“From our anniversary,” she said before going back to her knitting. “I never told you this, but while you were in the Navy, I had a dream one night,” she added. “I was in this field of wildflowers, and even though I couldn’t see you, I could hear you singing this song to me, and when I woke up, I wasn’t afraid anymore. Because up until then, I was always afraid that you weren’t coming back.”
I stood there dumbstruck. “It wasn’t a dream,” I finally said.
She just smiled and I had the sense that she’d been expecting my answer. “I know. Like I said, I heard you.”
After that, the idea that Clara and I had something powerful—spiritual, some might say—between us never left me. So some years later, I decided to start the garden and I brought her up here on our anniversary to show it to her. It wasn’t much back then, nothing like it is now, but she swore it was the most beautiful place in the world. So I tilled more ground and added more seeds the next year, all the while humming our song. I did the same thing every year of our marriage, until she finally passed away. I had her ashes scattered here, in the place she loved.
But I was a broken man after she died. I was angry and boozing and losing myself little by little in the process. I stopped tilling and planting and singing because Clara was gone and I didn’t see the reason to keep it going. I hated the world and I didn’t want to go on. I thought about killing myself more than once, but then Dawson came along. It was good to have him around. Somehow he helped remind me that I still belonged in this world, that my work here wasn’t done. But then he got taken away, too. After that, I came up here and saw the place for the first time in years. It was out of season, but some of the flowers were still blooming, and though I don’t know why, when I sang our song tears came to my eyes. I cried for Dawson, I suppose, but I also cried for me. Mainly, though, I was crying for Clara.
That was when it started. Later that night, when I got home, I saw Clara through the kitchen window. Even though it was faint, I heard her humming our song. But she was hazy, not really there, and by the time I got inside she was gone. So I went back to the cottage and started to till again. Got things ready, so to speak, and I saw her again, this time on the porch. A few weeks later, after I scattered seeds, she started coming around regularly, maybe once a week, and I was able to get closer to her before she vanished. But then, when the flowers bloomed, I came out here and wandered among the flowers, and by the time I got home I could see and hear her plain as day. Just standing right there on the porch, waiting for me, as if wondering why it took me so long to figure things out. That’s the way it’s been ever since.
She’s part of the flowers, you see? Her ashes helped to make the flowers grow, and the more they grew, the more alive she became. And as long as I kept the flowers going, Clara could find a way to come back to me.
So that’s why you’re here, and that’s why I asked you to do this for me. This is our place, a tiny corner of the world where love can make anything possible. I think that the two of you, more than anyone else, will understand that.
But now it’s time for me to join her. It’s time for us to sing together. It’s my time and I have no regrets. I’m back with Clara again, and that’s the only place I’ve ever wanted to be. Scatter my ashes to the wind and flowers, and don’t cry for me. Instead, I want you to smile for the both of us; smile with joy for me and my gal.
Tuck
Dawson leaned forward, resting his forearms on his thighs, trying to imagine Tuck as he wrote the letter. It sounded nothing like the laconic, rough-hewn man who’d taken him in. This was a Tuck that Dawson had never met, a person Dawson had never known.
Amanda’s expression was tender as she refolded the letter, taking extra precaution not to tear it.
“I know the song he talks about,” she said after she had stowed the letter safely in her purse. “I heard him singing it once while he sat in the rocker. When I asked him about it, he didn’t really answer. Instead, he played it for me on the record player.”
“At the house?”
She nodded. “I remember thinking it was catchy, but Tuck had closed his eyes and he just seemed… lost in it. When it was over, he got up and put the record away, and at the time I didn’t know what to make of it. But now I understand.” She turned toward him. “He was calling to Clara.”
Dawson slowly rotated his wine glass. “Do you believe him? About seeing Clara?”
“I didn’t. Not really, anyway. But now I’m not so sure.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, reminding them again of what they had come here to do. “I think it’s probably time,” Dawson said.
