The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,54
know you’ve heard him.”
She leveled an accusing stare.
“Yes,” I admitted, “I’ve heard him, too.”
“And it doesn’t bother you?”
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other. “I think,” I said carefully, “that right now, Noah needs to believe that it’s possible.”
“But why?”
“Because he loves her. He misses her.”
At my words, I saw her jaw quiver. “I do, too,” she said.
Even as she said the words, we both knew it wasn’t the same.
Despite our weariness, neither of us could face the prospect of going straight home after the ordeal at the hospital. When Jane declared suddenly that she was “starving,” we decided to stop at the Chelsea for a late dinner.
Even before we entered, I could hear the sounds of John Peterson at the piano inside. Back in town for a few weeks, he played each weekend; on weekdays, however, John sometimes showed up unexpectedly. Tonight was such a night, the tables surrounding the piano crowded, the bar packed with people.
We were seated upstairs, away from the music and the crowd, where only a few other tables were occupied. Jane surprised me by ordering a second glass of wine with her entrée, and it seemed to ease some of the tension of the past several hours.
“What did Daddy say to you when you two were alone?” Jane asked, carefully picking a bone out of her fish.
“Not much,” I answered. “I asked him how he was doing, what happened. For the most part, it wasn’t any different from what you heard later.”
She raised an eyebrow. “For the most part? What else did he say?”
“Do you really want to know?”
She laid her silverware down. “He asked you to feed the swan again, didn’t he.”
“Yes.”
“Are you going to?”
“Yes,” I said, but seeing her expression, I went on quickly, “but before you get upset, remember that I’m not doing it because I think it’s Allie. I’m doing it because he asked, and because I don’t want the swan to starve to death. It’s probably forgotten how to forage on its own.”
She looked at me skeptically.
“Mom hated Wonder Bread, you know. She would never have eaten it. She liked to make her own.”
Luckily, the approach of our waiter saved me from further discussion of this topic. When he asked how we were enjoying our entrées, Jane suddenly asked if these dishes were on the catering menu.
At her question, a look of recognition crossed his features.
“Are you the folks throwing the wedding?” he asked. “At the old Calhoun place this weekend?”
“Yes, we are,” Jane said, beaming.
“I thought so. I think half the crew is working that event.” The waiter grinned. “Well, it’s great to meet you. Let me refill your drinks, and I’ll bring the full catering menu when I come back.”
As soon as he’d left, Jane leaned across the table.
“I guess that answers one of my questions. About the service, I mean.”
“I told you not to worry.”
She drained the last of her wine. “So are they going to set up a tent? Since we’re eating outside?”
“Why don’t we use the house?” I volunteered. “I’m going to be out there anyway when the landscapers come, so why don’t I try to get a cleaning crew out there to get it ready? We’ve got a few days—I’m sure I can find someone.”
“We’ll give it a try, I guess,” she said slowly, and I knew she was thinking of the last time she’d been inside. “You know it’ll be pretty dusty, though. I don’t think anyone’s cleaned it in years.”
“True, but it’s only cleaning. I’ll make some calls. Let me see what I can do,” I urged.
“You keep saying that.”
“I keep having to do things,” I countered, and she laughed good-naturedly. Through the window over her shoulder, I could see my office and noticed that the light in Saxon’s window was on. No doubt he was there on urgent business, for Saxon seldom stayed late. Jane caught me staring.
“Missing work already?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “It’s nice to be away from it for a while.”
She eyed me carefully. “Do you really mean that?”
“Of course.” I tugged at my polo shirt. “It’s nice not to always have to put on a suit during the week.”
“I’ll bet you’ve forgotten what that’s like, haven’t you. You haven’t taken a long vacation in . . . what? Eight years?”
“It hasn’t been that long.”
After a moment, she nodded. “You’ve taken a few days here and there, but the last time you actually took a week off was in 1995. Don’t you remember? When