Nights in Rodanthe(13)
Author: Nicholas Sparks

She laughed. “I think you’d get pretty bored with that.”

“But I’d be good if a storm was coming.”

“True, but you’d have to learn to cook.”

“Good point.” Paul glanced toward her, his face half in shadow. “Then maybe I’ll just move to Rocky Mount and figure it out from there.”

At his words, Adrienne felt the blood rush to her cheeks. She shook her head and turned away.

“Don’t say that.”

“Say what?”

“Things you don’t mean.”

“What makes you think I don’t mean it?”

She wouldn’t meet his eyes, nor would she answer, and in the stillness of the room, he could see her chest rising and falling with her breaths. He could see a shadow of fear cross her face but didn’t know if it was because she wanted him to come and was afraid he wouldn’t, or didn’t want him to come and was afraid he would. He reached over, resting his hand on her arm. When he spoke again his voice was soft, as if trying to comfort a small child.

“I’m sorry if that made you uncomfortable,” he said, “but this weekend… it’s like something I didn’t know existed. I mean, it’s been a dream. You’ve been a dream.”

The warmth of his hand seemed to penetrate into her bones.

“I’ve had a wonderful time, too,” she said.

“But you don’t feel the same way.”

She looked at him. “Paul… I . .”

“No, you don’t have to say anything—”

She didn’t let him finish. “Yes, I do. You want an answer, and I’d like to give you one, okay?” She paused, composing her thoughts. “When Jack and I split up, it was more than just the ending of a marriage. It ended everything I’d hoped for in the future. And it ended who I was, too. I thought I wanted to move on, and I tried, but the world didn’t seem all that interested in who I was anymore. Men in general weren’t interested in me, and I guess I retreated into a shell. This weekend made me realize that about myself, and I’m still coming to terms with that.”

“I’m not sure what you’re trying to tell me.”

“I’m not saying this because the answer is no. I would like to see you again. You’re charming and intelligent, and the past two days have meant more to me than you probably realize. But moving to Rocky Mount? A year is a long time, and there’s no telling who either of us will be then. Look how much you’ve changed in the last six months. Can you honestly tell me that you’ll feel the same way about all this a year from now?”

“Yes,” he said, “I can.”

“How can you be so sure?”

Outside, the wind was a steady gale, howling as it blasted against the house. The rain was hammering against the walls and roof; the old inn creaked under the incessant pressure.

Paul set aside his glass of wine. Staring at Adrienne, he knew he’d never seen anyone more beautiful.

“Because,” he said, “you’re the only reason I’d bother to come back at all.”

“Paul… don’t…”

She closed her eyes, and for a moment, Paul believed he was losing her. The realization scared him more than he’d imagined possible, and he felt the last of his resistance give way. He looked up at the ceiling, then down to the floor, then focused on Adrienne again. Leaving his chair, he moved to her side. With a finger, he turned her face toward him, knowing that he was in love with her, with everything about her.

“Adrienne…,” he whispered, and when Adrienne finally met his gaze, she recognized the emotion in his eyes.

He couldn’t say the words, but in a rush of intuitive feeling, she imagined she could hear them, and that was enough.

Because it was then, as he held her in his unwavering gaze, that she knew she was in love with him as well.

For a long moment, neither one of them seemed to know what to do, until Paul reached for her hand. With a sigh, Adrienne let him take it, leaning back in her chair as his thumb began to trace her skin.

He smiled, waiting for a response, but Adrienne seemed content to remain quiet. He couldn’t read her expression, yet it seemed to hint at everything he was feeling: hope and fear, confusion and acceptance, passion and reserve. But thinking she might need space, he let go of her hand and stood.

“Let me put another log on the fire,” he said. “It’s getting low.”

She nodded, watching him through half-closed eyes as he squatted before the fire, the jeans stretching tight around his thighs.

