Her face must have telegraphed her feelings, because Dawson said, "I take it that you had no idea what Tuck was up to."
"No."
A flock of starlings broke from the trees, and Amanda watched as they veered overhead, changing direction, tracing abstract patterns in the sky. By the time she faced him again, Dawson was leaning against the workbench, his face half in shadow. In this place, with so much history surrounding them, she swore she could see the young man Dawson used to be, but she tried to remind herself that they were different people now. Strangers, really.
"It's been a long time," he said, breaking the silence.
"Yes, it has."
"I have about a thousand questions."
She raised an eyebrow. "Only a thousand?"
He laughed, but she thought she heard an undercurrent of sadness in it. "I have questions, too," she went on, "but before that... you should know that I'm married."
"I know," he said. "I saw your wedding band." He tucked a thumb in his pocket before leaning against the workbench and crossing one leg over the other. "How long have you been married?"
"Twenty years next month."
"Kids?"
She paused, thinking of Bea, never sure how to answer the question. "Three," she finally said.
He noticed her hesitation, unsure what to make of it. "And your husband? Would I like him?"
"Frank?" She flashed on the anguished conversations she'd had with Tuck about Frank and wondered how much Dawson already knew. Not because she didn't trust Tuck with her confidences, but because she had the sudden sense that Dawson would know immediately whether she was lying. "We've been together a long time."
Dawson seemed to evaluate her choice of words before finally pushing off the workbench. He walked past her, heading toward the house, moving with the liquid grace of an athlete. "I suppose Tuck gave you a key, right? I need something to drink."
She blinked in surprise.
"Wait! Did Tuck tell you that?"
Dawson turned around, continuing to walk backward. "No."
"Then how did you know?"
"Because he didn't send one to me, and one of us has to have it."
She stood in place, debating, still trying to figure out how he knew, before finally following him up the path.
He climbed the porch steps in a single fluid motion, stopping at the door. Amanda fished a key from her purse, brushing against him as she slipped it into the lock. The door swung open with a squeak.
It was mercifully cool inside, and Dawson's first thought was that the interior was an extension of the forest itself: all wood and earth and natural stains. The plank walls and pine flooring had dulled and cracked over the years, and the brown curtains did little to hide the leaks beneath the windows. The armrests and cushions on the plaid sofa were almost completely worn through. The mortar on the fireplace had begun to crack, and the bricks around the opening were black, charcoaled remnants of a thousand roaring fires. Near the door was a small table bearing a stack of photo albums, a record player that was probably older than Dawson, and a rickety steel fan. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, and after opening one of the windows, Dawson switched on the fan, listening as it began to rattle. The base wobbled slightly.
By then, Amanda was standing near the fireplace, staring at the photograph sitting on the mantel. Tuck and Clara, taken on their twenty-fifth anniversary.
He walked toward Amanda, stopping when he was beside her. "I remember the first time I saw that picture," he offered. "I'd been here for about a month before Tuck let me inside the house, and I remember asking who she was. I didn't even know he'd been married."
She could feel the heat radiating from him and tried to ignore it. "How could you not know that?"
"Because I didn't know him. Until I showed up at his place that night, I'd never talked to Tuck before."
"Why did you come here, then?"
"I don't know," he said with a shake of his head. "And I don't know why he let me stay."
"Because he wanted you here."
"Did he tell you that?"
"Not in so many words. But Clara hadn't been gone that long when you came along, and I think you were just what he needed."
"And here I used to think it was just because he was drinking that night. Most nights, for that matter."
She searched her memory. "Tuck wasn't a drinker, was he?"
He touched the photo in its plain wooden frame, as if still trying to comprehend a world without Tuck in it. "It was before you knew him. He had a liking for Jim Beam back then, and sometimes he'd stagger out to the garage still holding the half-empty bottle. He'd wipe his face with his bandanna and tell me that it would be better if I found someplace else to stay. He must have said that every night for the first six months I was sleeping out there. And I'd lie there all night, hoping that by the next morning he would have forgotten what he'd told me. And then, one day, he just stopped drinking, and he never said it again." He turned toward her, his face only inches from hers. "He was a good man," he said.
"I know," she said. He was close enough that she could smell him; soap and musk, mingling together. Too close. "I miss him, too."
She stepped away, reaching over to fiddle with one of the threadbare pillows on the sofa, creating distance again. Outside, the sun was dropping behind the trees, making the small room even darker. She heard Dawson clear his throat.
"Let's get that drink. I'm sure that Tuck has some sweet tea in the refrigerator."
"Tuck doesn't drink sweet tea. He's probably got some Pepsi, though."
"Let's check," he said, making for the kitchen.
He moved with the grace of an athlete, and she shook her head slightly, trying to force away the thought. "Are you sure we should be doing this?"
"I'm pretty sure it's exactly what Tuck wanted."
