The Wedding - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,85

maybe a glass of sweet tea.”

“I’ll run down and get it for you,” Kate said. “Do you want a piece of chocolate cake, too? I heard they made it fresh today.”

“Sure,” he said. “Thank you. Oh—and I’m sorry about how I acted earlier. I was upset and had no reason to take it out on you.”

Kate smiled briefly. “It’s okay, Daddy.”

Kate shot me a relieved look, though her concern was still obvious. As soon as she’d left the room, Noah motioned toward the bed.

“C’mon in,” he said, his voice quiet. “Make yourselves comfortable.”

As I crossed the room, I watched Noah, wondering what was going on. Somehow, I suspected that he’d asked Kate to leave because he wanted to talk to Jane and me alone.

Jane sat on the bed. As I joined her, she took my hand. “I’m sorry about the swan, Daddy,” she offered.

“Thank you,” he said. By his expression, I knew he would say nothing more about it. “Wilson’s been telling me about the house,” he said instead. “I hear it’s really something.”

Jane’s expression softened. “It’s like a fairy tale, Daddy. It’s even prettier than it was for Kate’s wedding.” She paused. “We were thinking that Wilson could swing by and pick you up around five. I know it’s early, but it’ll give you a chance to spend some time at the house. You haven’t been there in a while.”

“That’s fine,” he agreed. “It’ll be good to see the old place again.” He looked from Jane to me, then back to Jane again. He seemed to notice for the first time that we were holding hands, and he smiled.

“I have something for you both,” he said. “And if you don’t mind, I’d like to give it to you before Kate gets back. She might not understand.”

“What is it?” Jane asked.

“Help me up, would you?” he asked. “It’s in my desk, and it’s hard for me to get up after I’ve been sitting for a while.”

I rose and reached for his arm. He stood and gingerly crossed the room. After opening his drawer, he removed a wrapped gift, then returned to his chair. The walk seemed to have tired him, and he winced as he sat again.

“I had one of the nurses wrap it yesterday,” he said, holding it out to us.

It was small and rectangular, draped in red foil, but even as he presented it, I knew what was inside. Jane, too, seemed to know, for neither of us reached for it.

“Please,” he said.

Jane hesitated before finally accepting it. She ran her hand over the paper, then looked up.

“But . . . Daddy . . . ,” she said.

“Open it,” he urged.

Jane popped the tape and folded back the paper; without a box, the worn book was immediately recognizable. So was the small bullet hole in the upper right corner, a bullet that had been meant for him in World War II. It was Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman, the book I’d brought to him in the hospital, the book that I could never imagine him without.

“Happy anniversary,” he said.

Jane held the book as if she were afraid it would break. She glanced at me, then back to her father. “We can’t take this,” she said, her voice soft, sounding as choked up as I felt.

“Yes, you can,” he said.

“But . . . why?”

He gazed at us. “Did you know I read it every day while I was waiting for your mom? After she left that summer when we were kids? In a way, it was like I was reading the poetry to her. And then, after we were married, we used to read it on the porch, just the way I imagined we would. We must have read every poem a thousand times over the years. There would be times when I’d be reading, and I’d look over and see your mom’s lips moving right along with mine. She got to the point where she could recite all the poems by heart.”

He stared out the window, and I suddenly knew he was thinking of the swan again.

“I can’t read the pages anymore,” Noah went on. “I just can’t make out the words, but it troubles me to think that no one will ever read it again. I don’t want it to be a relic, something that just sits on the shelf as some sort of memento to Allie and me. I know you’re not as fond of Whitman as I am, but of all my kids, you’re