This couldn’t be happening, she told herself. She was forty-five years old, for goodness’ sake, not a teenager. She was mature enough to know that something like this couldn’t be real. This was the product of the storm, the wine, the fact that they were alone. It was any combination of a thousand things, she told herself, but it wasn’t love.

And yet, as she watched Paul add another log and stare quietly into the fireplace, she knew with certainty that it was. The unmistakable look in his eyes, the tremor in his voice as he’d whispered her name… she knew his feelings were real. And so, she thought, were hers.

But what did that mean? For him or her? Knowing that he loved her, as wonderful as it was, wasn’t the only thing going on here. His look had spoken of desire as well, and that had frightened her, even more than knowing he loved her. Making love, she’d always believed, was more than simply a pleasurable act between two people. It encompassed all that a couple was supposed to share: trust and commitment, hopes and dreams, a promise to make it through whatever the future might bring. She’d never understood one-night stands or people who drifted from one bed to the next every couple of months. It relegated the act to something almost meaningless, no more special than a good-night kiss on the front steps.

Even though they loved each other, she knew everything would change if she allowed herself to give in to her feelings. She would cross a boundary she’d erected in her mind, and there was no coming back from something like that. Making love to Paul would mean that they would share a bond for the rest of their lives, and she wasn’t sure she was ready for that.

Nor was she sure she would know what to do. Jack was not only the only man she’d ever been with; for eighteen years, he was the only man she’d wanted to be with. The possibility of sharing herself with another left her feeling anxious. Making love was a gentle dance of give-and-take, and the thought she might disappoint him was almost enough to keep her from letting this go any further.

But she couldn’t stop herself. Not anymore. Not with the way he’d looked at her, not with the way she felt about him.

Her throat was dry and her legs felt shaky as she stood from her chair. Paul was still crouching in front of the fire. Moving close, she rested her hands in the soft area between his neck and shoulders. His muscles tightened for an instant, but as she heard him exhale, they relaxed. He turned, looking up at her, and it was then that she felt herself finally give in.

It all felt right to her, he felt right, and as she stood behind him, she knew she would allow herself to go to the place she was meant to be.

Lightning cut the sky outside. Wind and rain were joined as one, pounding against the walls. The room grew hotter as the flames began to leap up again.

Paul stood and faced her. His expression was tender as he reached for her hand. She expected him to kiss her, but he didn’t. Instead, he raised her hand and held it against his cheek, closing his eyes, as if wanting to remember her touch against him forever.

Paul kissed the back of her hand before releasing it. Then, opening his eyes and tilting his head, he drew closer until she felt his lips brush against the side of her face in a series of butterfly-light kisses before finally meeting her lips.

She leaned into him then as he wrapped his arms around her; she could feel her br**sts pressed against his chest; she could feel the slight stubble on his face when he kissed her the second time.

He ran his hands over her back, her arms, and she parted her lips, feeling the moisture of his tongue. He kissed her neck, her cheek, and as his hand moved around to her belly, his touch was electric. When he moved his hand to her br**sts, her breath caught in her throat, and they kissed again and again, the world around them dissolving into something distant and unreal.

It was over now, for both of them, and as they moved even closer, it was as if they were not only embracing each other, but holding all the painful memories at bay.

He buried his hands in her hair, and she leaned her head against his chest, hearing his heart beating as quickly as hers.

Then, when they were finally able to separate, she found herself reaching for his hand.

She took a small step backward and with a gentle pull began leading him to his bedroom upstairs.

Thirteen

In the kitchen, Amanda stared at her mother.

She hadn’t spoken since Adrienne had started her story and had gone through two glasses of wine, the second a bit faster than the first. Neither of them was speaking now, and Adrienne could feel the anxious expectation of her daughter as she waited for what would come next.

But Adrienne couldn’t tell Amanda about that, nor did she need to. Amanda was a grown woman; she knew what it meant to make love to a man. She was also old enough to know that even though that was a wonderful part of their discovery of each other, it had been just that: a part of it. She loved Paul, and had he not meant so much to her, had the weekend been only physical in nature, there would have been nothing to remember other than a few pleasurable moments, special only because she had been alone so long. What they shared, however, were feelings that had been buried for far too long, feelings that were meant for just the two of them. And only them.