Amanda stood, brushing off her pants, and together they descended to the garden. The breeze was steady now, but the mist had grown even thicker. The crystalline morning was gone, replaced by afternoon weather that reflected the murky weight of the past.
After Dawson retrieved the box, they found the path that led to the center of the garden. Amanda’s hair rippled in the breeze, and he watched as she ran her fingers through it, trying to keep it under control. They reached the center of the garden and stopped.
Dawson was conscious of the weight of the box in his hands. “We should say something,” he murmured. At her nod, he went first, offering a tribute to the man who’d given him shelter and friendship. Amanda, in turn, thanked Tuck for being her confidant and told him that she’d come to care about him like a father. When they were finished, the wind picked up almost on cue, and Dawson lifted the lid.
The ashes took flight, swirling together over the flowers, and as she watched, Amanda couldn’t help thinking that Tuck was looking for Clara, calling out to her one last time.
They retreated to the house afterward, alternately reminiscing about Tuck and sitting in companionable silence. Outside, the rain had begun to fall. It was steady but not hard, a delicate summer rain that felt like a blessing.
When they grew hungry, they ventured out into the rain, taking the Stingray down the twisty drive onto the highway again. Though they could have returned to Oriental, they drove instead to New Bern. Near the historic downtown district, they found a restaurant called the Chelsea. It was nearly empty when they arrived, but by the time they left, every table was occupied.
There was a short break in the rain, and they spent it strolling the quiet sidewalks, visiting the shops that were still open. While Dawson browsed in a secondhand bookstore, Amanda took the opportunity to step out and call home. She spoke to both Jared and Lynn before touching base with Frank. She called her mom, too, leaving a message on the answering machine telling her that she might be late and asking her to leave the door unlocked. She hung up just as Dawson approached, feeling a stab of grief at the thought that the night was almost over. As if reading her mind, Dawson offered his arm, and she clung to it as they slowly made their way back to the car.
Back on the highway, the rain started again. The mist grew thicker almost as soon as they crossed the Neuse River, tendrils stretching from the forest like ghostly fingers. The headlights did little to illuminate the road, and trees seemed to absorb what little light there was. Dawson slowed the car in the wet, murky darkness.
The rainfall was steady on the soft-top, like the passing of a distant train, and Amanda found herself thinking about the day. Over their meal, she’d caught Dawson staring at her more than once, but rather than feeling self-conscious, she didn’t want him to stop.
She knew it was wrong. Her life didn’t allow for that kind of desire; society didn’t condone it, either. She could try to dismiss her feelings as temporary, a by-product of other factors in her life. But she knew that wasn’t true. Dawson wasn’t some stranger that she happened to rendezvous with; he was her first and only true love, the most enduring of all.
Frank would be crushed if he knew what she was thinking. And despite their troubles, she knew she loved Frank. Yet even if nothing happened—even if she went home today—she knew that Dawson would continue to haunt her. Although her marriage had been troubled for years, it wasn’t simply that she was seeking solace elsewhere. It was Dawson—and the us they created whenever they were together—that had made all of this both natural and inevitable. She couldn’t help thinking that the story between them was somehow unfinished; that both of them were waiting to write the ending.
After they passed through Bayboro, Dawson slowed the car. Coming up was the turn onto another highway, one that led south, to Oriental. Straight ahead lay Vandemere. Dawson would make the turn, but as they approached the intersection, she wanted to tell him to keep going. She didn’t want to wake tomorrow wondering if she’d ever see him again. The thought was terrifying, and yet somehow the words wouldn’t come.
There was no one else on the road. Water flowed from the macadam into shallow gullies on either side of the highway. When they reached the intersection, Dawson gently applied the brakes. Surprising her, he brought the car to a stop.
The wipers moved the water from side to side. Raindrops glittered in the reflection of the headlights. As the engine idled, Dawson turned toward her, his face in shadow.
“Your mom is probably expecting you.”
