The Last Song

by Nicholas Sparks

  Sometimes she wished her father had started her on the electric guitar. Or at the very least, singing lessons. What was she supposed to do with an ability to play the piano? Teach music at the local school? Or play in some hotel lobby while people were checking in? Or chase the hard life her father had? Look where the piano had gotten him. He'd ended up quitting Juilliard so he could hit the road as a concert pianist and found himself playing in rinky-dink venues to audiences that barely filled the first couple of rows. He traveled forty weeks a year, long enough to put a strain on the marriage. Next thing she knew, Mom was yelling all the time and Dad was retreating into his shell like he usually did, until one day he simply didn't return from an extended southern tour. As far as she knew, he wasn't working at all these days. He wasn't even giving private lessons.

  How did that work out for you, Dad?

  She shook her head. She really didn't want to be here. God knows she wanted nothing to do with any of this.

  "Hey, Mom!" Jonah called out. He leaned forward. "What's over there? Is that a Ferris wheel?"

  Her mom craned her neck, trying to see around the minivan in the lane beside her. "I think it is, honey," she answered. "There must be a carnival in town."

  "Can we go? After we all have dinner together?"

  "You'll have to ask your dad."

  "Yeah, and maybe afterward, we'll all sit around the campfire and roast marshmallows," Ronnie interjected. "Like we're one big, happy family."

  This time, both of them ignored her.

  "Do you think they have other rides?" Jonah asked.

  "I'm sure they do. And if your dad doesn't want to ride them, I'm sure your sister will go with you."

  "Awesome!"

  Ronnie sagged in her seat. It figured her mom would suggest something like that. The whole thing was too depressing to believe.

  2

  Steve

  Steve Miller played the piano with keyed-up intensity, anticipating his children's arrival at any minute.

  The piano was located in a small alcove off the small living room of the beachside bungalow he now called home. Behind him were items that represented his personal history. It wasn't much. Aside from the piano, Kim had been able to pack his belongings into a single box, and it had taken less than half an hour to put everything in place. There was a snapshot of him with his father and mother when he was young, another photo of him playing the piano as a teen. They were mounted between both of the degrees he'd received, one from Chapel Hill and the other from Boston University, and below it was a certificate of appreciation from Juilliard after he'd taught for fifteen years. Near the window were three framed schedules outlining his tour dates. Most important, though, were half a dozen photographs of Jonah and Ronnie, some tacked to the walls or framed and sitting atop the piano, and whenever he looked at them, he was reminded of the fact that despite his best intentions, nothing had turned out the way he'd expected.

  The late afternoon sun was slanting through the windows, making the interior of the house stuffy, and Steve could feel beads of sweat beginning to form. Thankfully, the pain in his stomach had lessened since the morning, but he'd been nervous for days, and he knew it would come back. He'd always had a weak stomach; in his twenties, he'd had an ulcer and was hospitalized for diverticulitis; in his thirties, he'd had his appendix removed after it had burst while Kim was pregnant with Jonah. He ate Rolaids like candy, he'd been on Nexium for years, and though he knew he could probably eat better and exercise more, he doubted that either would have helped. Stomach problems ran in his family.

  His father's death six years ago had changed him, and since the funeral, he'd felt as though he'd been on a countdown of sorts. In a way, he supposed he had. Five years ago, he'd quit his position at Juilliard, and a year after that, he'd decided to try his luck as a concert pianist. Three years ago, he and Kim decided to divorce; less than twelve months later, the tour dates began drying up, until they finally ended completely. Last year, he'd moved back here, to the town where he'd grown up, a place he never thought he'd see again. Now he was about to spend the summer with his children, and though he tried to imagine what the fall would bring once Ronnie and Jonah were back in New York, he knew only that leaves would yellow before turning to red and that in the mornings his breaths would come out in little puffs. He'd long since given up trying to predict the future.

  This didn't bother him. He knew predictions were pointless, and besides, he could barely understand the past. These days, all he could say for sure was that he was ordinary in a world that loved the extraordinary, and the realization left him with a vague feeling of disappointment at the life he'd led. But what could he do? Unlike Kim, who'd been outgoing and gregarious, he'd always been more reticent and blended into crowds. Though he had certain talents as a musician and composer, he lacked the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he'd been more an observer of the world than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a failure in all that was important. He was forty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his daughter avoided him, and his son was growing up without him. Thinking back, he knew he had no one to blame but himself, and more than anything, this was what he wanted to know: Was it still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?

  Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years, even. But middle age, he sometimes thought, had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though he'd once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he suspected now that he'd been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he'd come to realize that for him, music had always been a movement away from reality rather than a means of living in it more deeply. He might have experienced passion and catharsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a sense of accomplishment when he'd written sonatas of his own, but he now knew that burying himself in music had less to do with God than a selfish desire to escape.

  He now believed that the real answer lay somewhere in the nexus of love he felt for his children, in the ache he experienced when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren't here. But even then, he knew there was something more.

  And somehow, he hoped his children would help him find it.

