Nights in Rodanthe Page 6

  But there was something about Adrienne that made him feel she would understand what he was going through. He couldn't explain why he felt that way or why it mattered. But either way, he was sure of it.

  Seven

  A few minutes later, Paul put his empty cup on the tray, then carried the tray to the kitchen.

  Adrienne was still on the phone when he got there, her back toward him. She was leaning against the counter, one leg crossed over the other, twirling a strand of hair between her fingers. From her tone, he could tell she was finishing up, and he set the tray on the counter.

  "Yes, I got your note... uh-huh... yes, he's already checked in...."

  There was a long pause as she listened, and when she spoke again, Paul heard her voice drop. "It's been on the news all day.... From what I hear, it's supposed to be big.... Oh, okay... under the house?... Yeah, I suppose I can do that... I mean, how hard can it be, right?... You're welcome.... Enjoy the wedding.... Good-bye."

  Paul was putting his cup in the sink when she turned around.

  "You didn't have to bring that in," she said.

  "I know, but I was coming this way anyway. I wanted to find out what we were having for dinner."

  "Are you getting hungry?"

  Paul turned on the faucet. "A little. But we can wait if you'd rather."

  "No, I'm getting hungry, too." Then, seeing what he was about to do, she added: "Here, let me do that. You're the guest."

  Paul moved aside for her as Adrienne joined him near the sink. She rinsed the cups and pot as she spoke.

  "Your choices tonight are chicken, steak, or pasta with a cream sauce. I can make whichever one you want, but just realize that what you don't eat today, you'll probably eat tomorrow. I can't guarantee we'll find a store open this weekend."

  "Anything's fine. You pick."

  "Chicken? It's already thawed."

  "Sure."

  "And I was thinking of having potatoes and green beans on the side."

  "Sounds great."

  She dried her hands with a paper towel, then reached for the apron that was slung over the handle of the oven. Slipping it over her sweater, she went on.

  "Are you interested in salad, too?"

  "If you're having one. But if not, that's okay, too."

  She smiled. "Boy, you weren't kidding when you said you weren't picky."

  "My motto is that as long as I don't have to cook it, I'll eat just about anything."

  "You don't like to cook?"

  "Never really had to. Martha--my ex--was always trying out new recipes. And since she left, I've pretty much been eating out every night."

  "Well, try not to hold me to restaurant standards. I can cook, but I'm not a chef. As a general rule, my sons are more interested in quantity, not originality."

  "I'm sure it'll be fine. I'd be glad to give you a hand, though."

  She glanced at him, surprised by the offer. "Only if you want to. If you'd rather relax upstairs or read, I can let you know when it's ready."

  He shook his head. "I didn't bring anything to read, and if I lie down now, I won't be able to sleep tonight."

  She hesitated, considering his offer before finally motioning toward the door on the far side of the kitchen. "Well... thanks. You can start by peeling the potatoes. They're in the pantry right over there, second shelf, next to the rice."

  Paul headed for the pantry. As she opened the refrigerator to get the chicken out, she watched him from the corner of her eye, thinking it was both nice--and a little disconcerting--to know that he'd be helping her in the kitchen. There was an implied familiarity to it that left her slightly off balance.

  "Is there anything to drink?" Paul called out from behind her. "In the refrigerator, I mean?"

  Adrienne pushed aside a few items before looking on the bottom shelf. There were three bottles lying on their sides, held in place by a jar of pickles.

  "Do you like wine?"

  "What kind is it?"

  She set the chicken on the counter, then pulled one of the bottles out.

  "It's a pinot grigio. Is that okay?"

  "I've never tried it. I usually go with a chardonnay. Have you?"

  "No."

  He crossed the kitchen, carrying the potatoes. After setting them on the counter, he reached for the wine. Adrienne saw him study the label for a moment before looking up.

  "Sounds okay. Says it's got hints of apples and oranges, so how bad can it be? Do you know where I might find a corkscrew?"

