The Guardian

by Nicholas Sparks

  "You were thinking . . . that you were glad you married him."

  "Oh, now that's going out on a limb."

  "Was I right, though?"

  "No."

  "So what were you thinking about?"

  "It's not important. Besides, you don't want to know."

  "Why? Is it bad?"

  "No."

  "Then tell me."

  "All right. I was thinking about his fingers."

  "His fingers?"

  "Yeah. You have grease on your fingers. I was thinking that in all the time I was married to Jim, I never saw his fingers look like yours."

  Mike self-consciously moved his hands behind his back.

  "Oh, I didn't mean it in a bad way," she said. "I know you're a mechanic. Your hands should be dirty."

  "They're not dirty. I wash 'em all the time. They're just stained."

  "Don't be so defensive. You know what I mean. Besides, I kind of like it."

  "You do?"

  "I guess I kind of have to. They come with the package."

  Mike's chest puffed out as they walked in silence for a few steps. "So, do you think you'd like to go out tomorrow night? Maybe we could head into Beaufort."

  "That sounds like fun."

  "We might have to leave Singer this time," he added.

  "That's okay. He's a big boy. He can handle it."

  "Is there any place in particular you like to go?"

  "It's your turn to pick. I've done my duty."

  "And you did it well." Mike sneaked a look at her, reaching for her hand. "What a great idea to go to the beach. It's beautiful tonight."

  Julie smiled as his fingers interlocked with hers. "Yes, it is," she agreed.

  They left the beach a few minutes later when Julie started getting chilled. Mike was reluctant to let go of her hand, even when they reached his truck, but he didn't have a choice. He considered taking it again once he was in the car, but she'd put both hands in her lap and was staring out the side window.

  Neither of them said much on the way home, and when he walked her to the door, he realized that he had no idea what she was thinking. He knew exactly what he was thinking, however-he hoped she would hesitate on the porch, right before they said their good-byes, giving him the chance to make sure his pucker was just right. Didn't want to blow this, either.

  "I had a great time tonight," he said.

  "Me too. What time should I be ready tomorrow?"

  "Seven o'clock?"

  "Sounds great."

  Mike nodded, feeling like a teenager. This was it, he thought, the big moment. It all comes down to this.

  "So," he said, playing it cool.

  Julie smiled, reading his thoughts. She reached for his hand and squeezed it before letting go.

  "Good night, Mike. I'll see you tomorrow?"

  It took a second to process the rejection, and he shifted his balance from one foot to the other, then back again. "Tomorrow?" he asked uncertainly.

  She opened her purse and began searching for the keys. "Yeah. Our date, remember?"

  She found the keys and slipped one into the lock, then looked up at him again. By then, Singer had joined them and she opened the door, letting him inside.

  "And thanks again for a nice evening."

  She waved before following Singer into the house. When the door closed behind her, Mike simply stared before he realized she wasn't coming back out. A few seconds later, he left the porch, kicking at the gravel as he made his way to the truck.

  Knowing she wouldn't be able to fall asleep, Julie began flipping through the pages of a catalog as she sat on the couch, replaying the evening. She was glad she hadn't kissed Mike on the porch, though she wasn't sure why. Maybe she just needed more time to adjust to her newfound feelings toward him.

  Or maybe she just wanted to see him squirm. When he squirmed, he was cute in a way that only Mike could be. And Henry was right, he was fun to tease.

  She picked up the remote and turned on the television. It was still early-not even ten o'clock yet-and she settled on a CBS drama about a small-town sheriff who feels compelled to risk his life to rescue people.

  Twenty minutes later, just as the sheriff was about to save a youngster trapped in a burning car, she heard a knock at the door.

  Singer rose quickly, bounding through the living room. He poked his head out the curtains, and she assumed that Mike had come back.

  Then Singer started growling.

  Seventeen

  "Richard," Julie said.

  "Hey, Julie." He held out a bouquet of roses. "I picked these up at the airport on the way home. Sorry they're not as fresh as they should be, but there wasn't much of a selection."