Besides, Amanda was her daughter. Call it old-fashioned, but sharing the details would be inappropriate. Some could talk about such things, but Adrienne never understood how they could. The bedroom, she always thought, was a place of shared secrets.

But even if she’d wanted to tell, she knew she wouldn’t be able to find the words. How could she describe the sensation as he began to unbutton her blouse, or the shivers that traveled the length of her body when he traced his finger along her belly? Or how heated their skin felt as their bodies came together? Or the texture of his mouth where he kissed her and how she felt when she pressed her fingers hard into his skin? Or the sound of his breathing and hers and how their breaths quickened as they began to move as one?

No, she wouldn’t speak of those things. Instead, she would let her daughter imagine what had happened, because Adrienne knew that only her imagination could possibly capture even the slightest bit of the magic she’d felt in Paul’s arms.

“Mom?” Amanda finally whispered.

“You want to know what happened?”

Amanda swallowed uncomfortably.

“Yes,” was all Adrienne would say.

“You mean…”

“Yes,” she said again.

Amanda took a drink of wine. Steeling herself, she lowered the glass to the table. “And?…”

Adrienne leaned forward, as if not wanting anyone to overhear.

“Yes,” she whispered, and with that, she glanced off to the side, retreating into the past.

They’d made love that afternoon, and she’d spent the rest of the day in bed. As the storm raged outside—uprooted foliage and wind-whipped trees battering against the house—Paul held her close, his lips pressed against her cheek, each of them recalling the past and together discussing their dreams for the future, both of them marveling over the thoughts and feelings that had led to this moment.

This had been as new for her as it was for Paul. In the last years of her marriage to Jack—maybe most of her marriage, she remembered thinking then—whenever they’d made love, it had been perfunctory, short on passion and quick in time, unmoving with its lack of tenderness. And they seldom talked afterward because Jack usually turned on his side and fell asleep within minutes.

Not only had Paul held her for hours afterward, but his tender embrace let her know that this was just as meaningful to him as the physical intimacy they’d shared. He kissed her hair and face, and every time he caressed a part of her body, he called her beautiful and told her that he adored her in the solemn, sure way she had so quickly come to love.

Though they weren’t conscious of it because of the boarded windows, the sky had turned an opaque and angry black. Wind-driven waves battered the dune and washed it away; water lapped at the foundation of the Inn. The antenna on the house was blown away and fell to earth on the opposite end of the island. Sand and rain worked their way through the back door frame as the door vibrated in the energy of the storm. The power went off sometime in the early morning hours. They made love a second time in total darkness, guided by touch, and when they were finished, they finally fell asleep in each other’s arms as the eye of the storm passed over Rodanthe.

Fourteen

When they woke on Saturday morning, they were famished, but with the power out and the storm slowly winding down, Paul brought the cooler up to the room and they ate in the comfort of bed, alternately laughing and being serious, teasing each other or staying silent, savoring each other and the moment.

By noon, the wind had died down enough for them to venture out and stand on the porch. The sky above them was beginning to clear, but the beach was littered with debris: old tires and washed-out steps from homes that had been set too close to the water and had been caught by the wind-swollen tides. The air was growing warmer; it was still too cold to stay outside without a jacket, but Adrienne removed her gloves so she could feel Paul’s hand in her own.

The power came back on with a flicker around two, went out again, and came on for good twenty minutes later. The food in the refrigerator hadn’t spoiled, so Adrienne broiled a couple of steaks, and they lingered over a long meal and their third bottle of wine. Afterward they took a bath together. Paul sat behind her, and as she rested her head on his chest, he ran the washcloth over her stomach and br**sts. Adrienne closed her eyes, sinking into his arms, feeling the warm water wash over her skin.