  "I think I saw one in one of the drawers around here. Let me check."

  Adrienne opened the drawer below the utensils, then the one next to it, without luck. When she finally located it, she handed it to him, feeling her fingers brush against his. With a few quick moves, he removed the cork and set it off to the side. Hanging below the cabinet near the oven were glasses, and Paul moved toward them. He took one out and hesitated.

  "Would you like me to pour you a glass?"

  "Why not?" she said, still feeling the sensation of his touch.

  Paul poured two glasses and brought one over. He smelled the wine, then took a sip as Adrienne did the same. As the flavor lingered on the back of her throat, she found herself still trying to make sense of things.

  "What do you think?" he asked.

  "It's good."

  "That's what I think." He swirled the wine in his glass. "Actually, it's better than I thought it would be. I'll have to remember this."

  Adrienne felt the sudden urge to retreat and took a small step backward. "Let me get started on the chicken."

  "I guess that's my signal to get to work."

  As Adrienne found the roasting pan beneath the oven, Paul set his glass on the counter and moved to the sink. After turning on the faucet, he soaped and scrubbed his hands. She noticed that he washed both the front and the back, then cleaned his fingers individually. She turned on the oven, set it to the temperature she wanted, and heard the gas click to life.

  "Is there a peeler handy?" he asked.

  "I couldn't find one earlier, so I think you'll have to use a paring knife. Is that okay?"

  Paul laughed under his breath. "I think I can handle it. I'm a surgeon," he said.

  As soon as he said the words, it all clicked: the lines on his face, the intensity of his gaze, the way he'd washed his hands. She wondered why she hadn't thought of it before. Paul moved beside her and reached for the potatoes, then began cleaning them.

  "You practiced in Raleigh?" she asked.

  "I used to. I sold my practice last month."

  "You retired?"

  "In a way. Actually, I'm heading off to join my son."

  "In Ecuador?"

  "If he'd asked, I would have recommended the south of France, but I doubt he would have listened to me."

  She smiled. "Do they ever?"

  "No. But then again, I didn't listen to my father, either. It's all part of growing up, I guess."

  For a moment, neither of them said anything. Adrienne added assorted spices to the chicken. Paul started to peel, his hands moving efficiently.

  "I take it Jean's worried about the storm," he commented.

  She glanced at him. "How could you tell?"

  "Just the way you got quiet on the phone. I figured she was telling you what needed to be done to get the house ready."

  "You're pretty perceptive."

  "Is it going to be hard? I mean, I'd be glad to help if you need it."

  "Be careful--I just might take you up on that. My exhusband was the one who was good with a hammer, not me. And to be honest, he wasn't all that good, either."

  "It's an overrated skill, I've always believed." He set the first potato on the chopping block and reached for the second one. "If you don't mind my asking, how long have you been divorced?"

  She wasn't sure she wanted to talk about this, but surprised herself by answering anyway.

  "Three years. But he'd been gone for a year before that."

  "Do the kids live with you?"
>
  "Most of the time. Right now, they're on school break, so they're visiting their father. How long's it been for you?"

  "Just a few months. It was final last October. But she was gone for a year before that, too."

  "She was the one who left?"

  Paul nodded. "Yeah, but it was more my fault than hers. I was hardly home, and she just got fed up with it. If I were her, I probably would have done the same thing."

  Adrienne mused over his answer, thinking that the man standing next to her seemed nothing like the man he just described. "What kind of surgery did you do?"

  After he told her, she looked up. Paul went on, as if anticipating questions.

  "I got into it because I liked to see the obvious results of what I was doing, and there was a lot of satisfaction in knowing that I was helping people. In the beginning, it was mainly reconstructive work after accidents, or birth defects, things like that. But in the last few years, it's changed. Now, people come in for plastic surgery. I've done more nose jobs in the past six months than I ever imagined possible."

  "What do I need done?" she asked playfully.

  He shook his head. "Nothing at all."