  Julie stood in the doorway, Singer by her side. He'd stopped growling as soon as she'd opened the door, and Richard offered an open palm. He sniffed before looking up, making sure the face matched the familiar scent, then he turned away. Oh, him, he seemed to say. Not thrilled with this, but okay.

  It wasn't so easy for Julie. She hesitated before taking the flowers, wishing he hadn't brought them.

  "Thank you," she said.

  "I'm sorry for coming by so late, but I wanted to say hi before heading back to my place."

  "It's okay," she said.

  "I called earlier to let you know, but I guess you weren't in."

  "Did you leave a message?"

  "No. I didn't have time. They were announcing final boarding and my seat wasn't confirmed. You know how it goes. I left you one yesterday, though."

  "Yeah"-she nodded-"I got that one."

  Richard brought his hands together in front of him. "So, were you in?" he asked. "Earlier, I mean?"

  She felt her shoulders give a little. She didn't want to do this now.

  "I was out with a friend," she said.

  "A friend?"

  "You remember Mike? We grabbed a quick dinner."

  "Oh, yeah. From the bar that night, right?" he said. "The guy who works in the garage?"

  "That's the one."

  "Oh," he said. He nodded. "Have fun?"

  "I haven't seen a lot of him lately, so it was nice to be able to catch up."

  "Good." He glanced off to the side of the porch, then down at his feet, then at her again. "Can I come in? I was hoping we might be able to talk for a few minutes."

  "I don't know," she hedged. "It's kind of late. I was just getting ready for bed."

  "Oh," he said, "that's fine. I understand. Can I see you tomorrow, then? Maybe we can have dinner."

  In the shadows his features seemed darker, but he smiled, as if he knew what her answer was going to be.

  Julie blinked, holding her eyes closed for an extra instant. I hate that I have to do this, she thought, I hate it, I hate it, I hate it. Bob, at least, probably had the suspicion that the end was coming. Not Richard.

  "I'm sorry," she said, "but I can't. I already made plans."

  "With Mike again?"

  She nodded.

  Richard absently scratched the side of his cheek, continuing to hold her gaze. "So that's it, then? For us, I mean?"

  Her expression answered for her.

  "Did I do something wrong?" he asked.

  "No," she protested, "it's not that."

  "Then . . . what is it? Didn't you have fun when we went out?"

  "Yes, I had fun."

  "Then what is it?"

  Julie hesitated. "It's not about you at all, really. It's about Mike and me. We just seem . . . Well, I don't know how to explain it. What can I say?"

  As she struggled for words, his jaw began to tighten and she could see the muscle flexing in his cheek. For a long moment, he said nothing.

  "Must have been an exciting few days while I was gone, huh?" he said.

  "Look, I'm sorry. . . ."

  "For what? For going behind my back as soon as I left? For using me to make Mike jealous?"

  It took a moment for his words to register. "What are you talking about?"

  "You heard me."


  "I didn't use you. . . ."

  Richard ignored her, his tone becoming angrier. "No? Then why are you ending this when we're still getting to know each other? And how did Mike suddenly get so interesting? I mean, I leave town for a few days, and the next thing I know, it's over between us and Mike has taken my place." He stared at her, his lips beginning to turn white at the edges. "It sure as hell sounds to me like you planned this all along."

  His outburst was so startling, so unexpected, that the words came out before she could stop them. "You're a jerk."

  Richard continued to look at her for a long moment before finally glancing away. His anger suddenly gave way to an expression of hurt.

  "This isn't fair," he said softly. "Please, I just want to talk for a minute, okay?" he pleaded.

  When Julie looked at him, she was amazed to see tears forming in his eyes. The man was an absolute roller coaster of emotions, she decided. Up, down, all around. "Look, I'm sorry, Richard. I shouldn't have said what I did. And I didn't mean for you to get hurt. Really." She paused, making sure he was listening. "But it's late and we're both tired. I think I better head in before either of us says anything else. Okay?"

  When Richard didn't respond, she took a step backward and began to close the door. Richard suddenly thrust his hand out, stopping her.

  "Julie! Wait!" he said. "I'm sorry. Please . . . I really need to talk to you."

