The Guardian(24)
Author: Nicholas Sparks

On the porch, moths were fluttering around the light, bouncing against it as if trying to break through the glass. An owl called from the nearby trees.

Mike, however, heard nothing at all. Lost in her breathlike touch, he knew only one thing for sure: In the instant their lips first met, there was a flicker of something almost electrical that made him believe the feeling would last forever.

The Guardian

That was nice, Julie thought. Actually, even better than she’d thought it would be. And it was definitely not like kissing her brother.

She was still thinking about it after she’d heard him crank the engine of his truck and disappear down the street. She was smiling and had reached to turn off the lamp when she caught a glimpse of Singer.

He was staring at her, his head angled and ears up, as if asking, Did I just see what I thought I saw?

“What?” she said. “We kissed.” She collected the glasses from the table, still feeling Singer’s eyes on her. For some reason, it felt almost as if she were a teenager who’d been caught by a parent.

“It’s not like you’ve never seen me kiss someone before,” she continued.

Singer kept staring.

“It’s no big deal,” she said, heading toward the kitchen. She put the glasses in the dishwasher and turned on the light above the faucet. When she turned, a shadow loomed and she jumped back before she recognized what it was.

Singer had entered the kitchen. He was sitting next to the counter, looking at her with the same expression. Julie put her hands on her hips.

“Would you stop staring at me like this? And quit following me around. You scared me.”

With that, Singer finally glanced away.

That’s better, she thought. She picked up a rinse rag, ran the top over it, and started wiping the counter before deciding to leave the kitchen until tomorrow. Instead, she tossed the rag in the sink and headed back to the bedroom, her mind already replaying scenes from the evening. She felt herself blush a little.

All in all, she decided, Mike was a very good kisser.

Lost in thought, she barely registered the sweep of headlights as a car rolled down her normally quiet street, slowing as it passed her house.

The Guardian

“You awake?” Julie asked into the receiver the following morning.

Mike struggled with the sheet and sat up in bed as he recognized her voice. “I am now.”

“So come on. The day’s a-wastin’,” she said. “Up and at ’em, Private.”

Mike rubbed his eyes, thinking that she sounded as if she’d been up for hours. “What are you talking about?”

“The weekend. What do you have planned?”

“Nothing, why?”

“Well, get up and get dressed. I was thinking we might head to the beach together. It’s supposed to be a great day. I figured we could bring Singer and let him run around for a while. Does that sound good to you?”

The Guardian

They spent the day walking barefoot through the white sand, throwing a Frisbee for Singer, and sitting on towels as they watched foam curl atop the waves. They grabbed a pizza for lunch, stayed until the sky was purple with early dusk, and had dinner together as well. From there, they went to a movie; Mike let Julie choose the film and didn’t complain when he realized that it was a chick flick. And when Julie had tears in her eyes halfway through and snuggled closer to him for the remaining hour, it more than canceled out the scathing critical review he was preparing in his mind.

It was late by the time they made it back to her place, and again they kissed on the porch. It lasted a little longer this time. For Julie, that made it better; for Mike, being any better was neither possible nor necessary.

They spent Sunday at Julie’s house. Mike mowed the lawn, trimmed the hedges, and helped her plant impatiens in the flower box. From there, he moved inside and began fixing those little things that tended to go undone in an older house-replacing the nails that had popped through a couple of boards in the hardwood floor, unsticking the locks, hanging the new light fixture she’d purchased for her bathroom months ago.

Julie watched him as he worked, noticing once again how good he looked in his jeans and how he was most confident when he was doing those types of things. When she kissed him once in the midst of hammering, the expression on his face told her exactly how he felt about her, and she realized that what had once been uncomfortable was now the response she craved.

When he left, she went inside and closed her eyes, leaning against the inside of the door. Wow, she thought, feeling exactly the way Mike had felt two nights before.