  "Seriously."

  "I am being serious. I wouldn't change a thing."

  "Really?"

  He raised two fingers. "Scout's honor."

  "Were you ever a Scout?"

  "No."

  She laughed but felt her cheeks redden anyway. "Well, thank you."

  "You're welcome."

  When the chicken was ready, Adrienne put it into the oven and set the timer, then washed her hands again. Paul rinsed the potatoes and left them near the sink.

  "What next?"

  "There are tomatoes and cucumbers for the salad in the refrigerator."

  Paul moved around her, opened the door, and found them. Adrienne could smell his cologne lingering in the small space between them.

  "What was it like growing up in Rocky Mount?" he asked.

  Adrienne wasn't quite sure what to say at first, but after a few minutes, she settled into the type of chitchat that was both familiar and comfortable. She shared stories of her father and mother, she mentioned the horse her father had bought for her when she was twelve, and she recalled the hours they'd spent taking care of it together and how it had taught her more about responsibility than anything she'd done to that point. Her college years were described with fondness, and she mentioned how she'd bumped into Jack at a fraternity party during her senior year. They'd dated for two years, and when she took her vows, she'd done so with the belief it would last forever. She'd trailed off then, shaking her head slightly, and turned the topic to her children, not wanting to dwell on the divorce.

  As she spoke, Paul threw the salad together, topping it with the croutons she'd bought earlier, asking questions every so often, just enough to let her know he was interested in what she was saying. The animation on her face as she talked about her father and her children made him smile.

  Dusk was settling in, and shadows began stretching across the room. Adrienne set the table as Paul added some more wine to both their glasses. When the meal was ready, they took their places at the table.

  Over dinner, it was Paul who did most of the talking. Paul told her about his childhood on the farm, described the ordeals of medical school and the time he spent running cross-country, and spoke about some of his earlier visits to the Outer Banks. When he shared memories of his father, Adrienne considered telling him what was going on with hers, but at the last minute she held back. Jack and Martha were mentioned only in passing; so was Mark. For the most part, their conversation touched only on the surface of things, and for the time being, neither one of them was ready to go any deeper than that.

  By the time they finished dinner, the wind had slowed to a breeze and the clouds balled together in the calm before the storm. Paul brought the dishes to the sink as Adrienne stored the leftovers in the refrigerator. The wine bottle was empty, the tide was coming in, and the first images of lightning began to register on the distant horizon, making the world outside flash, as if someone were taking photographs in hopes of remembering this night forever.

  Eight

  After helping her with the dishes, Paul nodded toward the back door.

  "Would you like to join me for a stroll on the beach?" he asked. "It looks like a nice night."

  "Isn't it getting cold?"

  "I'm sure it is, but I have the feeling it'll be the last chance we get for a couple of days."

  Adrienne glanced out the window. She should stay and finish cleaning up the rest of the kitchen, but that could wait, right?

  "Sure," she agreed, "just let me get a jacket."

  Adrienne's room was located off the kitchen, in a room that Jean had added on a dozen years ago. It was larger than the other rooms in the house and had a bathroom that had been designed around a large Jacuzzi bathtub. Jean took baths regularly, and whenever Adrienne had called her when her spirits were low, it was always the remedy that Jean recommended to make herself feel better. "What you need is a long, hot, relaxing bath," she'd say, oblivious to the fact that there were three kids in the house who monopolized the bathrooms and that Adrienne's schedule didn't allow for much free time.

  From the closet, Adrienne retrieved her jacket, then grabbed her scarf. Wrapping it around her neck, she glanced at the clock and was amazed at how quickly the hours had seemed to pass. By the time she'd returned to the kitchen, Paul was waiting for her with his coat on.

  "You ready?" he asked.

  She folded up the collar on her jacket. "Let's go. But I have to warn you, I'm not a real big fan of cold weather. My southern blood's a little thin."

  "We won't be out long. I promise."