  In the future, when she remembered this moment, she would always recall with shock how quickly Singer moved. Before she had time to process the fact that Richard had taken hold of the door, Singer had launched himself toward the hand, as if trying to catch a Frisbee in flight. Singer's jaw found its target, and Richard howled in pain as he tumbled over the threshold.

  "Singer!" Julie screamed.

  Richard fell to his knees, one arm extended as Singer shook his head from side to side, snarling.

  "Stop him!" Richard screamed. "Get him off me!"

  Julie lunged toward Singer, grabbed his collar, and tugged hard. "Let him go!" she commanded. "Let him go, now!"

  Despite the fury of the moment, Singer fell back immediately and Richard drew his hand instinctively to his chest, wrapping his other hand around it. Singer stood by Julie's side, fangs showing, the hair on his back standing up.

  "Singer, no!" she cried, still stunned by the dog's ferocity. "Is your hand okay?"

  Richard moved his fingers, wincing. "I don't think anything's broken."

  Julie's hand traveled to Singer. His muscles were rigid, his eyes locked on Richard.

  "I didn't even see him coming," Richard said quietly. "Remind me not to hold your door again when your dog's around."

  Though he spoke as if the incident were somewhat comedic, Julie didn't reply. Singer had acted instinctively to protect her, and she wasn't about to punish him for that.

  Richard stood then, opening and closing his hand. Julie could see the indentations of Singer's teeth, though it didn't look as if he'd broken the skin. He moved a step farther away from her.

  "I'm sorry," he said. "I shouldn't have tried to stop you from going inside. That was wrong of me."

  You got that right, she thought.

  "And I shouldn't have gotten angry with you earlier, either." He sighed. "It's just that this came at the end of a really hard week. That's the reason I wanted to come by. I know it's no excuse, but . . ."

  He sounded both sincere and contrite, but she held up her hands to stop him.

  "Richard . . . ," she said.

  Her tone made it plain she didn't want to go into it again. Richard's eyes darted to the side. He stared, seemingly at nothing, the porch light flickering on his face, and Julie saw that she hadn't been mistaken about the earlier tears. His eyes were misting again.

  When he spoke again, his voice was choked up, ragged.

  "My mother died this week," he whispered. "I just came from her funeral."

  "That's why I had to leave the note on your Jeep that night," Richard explained. "The doctor said that I'd better catch the first flight I could because he wasn't even sure she'd last another day. I caught the first flight out of Raleigh on Tuesday morning, and with all the new security, I had to leave in the middle of the night to get there in time."

  A few minutes had passed, and Richard was sitting on Julie's couch, staring at the ground, still fighting the tears. It had taken a moment to register what he'd said, but once she did, she couldn't help but feel a jolt of sympathy for him. After she'd stammered out the usual-"I'm sorry" and "Why didn't you tell me right away?"-Richard had broken down completely, and his tears had gotten to her. Julie had allowed him into the house after putting Singer in the bedroom. Now she was sitting across from him in the chair, listening as he spoke, thinking, Great timing, Julie. You can really pick your moments when it comes to breaking hearts, huh?

  "I know it doesn't change what you told me on the porch, but I didn't want us to end with a fight. I enjoyed the time we spent too much for that."

  He cleared his throat and pressed his fingers against the lids of his eyes. "It just seemed so sudden, you know? I wasn't prepared for what you told me." He sighed. "Hell, I wasn't prepared for much of anything. You can't imagine what it was like up there. Everything . . . the way she looked at the end, what the nurses were saying, the way it smelled . . ."

  Both hands went to his face and she heard his ragged breath, a series of quick intakes followed by a long exhale.

  "I just needed to talk to someone. Someone I knew would listen."

  Oh . . . boy, Julie thought. Could this have possibly been any worse?

  She forced a wan smile.

  "We can talk," she said. "We're still friends, aren't we?"

  Richard rambled on for a couple of hours, bouncing from subject to subject: his memories of his mother, what he was thinking when he first walked into the hospital room, how it felt the following morning to know he was holding her hand for the last time. After he'd been talking for a while, Julie offered him a beer; as the evening went on, he finished three without seeming to notice. Every now and then he'd pause and stare off to the side of the room, a dazed expression on his face, as if he'd forgotten what he was trying to say; other times he spoke as though he'd just downed a double espresso, the words running together. Throughout it all, Julie listened. She asked an occasional question when it seemed appropriate, but that was all. She saw tears more than once, but when they welled up, Richard would pinch the bridge of his nose to stop them.

