I set down the items I’d brought from his room.
“I thought you might like these to help you pass the time. Unless you’d rather watch television, of course.”
His face softened as he saw the stack of letters and Whitman’s Leaves of Grass. The pages of the book, thumbed through a thousand times, looked almost swollen. He ran his finger over the tattered cover. “You’re a good man, Wilson,” he said. “I take it you just went to the pond.”
“Four pieces in the morning,” I informed him.
“How was she today?”
I shifted on the bed, wondering how to answer.
“I think she missed you,” I offered at last.
He nodded, pleased. Shifting up straighter in the bed, he asked, “So Jane’s off with Anna?”
“They’re probably still driving. They left an hour ago.”
“And Leslie?”
“She’s meeting them in Raleigh.”
“This is really going to be something,” he said. “The weekend, I mean. How’s everything from your end? With the house?”
“So far, so good,” I started. “My hope is that it’ll be ready by Thursday, and I’m pretty sure it will be.”
“What’s on your agenda today?”
I told him what I planned, and when I finished, he whistled appreciatively. “Sounds like you’ve got quite a bit on your plate,” he said.
“I suppose,” I said. “But so far, I’ve been lucky.”
“I’ll say,” he said. “Except for me, of course. My stumble could have ruined everything.”
“I told you I’ve been lucky.”
He raised his chin slightly. “What about your anniversary?” he asked.
My mind flashed to the many hours I’d spent preparing for the anniversary—all the phone calls, all the trips to the post office box and various stores. I’d worked on the gift during spare moments in the office and at lunchtime and had thought long and hard about the best way to present it. Everyone in the office knew what I’d planned, although they’d been sworn to secrecy. More than that, they’d been incredibly supportive; the gift was not something I could have put together alone.
“Thursday night,” I said. “It seems like it’ll be the only chance we get. She’s gone tonight, tomorrow she’ll probably want to see you, and on Friday, Joseph and Leslie will be here. Of course, Saturday’s out for obvious reasons.” I paused. “I just hope she likes it.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Wilson. You couldn’t have picked a better gift if you had all the money in the world.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am. And I can’t imagine a better start to the weekend.”
The sincerity in his voice warmed me, and I was touched that he seemed so fond of me, despite how different we were.
“You’re the one who gave me the idea,” I reminded him.
Noah shook his head. “No,” he said, “it was all you. Gifts of the heart can’t be claimed by anyone except the giver.” He patted his chest to emphasize the point. “Allie would love what you’ve done,” he remarked. “She was always a softie when it came to things like this.”
I folded my hands in my lap. “I wish she could be there this weekend.”
Noah glanced at the stack of letters. I knew he was imagining Allie, and for a brief moment, he looked strangely younger.
“So do I,” he said.
Heat seemed to scald the soles of my feet as I walked through the parking lot. In the distance, buildings looked as if they were made of liquid, and I could feel my shirt tacking itself to my back.
Once in the car, I headed for the winding country roads that were as familiar as the streets of my own neighborhood. There was an austere beauty to the coastal lowlands, and I wove past farms and tobacco barns that looked almost abandoned. Strands of loblolly pines separated one farm from the next, and I caught sight of a tractor moving in the distance, a cloud of dirt and dust rising behind it.
From certain points in the road, it was possible to see the Trent River, the slow waters rippling in the sunlight. Oaks and cypress trees lined the banks, their white trunks and knotted roots casting gnarled shadows. Spanish moss hung from the branches, and as the farms gradually gave way to forest, I imagined that the sprawling trees I saw from behind my windshield were the same trees that both Union and Confederate soldiers had seen when they marched through the area.
In the distance, I saw a tin roof reflecting the sun; next came the house itself; and a few moments later I was at Noah’s.
As I surveyed the house from the tree-lined drive, I thought it looked abandoned. Off to the side was the faded red barn where Noah stored lumber and equipment; numerous holes now dotted the sides, and the tin roof was caked with rust. His workshop, where he had spent most of his hours during the day, was directly behind the house. The swinging doors hung crookedly, and the windows were coated with dirt. Just beyond that was the rose garden that had become as overgrown as the banks along the river. The caretaker, I noticed, hadn’t mowed recently, and the once grassy lawn resembled a wild meadow.
I parked next to the house, pausing for a moment to study it. Finally, I fished the key from my pocket, and after unlocking the door, I pushed it open. Sunlight immediately crossed the floor.
With the windows boarded, it was otherwise dark, and I made a note to turn on the generator before I left. After my eyes adjusted to the dim light, I could make out the features of the house. Directly in front of me were the stairs that led to the bedrooms; on my left was a long, wide family room that stretched from the front of the house to the back porch. It was here, I thought, that we would put the tables for the reception, for the room could easily accommodate everyone.
The house smelled of dust, and I could see traces of it on the sheets that draped the furniture. I knew I’d have to remind the movers that each piece was an antique dating from the original construction of the house. The fireplace was inlaid with hand-painted ceramic tile; I remembered Noah telling me that when he’d replaced the ones that had cracked, he’d been relieved to discover that the original manufacturer was still in business. In the corner was a piano—also covered by a sheet—that had been played not only by Noah’s children, but by the grandchildren as well.
On either side of the fireplace were three windows. I tried to imagine what the room would look like when it was ready, but standing in the darkened house, I couldn’t. Though I had pictured how I wanted it to look—and even described my ideas to Jane—being inside the house evoked memories that made changing its appearance seem impossible.
How many evenings had Jane and I spent here with Noah and Allie? Too many to count, and if I concentrated, I could almost hear the sounds of laughter and the rise and fall of easy conversation.
