the sticks. A little touch of the city, so to speak.
In any case, this part was done. She'd finish up her shift at the Tidewater later tonight, then hit the highway, turning south as soon as she reached I-95. She'd decided to relocate to Florida. She'd heard a lot of promising things about South Beach, and it sounded like the kind of place she might end up staying in for a while. Even settle down. She knew she'd said that before and it had yet to work out that way, but a girl had to dream, right?
Tip-wise, Saturday night had been a bonanza, but Friday had been disappointing, which was why she'd resolved to stick it out one last night. Friday night had started out well--she'd dressed in a halter and short shorts, and guys were practically emptying their wallets trying to get her attention, but then Abee had showed up and ruined everything. He'd taken a seat at a table, looking sick as a dog and sweating like he'd just walked out of a sauna, and he'd spent the next half hour staring at her with that crazed expression of his.
She'd seen it before--a kind of paranoid possessiveness--but Abee brought it to a whole new level on Friday night. For her, the weekend couldn't end soon enough. She had the sense that Abee was on the verge of doing something stupid, maybe even dangerous. She'd been sure he was going to start something that night and maybe he would have, but fortunately, he'd gotten a call on his cell phone and had left the bar in a rush. She'd halfway expected to find him outside her front door on Saturday morning, or waiting for her at the bar on Saturday night, but strangely, he hadn't shown up. To her relief, he hadn't shown up today, either. A good thing, considering the loaded car made her plans pretty obvious, and it was clear that he wouldn't be too happy about the idea. Although she didn't want to admit it, Abee scared her. Scared half the bar on Friday night, too. The place had begun to clear out as soon as he entered, which was why her tips had dried up. Even after he left, the crowds had been slow to come back.
But it was almost over. One more shift and she'd be out of here. And Oriental, like all the other places she'd lived, would soon be nothing but a memory.
For Alan Bonner, Sundays were always a little depressing, because he knew the weekend was almost at an end. Work, he'd decided, wasn't all it was cracked up to be.
Not that he had much of a choice. His mom was big on him making his own way in the world or however she phrased it, and that was kind of a bummer. It would have been nice had she hired him as the manager at the plant, where he'd be able to sit in an air-conditioned office issuing orders and overseeing things as opposed to delivering snacks to convenience stores. But what could he do? Mom was the boss, and she was saving that position for his sister, Emily. Unlike him, Emily had actually graduated from college.
It wasn't all bad, though. He had his own place, courtesy of Mom, and the utilities were paid by the orchard, which meant any money he earned was pretty much his own. Even better, he could come and go as he pleased, a definite step up compared to the years he'd lived in the house. And besides, working for Mom, even in an air-conditioned office, wouldn't have been easy. First, if he worked for her, they'd be around each other all the time, which neither of them would have enjoyed. Taken together with the fact that Mom was kind of a stickler for paperwork--never one of his strengths--he knew things were better the way they were. For the most part, he could do what he wanted, when he wanted, with evenings and weekends entirely his own.
Friday night had been especially fun, because the Tidewater wasn't nearly as crowded as usual. Not after Abee showed up, anyway. People couldn't get out of there fast enough. He'd stayed at the bar, though, and for a while, it was downright... pleasant. He could talk to Candy and she actually seemed interested in what he was saying. Of course, she was flirty with all the guys, but he'd kind of gotten the sense that she liked him. He'd been hoping for more of the same on Saturday, but the place had been a zoo. The bar was packed three deep and every table was filled. He could barely hear himself think, much less talk to Candy.
But every time he'd called out an order, she'd smiled at him over the other guys' heads, and that gave him hope for tonight. Sunday nights were never crowded, and he'd been working up the courage all morning to ask her out. He wasn't sure she'd say yes, but what did he have to lose? It wasn't like she was married, right?
Three hours to the west, Frank stood on the putting green at the thirteenth hole, drinking his beer as Roger lined up for a putt. Roger had been playing well, much better than Frank. Today, Frank couldn't hit a shot to save his life. His drives were slicing, his chips were falling short, and he didn't even want to think about his putting.