Twenty-one

The Guardian

After work the following Tuesday-an extra-busy day at the salon, since Andrea hadn’t shown up and a couple of her clients had asked Julie to take care of them-Julie was pushing a cart slowly down the grocery store aisle, grabbing what she needed for dinner. Mike had promised to cook for her, and though she wasn’t thrilled with the list he’d provided, she was willing to give it a shot. Despite his promises that it would be good, she couldn’t imagine anything that included potato chips and sweet pickles would qualify as fine dining. But he seemed so excited about it, she didn’t want to hurt his feelings.

She was just about finished before she realized she’d forgotten something. She was scanning the spice section, trying to remember whether he’d needed minced or spiced onion, when she felt the cart stop suddenly as it bumped into someone.

“Oh, excuse me,” she said automatically. “I didn’t see you. . . .”

“It’s okay . . . I’m fine,” he said. He turned around, and Julie’s eyes widened.

“Richard?” she asked.

“Oh, hey, Julie,” he answered, his voice soft. “How are you?”

“Fine,” she said. “How are you doing?” Julie hadn’t seen him since the morning he’d left, and he looked a little worse for the wear.

“Getting by,” he said. “It’s been hard. There’s a lot I have to take care of. But you know how it goes.”

“Yeah,” she said. “I do know. How’s the hand, by the way?”

“Better. Still bruised, but nothing to worry about.” Then, as if squeezing his fingers closed brought back memories of that night, he looked down. “Listen, I want to apologize again for what I did last week. I had no right to get so angry.”

“It’s okay.”

“And I also want to thank you again for listening to me. Not a lot of people would have done what you did.”

“I didn’t do much.”

“Yeah,” he insisted, “you did. I don’t know what I would have done without you. I was in pretty dire straits that night.”

She shrugged.

“Well,” he said as if trying to figure out what to say next. He adjusted the grocery basket on his arm. “Please don’t take it the wrong way, but you look terrific.”

He said it as a friend would, without implications, and she smiled. “Thank you.”

In the aisle, a woman was heading toward them, her cart full. Julie and Richard moved to the side to make room for her to pass.

“Listen, one more thing about the other night,” Richard added. “I feel like I owe you something for being so understanding about the way I acted.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“I’d still like to show my appreciation. Just as a way of saying thank you, I mean. Maybe I could take you out to dinner?”

She said nothing right away, and Richard, noting the hesitation, went on.

“Just dinner-nothing more than that. It won’t even be an official date. I promise.”

She looked off to the side, then back at him again. “I don’t think that I can do that,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay,” he said, “I just thought I’d make the offer.” He smiled. “So no hard feelings about the other night?”

“No hard feelings,” she repeated.

“Okay.” He took a small step away from her. “Well, I’ve got some things I still need to grab. See you around?”

“Sure.”

“Good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye, Richard.”

The Guardian

“So what exactly are these called again?” Julie asked.

Mike was standing over the stove in his apartment, the ground beef in the frying pan sizzling.

“Creole burgers.”

“So it’s Cajun?”

“Yep,” he said. “Why do you think I asked for these two cans of soup? That’s what gives it the authentic flavor.”

Only Mike, she thought, would consider Campbell’s chicken gumbo soup authentic Cajun cuisine.

When the meat was ready, he poured in the soup, then added a bit of ketchup and mustard before beginning to stir. Julie leaned against him to look at the concoction, an expression of distaste on her face.

“Remind me never to become a bachelor.”

“Yeah, yeah. You joke now, but in a little while you’ll feel like you’re eating in heaven’s dining room.”

“I’m sure.”

He bumped against her in feigned protest and felt her move with him.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you have an occasional tendency toward sarcasm?” he asked.

“Just a couple of times. But I think it was you that said it.”

“I always knew I was a smart guy.”

“So did I,” she said, “but it’s your cooking I’m worried about, not your brains.”

The Guardian

Fifteen minutes later they were sitting at the table, Julie staring at her plate.