She could feel her heart beating, speeding up. “Yes.” She nodded, saying nothing more.
For a long moment, he simply stared at her, reading her, seeing all the hope and fear and desire in the eyes that held his own. Then, with a flicker of a smile, he faced the windshield, and ever so slowly the car began to roll forward, toward Vandemere, and neither one of them was willing or able to stop it.
There was no awkwardness at the door when they returned to the cottage. Amanda made for the kitchen as Dawson turned on the lamp. She refilled their glasses of wine, feeling both unsettled and secretly thrilled at exactly the same time.
In the living room, Dawson turned the radio dial until he found some old-time jazz, keeping the volume low. From the shelf above, he pulled down one of the old books and was thumbing through the yellowed pages when Amanda approached him with the wine. Returning the book to its spot on the shelf, he took the glass and followed her to the couch. He watched as she slipped off her shoes.
“It’s so quiet,” she said. Setting her glass on the end table, she pulled her legs up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I understand why Tuck and Clara wanted to remain here.”
The dim light of the living room lent her features a mysterious cast, and Dawson cleared his throat. “Do you think you’ll ever come back here again?” he asked. “After this weekend, I mean?”
“I don’t know. If I knew it would stay like this, then yes. But I know it won’t, because nothing lasts forever. And part of me wants to remember it just like it was today, with the flowers in full bloom.”
“Not to mention a clean house.”
“That, too,” she agreed. She reached for her wine, swirling it in the glass. “Earlier, when the ashes were floating away, do you know what I was thinking about? I was thinking about the night we were on the dock watching the meteor shower. I don’t know why, but all of a sudden it was like I was there again. I could see us lying on the blanket, whispering to each other and listening to the crickets, that perfect, musical echo. And above us, the sky was just so… alive.”
“Why are you telling me this?” Dawson’s voice was gentle.
Her expression was melancholy. “Because that was the night I knew I loved you. That I’d really and truly fallen in love. And I think my mom knew exactly what had happened.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Because the next morning, she asked me about you, and when I told her how I felt, we ended up in a screaming match—a big one, one of the worst we ever had. She even slapped me. I was so shocked, I didn’t know how to respond. And all the while she kept telling me how ridiculous my behavior was, and that I didn’t know what I was doing. She made it sound like she was angry because it was you, but when I think back on it now, I know she would have been upset no matter who it was. Because it wasn’t about you, or us, or even your last name. It was about her. She knew I was growing up, and she was afraid of losing control. She didn’t know how to handle that—not then, and not now.” She took a sip and lowered the glass, spinning the stem with her fingers. “She told me I was self-centered this morning.”
“She’s wrong.”
“I thought so, too,” she said. “At first anyway. But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why would you say that?”
“I’m not exactly acting like a married woman, am I?”
Watching her, he held his silence, giving her time to consider what she was saying. “Do you want me to bring you back?” he finally asked.
She hesitated before shaking her head. “No,” she said. “That’s the thing. I want to be here, with you. Even though I know it’s wrong.” Her eyes were downcast, lashes dark against her cheekbones. “Does that make any sense?”
He traced a finger along the back of her hand. “Do you really want me to answer?”
“No,” she answered. “Not really. But it’s… complicated. Marriage, I mean.” She could feel him weave delicate patterns across her skin.
“Do you like being married?” Dawson asked, his voice tentative.
Instead of answering right away, Amanda took a sip of her wine, collecting herself. “Frank is a good man. Most of the time, anyway. But marriage isn’t what people think it is. People want to believe that every marriage is this perfect balance, but it isn’t. One person always loves more deeply than the other. I know Frank loves me, and I love him, too… just not as much. And I never have.”
“Why not?”
“Don’t you know?” She looked at him. “It’s because of you. Even when we were standing in the church and I was getting ready to take my vows, I can remember wishing that you were standing there, instead of him. Because I not only still loved you, but loved you beyond measure, and I suspected even then that I would never feel the same way about Frank.”