Like the living room, the kitchen might have been stored in a time capsule, with appliances straight from a 1940s Sears, Roebuck catalog, a toaster the size of a microwave oven and a boxy refrigerator with a latch handle. The wooden countertop was black with water stains near the sink, and the white paint on the cabinets was chipping near the knobs. The flower-patterned curtains--obviously something Clara had hung--had turned a dingy grayish yellow, stained by the smoke from Tuck's cigarettes. There was a small, barrel-top table with room for two, and a clump of paper napkins had been stuffed beneath it to keep it from wobbling. Dawson swung the latch on the refrigerator door, reached in, and pulled out a jug of tea. Amanda entered as he set the tea on the counter.
"How did you know that Tuck had sweet tea?" she asked.
"The same way I knew you had the keys," he answered as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a pair of jelly jars.
"What are you talking about?"
Dawson filled the jars. "Tuck knew we'd both end up here eventually, and he remembered that I like sweet tea. So he made sure he had some waiting in the refrigerator."
Of course he did. Just as he'd done with the attorney. But before she could dwell on it, Dawson offered her the tea, bringing her back to the present. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
Dawson held up his tea. "To Tuck," he said.
Amanda clinked her glass with his, and all of it--standing close to Dawson, the tug of the past, the way she'd felt when he'd held her, the two of them alone in the house--was almost more than she could handle. A little voice inside her whispered that she needed to be careful, that nothing good could come of this, and reminded her that she had a husband and children. But that only made things more confusing.
"So, twenty years, huh?" Dawson finally asked.
He was asking about her marriage, but in her distracted state it took her a moment to grasp. "Almost. How about you? Were you ever married?"
"I don't think it was in the cards."
She eyed him over the rim of her glass. "Still playing the field, huh?"
"I keep pretty much to myself these days."
She leaned against the counter, unsure wha
t to read into his response. "Where do you live now?"
"Louisiana. In a parish just outside New Orleans."
"Do you like it?"
"It's okay. I'd forgotten until I came back here how much it looks like home. There are more pines here and more Spanish moss there, but other than that I'm not real sure I could tell the difference."
"Except for the alligators."
"Yeah. Except for that." He offered a faint smile. "Your turn. Where's home these days?"
"Durham. I stayed there after I got married."
"And you come back a few times a year to see your mom?"
She nodded. "When my dad was alive, they used to visit us because of the kids. But after my dad died, it got harder. My mom never liked to drive, so now I have to come here." She took a sip before nodding toward the table. "Do you mind if I sit? My feet are killing me."
"Feel free. I'll stand for a bit, though. I've been stuck on an airplane all day."
She picked up her glass and started toward the table, feeling his eyes on her.
"What do you do in Louisiana?" she asked, sliding into her seat.
"I'm a derrick hand on an oil rig, which basically means that I assist the driller. I help guide the drill pipe in and out of the elevator, I make sure all the connections are proper, I keep on the pumps to make sure they're running right. I know that probably doesn't make much sense since you've probably never been on a rig, but it's kind of hard to explain without actually showing you."
"That's a long way from fixing cars."
"It's less different than you think. Essentially, I work with engines and machines. And I still work with cars, too, in my spare time anyway. The fastback runs like new."
"You still have it?"
He grinned. "I like that car."
"No," she challenged, "you love that car. I used to have to drag you away from it whenever I came by. And half the time, I didn't succeed. I'm surprised you don't carry a picture of it in your wallet."
"I do."
"Really?"
"I was kidding."
She laughed, the same free-spirited laugh from long ago. "How long have you been working on rigs?"
"Fourteen years. I started as a roustabout, worked up to roughneck, and here I am, a derrick hand."
"Roustabout to roughneck to derrick hand?"
"What can I say? We speak our own language out there on the ocean." He absently picked at one of the grooves etched into the ancient countertop. "And what about you? Do you work? You used to talk about becoming a teacher."
She took a sip, nodding. "I taught for a year, but then I had Jared, my oldest son, and I wanted to stay at home with him. After that Lynn was born and then... we had a few years when a lot happened, including my dad passing away, a really tough time." She paused, conscious of how much she was leaving out, knowing it wasn't the time or place to talk about Bea. She straightened up, keeping her voice steady. "A couple of years after that, Annette came along, and by then there was no reason for me to go back to work. But I've spent a lot of time over the past ten years volunteering at Duke University Hospital. I also do some fund-raising luncheons for them. It's hard sometimes, but it makes me feel like I'm making a little bit of difference."
"How old are your kids?"
She ticked them off on her fingers. "Jared turns nineteen in August and just finished his first year of college, Lynn is seventeen and starting her senior year. Annette, my nine-year-old, just finished third grade. She's a sweet and happy-go-lucky little girl. Jared and Lynn, on the other hand, are at the age when they think they know everything and I, of course, know absolutely nothing."
"In other words, you're saying they're kind of like we were?"
She thought about it, her expression almost wistful. "Maybe."
Dawson fell silent, staring out the window, and she followed his gaze. The creek had turned the color of iron and the slow-moving water reflected the darkening skies. The old oak tree near the bank hadn't changed much since the last time he'd been here, but the dock had rotted away, leaving only the pilings.
"A lot of memories there, Amanda," he observed, his voice soft.
Maybe it was the way he sounded when he said it, but she felt something click inside at his words, like a key turning in a distant lock.