“This is a sloppy Joe,” she announced.

“No,” he said, picking up the sandwich, “this is a Creole burger. Sloppy Joes have a tomato flavor.”

“While you prefer the distinctive Louisiana flavor?”

“Exactly. And don’t forget to eat your pickle as you go. Sort of adds to the whole experience.”

Julie glanced around the small apartment, stalling for time. Though the major pieces of furniture were passably tasteful, there were those touches that made it clear he lived in the style of single men everywhere. Like the gym shoes in the corner of the living room near his guitar. And the pile of unfolded clothes on his bed. And the giant-screen television, with a collection of imported beer bottles lining the top. And the dartboard mounted on the front door.

She leaned across the table, getting Mike’s attention. “Love the ambiance you’ve created tonight. All we need is a candle and I’d feel like I’m in Paris.”

“Really? I think I’ve got one,” he said.

He rose from the table and opened a drawer; a moment later, a small flame flickered between them. He took his seat again.

“Better?”

“Just like a college dormitory.”

“In Paris?”

“Mmm . . . maybe I was wrong. It’s more like . . . Omaha.”

He laughed. “So are you going to try it, or are you scared?”

“No. I’ll try it. I’m just enjoying the anticipation.”

He nodded toward her plate. “Good. Then you can figure out a nice way to apologize to the chef.”

Julie picked up the sandwich and took a bite. Mike watched her as she seemed to study the flavor.

“Not bad,” she said after swallowing.

“Not bad?”

She stared at the sandwich, a faint look of surprise on her face. “Actually it’s kind of tasty.”

“Told you,” he said. “It’s the chicken gumbo soup that does it.”

She picked up the pickle and winked. “I’ll try to remember that.”

The Guardian

On Wednesday, it was Julie’s turn to make dinner. She prepared sole stuffed with crabmeat and sautéed vegetables, accompanied by a bottle of Sauvignon Blanc. (“It’s not Creole burgers, but I guess it’ll do,” Mike teased.) On Thursday they met for lunch in Emerald Isle. Afterward, while they were walking through the fine sand, Singer jabbed her in the leg with a stick he’d found. He dropped it in front of them, and when they ignored it, he grabbed the stick again, blocking their movement with his body. He looked up at Mike. C’mon, he seemed to be saying, you know the drill.

“I think he wants you to throw it,” Julie remarked. “He doesn’t think I throw it far enough.”

“That’s because you’re a girl.”

She elbowed him. “Watch it, buster. There’s a feminist lurking somewhere in here that takes offense to comments like that.”

“Feminists take offense to everything that men do better.”

He pulled away before she could elbow him again and grabbed the stick. He pulled off his shoes and socks, then rolled up his pants legs. He jogged toward the water and waded in, high enough for the waves to roll in just below his knees. He held the stick out in front of him. Singer stared at it as if it were a fresh-cut steak.

“Ready?” Mike asked.

He cocked his arm and threw the stick as far as he could. Singer charged into the waves.

Julie took a seat on the sand, pulling her knees up and wrapping her arms around them. It was cool out; the sky was broken with patches of white, and the sun peeked through the clouds sporadically. Terns darted along the water’s edge, looking for food, their heads bobbing like darning needles.

Singer came bounding back with the stick and shook the water from his coat, soaking Mike in the process. Mike grabbed the stick, then threw it again before turning Julie’s way, his shirt plastered against his skin. From where she was sitting, she could see the muscles in his arms and the way his chest tapered to his hips. Nice, she thought, very nice.

“Let’s do something tomorrow night, okay?” he called out.

Julie nodded. When Singer returned, Julie pulled her legs a little tighter and watched them start over. In the distance, a shrimp trawler eked its way over the water, long nets spread behind it. The lighthouse from Cape Lookout flashed in the distance. Julie felt the breeze on her face as she watched them, wondering why she’d ever been worried.