Nights in Rodanthe - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,44

dishwasher lay on its side near a pile of broken slats that once looked to be the porch. Near the road, a group of people had gathered, taking pictures for insurance purposes, and for the first time they realized how bad the storm had really been.

When they started back, the tide was rolling in. They were walking slowly, their shoulders touching slightly, when they came across the conch. Its ribboned exterior was half-buried in the sand and surrounded by thousands of tiny fragments of broken shells. When Paul handed it to her, she raised it to her ear, and it was then that he teased her about her claim to hear the ocean. He put his arms around her then, telling her that she was as perfect as the shell they’d just found. Although Adrienne knew she would keep it forever, she didn’t have any idea how much it would eventually come to mean to her.

All she knew was that she was standing in the arms of a man she loved, wishing that he would be able to hold her this way forever.

On Monday morning, Paul slipped out of bed before she was awake, and though he’d claimed ignorance in the kitchen, he surprised her by bringing breakfast to her on a tray in bed, rousing her with the aroma of fresh coffee. He sat with her as she ate, laughing as she leaned against the pillows, trying and failing to keep the sheet high enough to cover her breasts. The French toast was delicious, the bacon was crispy without being burned, and he’d added just the right amount of grated cheddar cheese to the scrambled eggs.

Though her children had occasionally made her breakfast in bed on Mother’s Day, it was the first time a man had ever done that for her. Jack had never been the type to think of such things.

When she was finished, Paul went for a short jog as Adrienne showered and dressed. After his run, Paul threw his dirty clothes into the washer and showered as well. By the time he had joined her in the kitchen again, Adrienne was on the phone to Jean. She’d called to find out how everything had gone. As Adrienne filled her in, Paul slipped his arms around her, nuzzling the back of her neck.

While on the phone, Adrienne heard the unmistakable sound of the front door of the Inn squeaking open and the entrance of work boots clicking against the wooden floor. She said as much to Jean before hanging up, then left the kitchen to see who had entered. She was gone for less than a minute before she returned, and when she did, she looked at Paul as if at a loss for words. She drew a long breath.

“He’s here to talk to you,” she said.

“Who?”

“Robert Torrelson.”

Robert Torrelson waited in the sitting room and was seated on the couch with his head bowed when Paul went to join him. He looked up without smiling, his face unreadable. Before he’d come, Paul wasn’t sure he could have picked Robert Torrelson from a crowd, but up close, he realized he recognized the man sitting before him. Other than his hair, which had grown whiter in the past year, he looked the same as he had in the waiting room of the hospital. His eyes were as hard as Paul had imagined they would be.

Robert said nothing right away. Instead, he stared as Paul angled the rocker so they could face each other.

“You came,” Robert Torrelson finally said. His voice was strong and raspy, southern made, as if cured by years of smoking unfiltered Camel cigarettes.

“Yes.”

“I didn’t think you would.”

“For a while, I wasn’t sure whether I would, either.”

Robert snorted as if he’d expected that. “My son said he talked to you.”

“He did.”

Robert smiled bitterly, knowing what had been said. “He said you didn’t try to explain yourself.”

“No,” Paul answered, “I didn’t.”

“But you still don’t think you did anything wrong, do you?”

Paul glanced away, thinking about what Adrienne had said. No, he thought, he’d never change their minds. He straightened up.

“In your letter, you said you wanted to talk to me and that it was important. And now I’m here. What can I do for you, Mr. Torrelson?”

Robert reached into the front pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. He lit one, moved an ashtray closer, and leaned back on the couch.

“What went wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing,” Paul said. “The operation