He tried to remind himself that he wasn't out here to worry about his score. It was a chance to escape the office and spend time with his best friend; it was a chance to get some fresh air and relax. Unfortunately, the reminders weren't working. Everyone knew that the true joy of golf lay in hitting that wonderful shot, that long arcing drive straight down the fairway, or the chip that ended up two feet from the hole. So far, he hadn't hit a single shot that was worth remembering, and on the eighth hole he'd five-putted. Five! He might as well have been trying to putt the ball through the windmill and into the clown's mouth at the local putt-putt place, considering how well he'd been playing today. Even the fact that Amanda was coming home couldn't lighten his mood. The way things were going, he wasn't even sure he wanted to watch the game afterward. It wasn't like he was going to enjoy it.
He took another pull from the beer can, finishing it, thinking it was a good thing he'd packed the cooler. It was going to be a long day.
Jared loved the fact that his mom was out of town, since he could stay out as late as he wanted. The whole curfew thing was ridiculous. He was in college and people in college didn't have curfews, but apparently no one had ever informed his mom about that. When she got back from Oriental, he'd have to get her to see the light.
Not that it had been a factor this weekend. When his dad fell asleep, he was dead to the world, meaning that Jared was free to come in as late as he wanted. Friday night he'd been out until two, and last night he hadn't come in until after three. His dad had been none the wiser. Or maybe he was, but Jared had no way of knowing. By the time he'd gotten up this morning, his dad was already at the golf course with his friend Roger.
The late nights had taken their toll, though. After foraging in the fridge for something to eat, he figured he'd lie down in his room and take a nap. Sometimes there was nothing better than crashing in the middle of the afternoon. His little sister was off at camp, Lynn was up at Lake Norman, and both his parents were gone. In other words, it was quiet in the house, or at least as quiet as it ever was around here during the summer.
Stretching out on his bed, he debated whether to turn off his cell phone. On the one hand, he didn't want to be disturbed, but on the other hand, Melody might call. They'd gone out on Friday night, then gone to a party together last night, and though they hadn't been dating long, he liked her. Actually, he liked her a lot.
He left the phone on and crawled into bed. Within minutes, Jared was asleep.
As soon as Ted woke, he felt a flash of pain in his head, and though the images were fragmented they slowly began to come together. Dawson, his broken nose, the hospital. His arm in a cast. Last night, waiting out in the rain while Dawson had kept his distance, playing him...
Dawson. Playing. Him.
He sat up gingerly, his head pounding as his stomach did a flip-flop. He winced, but even that hurt, and when he touched his face the pain was excruciating. His nose was the size of a potato, and nausea washed over him in waves. He wondered if he could make it to the bathroom to take a leak.
Ted thought again about the tire iron smashing into his face, he thought again about the miserable night he'd spent in the rain, and he felt his anger begin to rise. From the kitc
hen, he heard the baby wail, the high-pitched whine rising above the blare of the television. He squinted, trying and failing to block out the sounds, then finally staggered from the bed.
His vision went black at the corners; he reached toward the wall to keep from falling over. He drew a deep breath, gritting his teeth as the baby continued to cry, wondering why the hell Ella didn't shut the damn kid up. And why the TV was so damn loud.
He stumbled on the way to the bathroom, but when he raised the cast too quickly to catch himself on the way out, it felt like his arm had been attached to an electric wire. At his scream, the bedroom door burst open behind him. The baby's cries were like a knife blade between his ears, and when he turned, he saw two Ellas and two babies.
"Do something about the kid, or I will," he snarled. "And shut off the damn TV!"
Ella backed out of the room. Turning around, Ted closed one eye, trying to find his Glock. His double vision slowly subsided, and he spotted the gun on the bed stand, next to his truck keys. It took two attempts to grab it. Dawson had gotten the better of him all weekend, but it was time for it to end.
Ella was staring at him as he stepped out of the bedroom, her eyes as big as saucers. She'd gotten the baby to stop crying but had forgotten about the TV. The sound pounded into his skull. Lurching into the small living room, he kicked the TV over, sending it crashing to the floor. The three-year-old began to scream and Ella and the baby started wailing. By the time he stepped outside, his stomach had begun to roil and nausea came in waves.