  He smiled as they stepped outside, and Adrienne flipped the light switch that illuminated the steps. Walking side by side, they headed over the low dune, toward the compact sand near the water's edge.

  There was an exotic beauty to the evening; the air was crisp and fresh, and the flavor of salt hung in the mist. On the horizon, lightning was flickering in steady rhythm, making the clouds blink. As she glanced in that direction, she noticed that Paul was watching the sky as well. His eyes, she thought, seemed to register everything.

  "Have you ever seen that before? Lightning like that?" he asked.

  "Not in the winter. In the summer, it happens every now and then."

  "It's from the fronts coming together. I saw it start up when we were having dinner, and it makes me think this storm is going to be bigger than they're predicting."

  "I hope you're wrong."

  "I might be."

  "But you doubt it."

  He shrugged. "Let's just say had I known it was coming, I would have tried to reschedule."

  "Why?"

  "I'm not a big fan of storms anymore. Do you remember Hurricane Hazel? In 1954?"

  "Sure, but I was kind of young then. I was more excited than scared when we lost power at the house. And Rocky Mount wasn't hit that hard, or at least our neighborhood wasn't."

  "You're lucky. I was twenty-one at the time and I was at Duke. When we heard it was coming, a few of the guys on the cross-country team thought it would be a good bonding experience if we went down to Wrightsville Beach to have a hurricane party. I didn't want to go, but since I was the captain, they sort of guilted me into it."

  "Isn't that where it came ashore?"

  "Not exactly, but it was close enough. By the time we got there, most of the people had evacuated the island, but we were young and stupid and made our way over anyway. At first, it was kind of fun. We kept taking turns trying to lean into the wind and keep our balance, thinking the whole thing was great and wondering why everyone had been making such a big deal about it. After a few hours, though, the wind was too strong for games and the rain was coming down in sheets, so we decided to head back to Durham. But we couldn't get off the island. They'd closed the bridges once the wind topped fifty miles an hour, and we were stuck. And the storm kept
getting worse. By two A.M., it was like a war zone. Trees were toppling over, roofs were tearing off, and everywhere you looked, something that could kill us was flying past the windows of the car. And it was louder than you could imagine. Rain was just pounding the car and that was when the storm surge hit. It was high tide and a full moon to boot, and the biggest waves I'd ever seen were coming in, one right after the next. Luckily, we were far enough from the beach, but we watched four homes wash away that night. And then, when we didn't think it could get any worse, power lines started snapping. We watched the transformers explode one right after the next, and one of the lines landed near the car. It whipped in the wind the rest of the night. It was so close we could see the sparks, and there were times when it nearly hit the car. Other than praying, I don't think any of us said a single word to each other the rest of the night. It was the dumbest thing I ever did."

  Adrienne hadn't taken her eyes from him as he spoke.

  "You're lucky you lived."

  "I know."

  On the beach, the violence of the waves had caused foam to form that looked like soap bubbles in a child's bath.

  "I've never told that story before," Paul finally added. "To anyone, I mean."

  "Why not?"

  "Because it wasn't... me, somehow. I'd never done anything risky like that before, and I never did anything like it afterward. It's almost like it happened to someone else. You'd have to know me to understand. I was the kind of guy who wouldn't go out on Friday nights so that I wouldn't fall behind in my studies."

  She laughed. "I doubt that."

  "It's true. I didn't."

  As they walked the hard-packed sand, Adrienne glanced at the homes behind the dunes. No other lights were on, and in the shadows, Rodanthe struck her as a ghost town.

  "Do you mind if I tell you something?" she asked. "I mean, I don't want you to take it the wrong way."

  "I won't."

  They took a few steps as Adrienne wrestled with her words.

  "Well... it's just that when you talk about yourself, it's almost like you're talking about someone else. You say you used to work too much, but people like that don't sell their practice to head off to Ecuador. You say you didn't do crazy things, but then you tell me a story in which you did. I'm just trying to figure it out."