"I know," she said at last. She paused, wrapping her arms around herself, and for a while the hum of the refrigerator was the only sound in the kitchen. The overhead light cast a yellowish glow on the walls, projecting their profiles in abstract shadows. "How long are you planning on staying?" she finally asked.
"I have a flight out early Monday morning. You?"
"Not long. I told Frank I'd be back on Sunday. If my mom had her way, though, she would rather I had stayed in Durham all weekend. She told me it wasn't a good idea to come to the funeral."
"Why?"
"Because she didn't like Tuck."
"You mean she didn't like me."
"She never knew you," Amanda said. "She never gave you a chance. She always had ideas about the way I was supposed to live my life. What I might want never seemed to matter. Even though I'm an adult, she still tries to tell me what to do. She hasn't changed a bit." She rubbed at the moisture on the jelly jar. "A few years ago, I made the mistake of telling her that I'd dropped in on Tuck, and you would have thought that I'd just committed a crime. She kept haranguing me, asking why I visited him, wanting to know what we talked about, all the while scolding me like I was still a child. So after that, I just stopped telling her about it. Instead, I'd tell her I was going shopping, or that I wanted to have lunch with my friend Martha at the beach. Martha and I were roommates in college and she lives in Salter Path, but even though we talk, I haven't actually seen her in years. I don't want to deal with my mother's prying questions, so I just lie to her."
Dawson swirled his tea, thinking about what she'd said, watching as the drink finally went still again. "As I was driving here, I couldn't help thinking about my father, and how for him it was always about control. I'm not saying your mom is anything like him, but maybe it's just her way of trying to keep you from making a mistake."
"Are you saying it was a mistake to visit Tuck?"
"Not for Tuck," he said. "But for you? It depends on what you hoped to find here, and only you can answer that."
She felt a flash of defensiveness, but before she could respond the feeling gave way as she recognized the pattern they'd shared so long ago. One would say something that challenged the other, often leading to an argument, and she realized how much she'd missed that. Not because they fought, but because of the trust it implied and the forgiveness that inevitably followed. Because, in the end, they'd always forgiven each other.
Part of her suspected that he'd been testing her, but she let the comment pass. Instead, surprising herself, she leaned forward over the table, the next words coming almost automatically.
"What are you doing for dinner tonight?"
"I don't have any plans. Why?"
"There are some steaks in the fridge if you want to eat here."
"What about your mom?"
"I'll call and tell her that I got a late start."
"Are you sure that's a good idea?"
"No," she said. "I'm not sure about anything right now."
He scratched a thumb against the glass, saying nothing as he studied her. "Okay." He nodded. "Steaks it is. Assuming they're not spoiled."
"They were delivered Monday," she said, remembering what Tuck had told her. "The grill's out back if you want to get it started."
A moment later he was out the door; his presence, however, continued to linger, even as she fished her cell phone from her purse.
5
When the coals were ready, Dawson went back inside to retrieve the steaks from Amanda, who'd already buttered and seasoned them. Pushing open the door, he saw her staring into the cupboard while absently holding a can of pork and beans.
"What's going on?"
"I was trying to find some things to
go with the steak, but other than this," she said, holding up the can, "there's not much."
"What are our choices?" he asked as he washed his hands at the kitchen sink.
"Aside from the beans, he has grits, a bottle of spaghetti sauce, pancake flour, a half-empty box of penne pasta, and Cheerios. In the fridge, he has butter and condiments. Oh, and the sweet tea, of course."
He shook off the excess water. "Cheerios is a possibility."
"I think I'll go with the pasta," she said, rolling her eyes. "And shouldn't you be outside grilling the steaks?"
"I suppose," he answered, and she had to suppress a smile. From the corner of her eye, she watched him pick up the platter and leave, the door behind him closing with a gentle click.
The sky was a deep, velvety purple and the stars were already ablaze. Beyond Dawson's figure, the creek was a black ribbon and the treetops were beginning to glow silver with the slowly rising moon.
She filled a pan with water, tossed in a little salt, and turned on the burner; from the fridge she retrieved the butter. When the water boiled, she added the pasta and spent the next few minutes searching for the strainer before finally locating it in the back of the cabinet near the stove.
When the pasta was ready, she drained it and put it back into the pan, along with butter, garlic powder, and a dash of salt and pepper. Quickly, she heated up the can of beans, finishing just as Dawson came back in carrying the platter.
"It smells great," he said, not bothering to hide his surprise.
"Butter and garlic," she nodded. "Works every time. How are the steaks?"
"One's medium rare, the other's medium. I'm good with either, but I wasn't sure how you wanted yours. I can always put one back on the grill for a few more minutes."
"Medium is fine," she agreed.
Dawson set the platter on the table and riffled through the cabinets and drawers, pulling out plates, glasses, and utensils. She caught sight of two wine glasses in the open cupboard and was reminded of what Tuck had said on her last visit.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" she asked.
"Only if you join me."
She nodded, then opened the cabinet that Tuck had pointed out, revealing two bottles. She picked out the cabernet and opened it while Dawson finished setting the table. After pouring them each a glass, she handed one to him.