The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,44
him into Raleigh, but hopefully we can get a connection straight to New Bern.”
“I can do that,” I volunteered. “I’ll be on the phone anyway.”
“You sure?”
“It’s no big deal,” I said. On the river, I could see a boat moving past us, a black shadow with a glowing light out front.
“So what else do you and Anna have to do?” I asked.
“More than you can imagine.”
“Still?”
“Well, there’s the dress, of course. Leslie wants to go with us, and it’s probably going to take at least a couple of days.”
“For a dress?”
“She has to find the right one, and then we have to get it fitted. We talked to a seamstress this morning, and she says that she can work it in if we can get it to her by Thursday. And then, of course, there’s the reception. If there is one, I mean. A caterer is one thing, but if you can pull that off, we still need music of some kind. And we’ll need to decorate, so you’ll have to call the rental company. . . .”
As she spoke, I let out a quiet sigh. I knew I shouldn’t have been surprised, but still . . .
“So while I’m making calls tomorrow, I take it you’ll be off dress shopping, right?”
“I can’t wait.” She shivered. “Watching her try them on, seeing what she likes. I’ve been waiting for this moment ever since she was a little girl. It’s exciting.”
“I’m sure,” I said.
She held up her thumb and forefinger in a pinching motion. “And to think that Anna was this close to not letting me do it.”
“It’s amazing how ungrateful children can be, isn’t it.”
She laughed, turning her gaze toward the water again. In the background, I could hear crickets and frogs beginning their evening song, a sound that never seems to change.
“Would you like to take a walk?” I asked suddenly.
She hesitated. “Now?”
“Why not?”
“Where do you want to go?”
“Does it matter?”
Though she seemed surprised, she answered. “Not really.”
A few minutes later, we were making our way around the block. The streets were empty. From the homes on either side of us, I could see lights blazing behind curtains and shadows moving around inside. Jane and I walked on the shoulder of the road, rocks and gravel crunching beneath our feet. Above us, stratus clouds stretched across the sky, making a silver band.
“Is it this quiet in the mornings?” Jane asked. “When you walk?”
I usually leave the house before six, long before she wakes.
“Sometimes. Usually there are a few joggers out. And dogs. They like to sneak up behind you and bark suddenly.”
“Good for the heart, I’ll bet.”
“It’s like an extra workout,” I agreed. “But it keeps me on my toes.”
“I should start walking again. I used to love to walk.”
“You can always join me.”
“At five-thirty? I don’t think so.”
Her tone was a mixture of playfulness and incredulity. Though my wife was once an early riser, she hadn’t been since Leslie moved out.
“This was a good idea,” she said. “It’s beautiful tonight.”
“Yes, it is,” I said, looking at her. We walked in silence for a few moments before I saw Jane glance toward a house near the corner.
“Did you hear about Glenda’s stroke?”
Glenda and her husband were our neighbors, and though we didn’t move in the same social circles, we were friendly nonetheless. In New Bern, everyone seemed to know everything about everyone.
“Yes. It’s sad.”
“She’s not much older than I am.”
“I know,” I said. “I hear she’s doing better, though.”
We fell back into silence for a while, until Jane suddenly asked, “Do you ever think about your mother?”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. My mother had died in an automobile accident during our second year of marriage. Though I wasn’t as close to my parents as Jane was to hers, her death came as a terrible shock. To this day, I can’t recall making the six-hour drive to Washington to be with my father.
“Sometimes.”
“When you do, what do you remember?”
“Do you remember the last time we went to visit them?” I said. “When we first walked in the door, and Mom came out of the kitchen? She was wearing a blouse with purple flowers on it, and she looked so happy to see us. She opened her arms to give us both a hug. That’s how I always remember her. It’s an image that’s never changed, kind of like a picture. She always looks the same.”
Jane nodded. “I always remember my mom in her studio, with paint on her fingers.