  A few minutes later, Steve noticed the sun reflecting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon outside. He and Kim had purchased it years ago for weekend outings to Costco and family getaways. He wondered in passing if she'd remembered to change the oil before she'd driven down, or even since he'd left. Probably not, he decided. Kim had never been good at things like that, which was why he'd always taken care of them.

  But that part of his life was over now.

  Steve rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jonah was already out of the car and rushing toward him. His hair hadn't been combed, his glasses were crooked, and his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. Steve felt his throat tighten, reminded again of how much he'd missed in the past three years.

  "Dad!"

  "Jonah!" Steve shouted back as he crossed the rocky sand that constituted his yard. When Jonah jumped into his arms, it was all he could do to remain upright.

  "You've gotten so big," he said.

  "And you've gotten smaller!" Jonah said. "You're skinny now."

  Steve hugged his son tight before putting him down. "I'm glad you're here."

  "I am, too. Mom and Ronnie fought the whole time."

  "That's no fun."

  "It's okay. I ignored it. Except when I egged them on."

  "Ah," Steve responded.

  Jonah pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. "Why didn't Mom let us fly?"

  "Did you ask her?"

  "No."

  "Maybe you should."

  "It's not important. I was just wondering."

  Steve smiled. He'd forgotten how talkative his son could be.

  "Hey, is this your house?"

  "
That's it."

  "This place is awesome!"

  Steve wondered if Jonah was serious. The house was anything but awesome. The bungalow was easily the oldest property on Wrightsville Beach and sandwiched between two massive homes that had gone up within the last ten years, making it seem even more diminutive. The paint was peeling, the roof was missing numerous shingles, and the porch was rotting; it wouldn't surprise him if the next decent storm blew it over, which would no doubt please the neighbors. Since he'd moved in, neither family had ever spoken to him.

  "You think so?" he said.

  "Hello? It's right on the beach. What else could you want?" He motioned toward the ocean. "Can I go check it out?"

  "Sure. But be careful. And stay behind the house. Don't wander off."

  "Deal."

  Steve watched him jog off before turning to see Kim approaching. Ronnie had stepped out of the car as well but was still lingering near it.

  "Hi, Kim," he said.

  "Steve." She leaned in to give him a brief hug. "You doing okay?" she asked. "You look thin."

  "I'm okay."

  Behind her, Steve noticed Ronnie slowly making her way toward them. He was struck by how much she'd changed since the last photo Kim had e-mailed. Gone was the all-American girl he remembered, and in her place was a young woman with a purple streak in her long brown hair, black fingernail polish, and dark clothing. Despite the obvious signs of teenage rebellion, he thought again how much she resembled her mother. Good thing, too. She was, he thought, as lovely as ever.

  He cleared his throat. "Hi, sweetie. It's good to see you."

  When Ronnie didn't answer, Kim scowled at her. "Don't be rude. Your father's talking to you. Say something."

  Ronnie crossed her arms. "All right. How about this? I'm not going to play the piano for you."

  "Ronnie!" Steve could hear Kim's exasperation.

  "What?" She tossed her head. "I thought I'd get that out of the way early."

  Before Kim could respond, Steve shook his head. The last thing he wanted was an argument. "It's okay, Kim."

  "Yeah, Mom. It's okay," Ronnie said, pouncing. "I need to stretch my legs. I'm going for a walk."

  As she stomped away, Steve watched Kim struggle with the impulse to call her back. In the end, though, she said nothing.

  "Long drive?" he asked, trying to lighten the mood.

  "You can't even imagine it."

  He smiled, thinking that for just an instant, it was easy to imagine they were still married, both of them on the same team, both of them still in love.

  Except, of course, that they weren't.

  After unloading the bags, Steve went to the kitchen, where he tapped ice cubes from the old-fashioned tray and dropped them into the mismatched glasses that had come with the place.

  Behind him, he heard Kim enter the kitchen. He reached for a pitcher of sweet tea, poured two glasses, and handed one to her. Outside, Jonah was alternately chasing, and being chased by, the waves as seagulls fluttered overhead.

  "It looks like Jonah's having fun," he said.

  Kim took a step toward the window. "He's been excited about coming for weeks." She hesitated. "He's missed you."

  "I've missed him."

  "I know," she said. She took a drink of her tea before glancing around the kitchen. "So this is the place, huh? It's got... character."

  "By character, I assume you've noticed the leaky roof and lack of air-conditioning."

  Kim flashed a brief smile, caught.

  "I know it's not much. But it's quiet and I can watch the sun come up."

  "And the church is letting you stay here for free?"

  Steve nodded. "It belonged to Carson Johnson. He was a local artist, and when he passed away, he left the house to the church. Pastor Harris is letting me stay until they're ready to sell."

  "So what's it like living back home? I mean, your parents used to live, what? Three blocks from here?"

  Seven, actually. Close. "It's all right." He shrugged.

  "It's so crowded now. The place has really changed since the last time I was here."

  "Everything changes," he said. He leaned against the counter, crossing one leg over the other. "So when's the big day?" he asked, changing the subject. "For you and Brian?"