  Midnight came and went. The hands of the clock on the mantelpiece rolled past one, then began edging toward two. By then, the beer and emotional exhaustion had taken their toll. Richard had begun to repeat himself, and his words had begun to slur. When Julie went to the kitchen for a glass of water for herself, she noticed that Richard's eyes had closed. Wedged into the corner of the couch, his head was angled against the back cushion, his mouth open. His breaths were coming in steady rhythm.

  Holding the glass of water, she stood in place, thinking, Oh, this is just great. So what do I do now?

  She wanted to wake him but didn't think he was sober enough to drive. She wasn't comfortable having him stay, but then again, he was already asleep, and if she woke him again, he might want to talk some more. Despite her willingness to listen if he needed her to, she was exhausted.

  "Richard," she whispered. "You awake?"

  Nothing.

  A moment later, she tried again with the same result. She figured she could shout or nudge him awake, but considering the options, it seemed like more trouble than it was worth.

  It's no big deal, she finally decided, he's out.

  Julie turned out the lights and, leaving him where he was, headed back into the bedroom, closing and locking the door behind her. Singer was on the bed. He raised his head, watching as she slipped into her pajamas.

  "It's only for tonight," she explained, as if trying to convince herself she was doing the right thing. "It's not like I'm changing my mind. It's just that I'm tired, you kn
ow?"

  Julie woke at dawn, and after peeking at the clock, she groaned and rolled over, trying to ward off the day. She was sluggish and felt as if she were suffering from a hangover.

  After crawling out of bed, she cracked open the door to peek out; Richard still appeared to be sleeping. She hopped into the shower and dressed for work; she didn't want him to see her in her pajamas. By the time she entered the living room-with Singer moving warily beside her-Richard was sitting up on the couch, rubbing his face. His keys were perched on top of his wallet on the table in front of him.

  "Oh, hey," he said, looking embarrassed. "I guess I conked out, huh? I'm sorry about that."

  "It was a long day," she said.

  "Yeah, it was," he responded. He took a moment to reach for his wallet as he stood. A brief smile flickered across his face. "Thanks for letting me stay last night. I appreciate it."

  "No problem," she said. "You gonna be okay?"

  "I guess I have to be. Life goes on, right?"

  His shirt was wrinkled, and he brushed at it with his hands. "I'm sorry again for the way I acted last night," he added. "I don't know what got into me."

  Julie's hair hadn't dried completely, and she felt a drip of water soak through the fabric of her blouse.

  "It's okay," she said. "And I know it must seem like it came out of the blue, but . . ."

  He shook his head. "No-it's fine. You don't have to explain-I understand. Mike seems like a nice guy."

  She hesitated. "He is," she finally said, "but thank you."

  "I want you to be happy. That's all I ever wanted. You're a great person, and you deserve that. Especially after listening to me drone on last night. You have no idea how much that meant to me. No hard feelings?"

  "No hard feelings," she repeated.

  "Still friends?"

  "Sure," he said.

  "Thanks." Then, after a beat, he picked up his keys and started toward the door. Opening it, he looked over his shoulder.

  "Mike's a lucky guy," he called out. "Don't forget that." He smiled, but it carried with it a trace of melancholy. "Good-bye, Julie."

  When he finally got in the car, Julie felt herself exhale, thankful that it had gone a lot better than she'd thought it would. Then, frowning, she changed her mind. Well, better than last night, anyway. Anything was better than that.

  But at least it's over now.

  Eighteen

  Inside the rented Victorian, Richard made his way up the stairs to the corner room. He'd painted the walls black and covered the windows with duct tape and a light-blocking tarp; a red light dangled over a makeshift table along the far wall. His photography equipment was in the corner: four different cameras, a dozen lenses, boxes of film. He turned on the lamp and angled the shade so the light could fan out better.