I’d come here, I suppose, because the events of the morning had only deepened my nagging sense of nostalgia and longing. Even now, I could feel the softness of Jane’s lips against my own and taste the lipstick she’d been wearing. Were things really changing between us? I desperately wanted to think so, but I wondered whether I was simply projecting my own feelings onto Jane. All I knew for certain was that for the first time in a long time, there was a moment, just a moment, when Jane seemed as happy with me as I was with her.
Chapter Twelve
The rest of the day was spent on the phone in my den. I spoke to the cleaning company that worked in our home, and we finalized arrangements to have Noah’s house cleaned on Thursday; I spoke to the man who pressure-washed our deck, and he would be there around noon to brighten the grand home. An electrician was coming to make sure that the generator, the outlets inside the house, and the floodlights in the rose garden were still in working order. I called the company that had repainted our law offices last year, and they promised to send a crew to begin freshening the walls inside, as well as the fence that surrounded the rose garden. A rental company would provide tents and tables, chairs for the ceremony, linens, glasses, and silverware, and all would be delivered on Thursday morning. A few employees of the restaurant would be there later to set things up, well in advance of the event on Saturday. Nathan Little was looking forward to starting his project, and when I called he informed me that the plants I’d ordered earlier that week from the nursery were already loaded on his truck. He also agreed to have his employees cart the excess furniture from the home. Finally, I made the necessary music arrangements for both the wedding and the reception; the piano would be tuned on Thursday.
The arrangements to have everything accomplished quickly weren’t as difficult as one might imagine. Not only was I acquainted with most of the people I called, but it was something I had done once before. In many ways, this burst of frenzied activity was like the work we’d done on the first home Jane and I had purchased after we got married. An old row house that had fallen on hard times, it needed a thorough remodeling job . . . which was why we’d been able to afford it. We did much of the initial gutting ourselves but soon reached the point where the skills of carpenters, plumbers, and electricians were needed.
Meanwhile, we had wasted no time trying to start a family.
We were both virgins when we said our vows; I was twenty-six, Jane was twenty-three. We taught each other how to make love in a way that was both innocent and filled with passion, gradually learning how to please each other. It seemed that no matter how tired we were, most evenings were spent entwined in each other’s arms.
We never took precautions to prevent a pregnancy. I remember believing that Jane would become pregnant right away, and I even started adding to my savings account in anticipation of the event. She didn’t, however, get pregnant in the first month of our marriage, nor did she in the second or third months.
Sometime around the sixth month, she consulted with Allie, and later that night, when I got home from work, she informed me that we had to talk. Again, I sat beside her on the couch as she told me there was something that she wanted me to do. This time, instead of asking me to go to church, she asked me to pray with her, and I did. Somehow I knew that it was the right thing to do. We began praying together as a couple regularly after that night, and the more we did, the more I came to look forward to it. Yet more months passed, and Jane still didn’t become pregnant. I don’t know if she was ever truly worried about her ability to conceive, but I do know it was always on her mind, and even I’d started to wonder about it. By then, we were a month away from our first anniversary.
Though I’d originally planned to have contractors submit bids and conduct a series of interviews to finish the work on our home, I knew that the process had begun to wear on Jane. Our tiny apartment was cramped, and the excitement of remodeling had lost its luster. I made a secret goal to move Jane into our home before our first anniversary.
With that in mind, I did the same thing that, ironically, I would do again some three decades later: I worked the phones, called in favors, and did whatever was necessary to guarantee the work would be completed in time. I hired crews, dropped by the house at lunch and after work to monitor its progress, and ended up paying far more than I originally budgeted. Nonetheless, I found myself marveling at the speed with which the house began to take form. Workers came and went; floors were laid, cabinets, sinks, and appliances were installed. Light fixtures were replaced and wallpaper hung, as day by day I watched the calendar inch closer to our anniversary.
In the final week before our anniversary, I invented excuses to keep Jane from the house, for it is in the last week of a renovation that a house ceases to be a shell and becomes a home. I wanted it to be a surprise that she would remember forever.
“No reason to go to the house tonight,” I’d say. “When I went by earlier, the contractor wasn’t even there.” Or, “I’ve got a lot of work to do later, and I’d rather relax with you around here.”
I don’t know whether she believed my excuses—and looking back, I’m sure she must have suspected something—but she didn’t press me to bring her there. And on our anniversary, after we’d shared a romantic dinner downtown, I drove her to the house instead of our apartment.
It was late. The moon was full and cratered; cicadas had begun their evening song, their trill notes filling the air. From the outside, the house looked unchanged. Piles of scrap still lay heaped in the yard, paint cans were stacked near the door, and the porch looked gray with dust. Jane gazed toward the house, then glanced at me quizzically.
“I just want to check on what they’ve been doing,” I explained.
“Tonight?” she asked.
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, it’s dark inside. We won’t be able to see anything.”
“C’mon,” I said, reaching for a flashlight I’d stashed under my seat. “We don’t have to stay long if you don’t want to.”
I got out of the car and opened her door for her. After guiding her gingerly through the debris and up onto the porch, I unlocked the door.
In the darkness, it was impossible not to notice the smell of new carpet, and a moment later, when I turned on the flashlight and swept it through the living room and the kitchen, I saw Jane’s eyes widen. It wasn’t completely finished, of course, but even from where we stood in the doorway, it was plain that it was close enough for us to move in.
Jane stood frozen in place. I reached for her hand.
“Welcome home,” I said.
“Oh, Wilson,” she breathed.
“Happy anniversary,” I whispered.
When she turned toward me, her expression was a mixture of hope and confusion.
“But how . . . I mean, last week, it wasn’t even close . . .”
“I wanted it to be a surprise. But come—there’s one more thing I have to show you.”