  "Steve... about that."

  "It's okay," he said, raising a hand. "I'm glad you found someone."

  Kim stared at him, clearly wondering whether to accept his words at face value or plunge into sensitive territory.

  "In January," she finally said. "And I want you to know that with the kids... Brian doesn't pretend to be someone he isn't. You'd like him."

  "I'm sure I would," he said, taking a sip of his tea. He set the glass back down. "How do the kids feel about him?"

  "Jonah seems to like him, but Jonah likes everyone."

  "And Ronnie?"

  "She gets along with him about as well as she gets along with you."

  He laughed before noting her worried expression. "How's she really doing?"

  "I don't know." She sighed. "And I don't think she does, either. She's in this dark, moody phase. She ignores her curfew, and half the time I can't get more than a 'Whatever' when I try to talk to her. I try to write it off as typical teenage stuff, because I remember what it was like... but..." She shook her head. "You saw the way she was dressed, right? And her hair and that god-awful mascara?"

  "Mmm."

  "And?"

  "It could be worse."

  Kim opened her mouth to say something, but when nothing came out, Steve knew he was right. Whatever stage she was going through, whatever Kim's fears, Ronnie was still Ronnie.

  "I guess," she conceded, before shaking her head. "No, I know you're right. It's just been so difficult with her lately. There are times she's still as sweet as ever. Like with Jonah. Even though they fight like cats and dogs, she still brings him to the park every weekend. And when he was having trouble in math, she tutored him every night. Which is strange, because she's barely passing any of her classes. And I haven't told you this, but I made her take the SATs in February. She missed every single question. Do you know how smart you have to be to miss every single question?"

  When Steve laughed, Kim frowned. "It's not funny."

  "It's kind of funny."

  "You haven't had to deal with her these last three years."

  He paused, chastened. "You're right. I'm sorry." He reached for his glass again. "What did the judge say about her shoplifting?"

  "Just what I told you on the phone," she said with a resigned expression. "If she doesn't get into any more trouble, it'll be expunged from her record. If she does it again, though..." She trailed off.

  "You're worried about this," he started.

  Kim turned away. "It's not the first time, which is the problem," she confessed. "She admitted to stealing the bracelet last year, but this time, she said she was buying a bunch of stuff at the drugstore and couldn't hold it all, so she tucked the lipstick in her pocket. She paid for everything else, and when you see the video, it seems to be an honest mistake, but..."

  "But you're not sure."

  When Kim didn't answer, Steve shook his head. "She's not on her way to being profiled on America's Most Wanted. She made a mistake. And she's always had a good heart."

  "That doesn't mean she's telling the truth now."

  "And it doesn't mean she lied, either."

  "So you believe her?" Her expression was a mixture of hope and skepticism.

  He sifted through his feelings about the incident, as he had a dozen times since Kim had first told him. "Yeah," he said. "I believe her."

  "Why?"

  "Because she's a good kid."

  "How do you know?" she demanded. For the first time, she sounded angry. "The last time you spent any time with her, she was finishing middle school." She turned away from him then, crossing her arms as she gazed out the window. Her voice was bitter when she went on. "You could have come back, you know. You could have taught in New York again.
You didn't have to travel around the country, you didn't have to move here... you could have stayed part of their lives."

  Her words stung him, and he knew she was right. But it hadn't been that simple, for reasons they both understood, though neither would acknowledge them.

  The charged silence passed when Steve eventually cleared his throat. "I was just trying to say that Ronnie knows right from wrong. As much as she asserts her independence, I still believe she's the same person she always was. In the ways that really matter, she hasn't changed."

  Before Kim could figure out how or if she should respond to his comment, Jonah burst through the front door, his cheeks flushed.

  "Dad! I found a really cool workshop! C'mon! I want to show you!"

  Kim raised an eyebrow.

  "It's out back," Steve said. "Do you want to see it?"

  "It's awesome, Mom!"

  Kim turned from Steve to Jonah and back again. "No, that's okay," she said. "That sounds like more of a father and son thing. And besides, I should really be going."

  "Already?" Jonah asked.

  Steve knew how hard this was going to be for Kim, and he answered for her. "Your mom has a long drive back. And besides, I wanted to take you to the carnival tonight. Could we do that instead?"

  Steve watched Jonah's shoulders sink a fraction.

  "I guess that's okay," he said.

  After Jonah said good-bye to his mom--with Ronnie still nowhere in sight and, according to Kim, unlikely to return soon--Steve and Jonah strolled over to the workshop, a leaning, tin-roofed outbuilding that had come with the property.

  For the last three months, Steve had spent most afternoons here, surrounded by assorted junk and small sheets of stained glass that Jonah was now exploring. In the center of the workshop was a large worktable with the beginnings of a stained-glass window, but Jonah seemed far more interested in the weird taxidermy pieces perched on the shelves, the previous owner's specialty. It was hard not to be mesmerized by the half-squirrel/half-bass creature or the opossum's head grafted onto the body of a chicken.