The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,22
hearing it for the first time. “The point is,” he continued, “that there’s no man alive who can honestly say those words and mean them. It just isn’t possible, so there’s no use trying. But that doesn’t mean you can’t love them anyway. And it doesn’t mean that you should ever stop doing your best to let them know how important they are to you.”
On the pond, I watched the swan flutter and adjust its wings as I contemplated what he’d said. This had been the way Noah talked to me about Jane during the past year. Never once had he offered specific advice, never once had he told me what to do. At the same time, he was always conscious of my need for support.
“I think Jane wishes I could be more like you,” I said.
At my words, Noah chuckled. “You’re doing fine, Wilson,” he said. “You’re doing just fine.”
Aside from the ticking of the grandfather clock and the steady hum of the air conditioner, the house was quiet when I reached home. As I dropped my keys on the desk in the living room, I found myself scanning the bookshelves on either side of the fireplace. The shelves were filled with family photographs that had been taken over the years: the five of us dressed in jeans and blue shirts from two summers ago, another at the beach near Fort Macon when the kids were teens, still another from when they were even younger. Then there were those that Jane had taken: Anna in her prom dress, Leslie wearing her cheerleader outfit, a photo of Joseph with our dog, Sandy, who’d sadly passed away a few summers ago. There were more, too, some that went back to their infancy, and though the pictures weren’t arranged chronologically, it was a testament to how the family had grown and changed over the years.
In the center of the shelves right above the fireplace sat a black-and-white photograph of Jane and me on the day of our wedding. Allie had snapped the picture on the courthouse steps. Even then, Allie’s artistry was apparent, and though Jane had always been beautiful, the lens had been kind to me as well that day. It was how I hoped I would always look when standing by her side.
But, strangely, there are no more photographs of Jane and me as a couple on the shelves. In the albums, there are dozens of snapshots that the kids had taken, but none had ever found its way into a frame. Over the years, Jane had suggested a number of times that we have another portrait made, but in the steady rush of life and work, it never quite claimed my attention. Now, I sometimes wonder why we never made the time, or what it means for our future, or even whether it matters at all.
My conversation with Noah had left me musing about the years since the children left home. Could I have been a better husband all along? Unquestionably, yes. But looking back, I think it was during the months that followed Leslie’s departure for college that I truly failed Jane, if an utter lack of awareness can be characterized that way. I remember now that Jane seemed quiet and even a bit moody during those days, staring sightlessly out the glass doors or sorting listlessly through old boxes of the kids’ stuff. But it was a particularly busy year for me at the firm—old Ambry had suffered a heart attack and was forced to drastically reduce his workload, transferring many of his clients’ matters to me. The dual burdens of an immensely increased workload and the organizational toll Ambry’s illness took on the firm often left me exhausted and preoccupied.
When Jane suddenly decided to redecorate the house, I took it as a good sign that she was busying herself with a new project. Work, I reasoned, would keep her from dwelling on the kids’ absence. And so appeared leather couches where there were once upholstered ones, coffee tables made of cherry, lamps of twisted brass. New wallpaper hangs in the dining room, and the table has enough chairs to accommodate all our children and their future spouses. Though Jane did a wonderful job, I must admit that I was frequently shocked by the credit card bills when they started arriving in the mail, though I learned it was best if I didn’t comment on it.
It was after she finished, however, that we both began to notice