The Lucky One

by Nicholas Sparks

  "Why am I not surprised?" she asked.

  Afterward, Thibault went back to work while Elizabeth spent the afternoon cleaning the house. Unlike her grandfather, Thibault was able to pry open the office window that had been painted shut, though it turned out to be more difficult than fixing the brakes. Nor was it easy to open or close afterward, no matter how much sanding he did to smooth it. Then, he painted the trim.

  After that, it was a normal workday. By the time he finished up his duties at the kennel, it was coming up on five, and though he could have easily left for the day, he didn't. Instead, he began work on the files again, wanting to get a head start on what he knew would be a long day tomorrow. He settled in for the next couple of hours, making what he thought was headway--who could tell, though?--and didn't hear Elizabeth approach. Instead, he noticed Zeus get to his feet and start toward the door.

  "I'm surprised you're still here," she said from the doorway. "I saw the light on and thought you'd forgotten to turn it off."

  "I wouldn't forget."

  She pointed to the stacks of files on the desk. "I can't tell you how glad I am that you're doing that. Nana tried to talk me into organizing the files this summer, but I was extremely adept at putting her off."

  "Lucky me," he drawled.

  "No, lucky me. I almost feel guilty about it."

  "I'd almost believe you, except for that smirk. Have you heard from Ben or Nana?"

  "Both," she said. "Nana's great, Ben is miserable. Not that he said as much. I could hear it in his voice."

  "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.

  She offered a tense shrug before reaching for the door handle. She rotated it in both directions, seemingly interested in the mechanism. Finally, she let out a sigh. "Do you want to help me make some ice cream?"

  "Excuse me?" He set down the file he'd been labeling.

  "I love homemade ice cream. There's nothing better when it's hot, but it's no fun to make if you can't share it with someone."

  "I don't know if I've ever had homemade ice cream. . . ."

  "Then you don't know what you're missing. You in?"

  Her childlike enthusiasm was contagious. "Yeah, okay," he agreed. "That sounds fun."

  "Let me run to the store and get what we need. I'll be back in a few minutes."

  "Wouldn't it be easier just to buy some ice cream?"

  Her eyes shone with delight. "But it's not the same. You'll see. I'll be back in a few minutes, okay?"

  She was as good as her word. Thibault just had time to straighten up the desk and check on the dogs one last time before he heard her coming up the drive on her way back from the store. He met her as she was getting out of the car.

  "Would you mind bringing in the bag of crushed ice?" she asked. "It's in the backseat."

  He followed her into the kitchen with the bag of ice, and she motioned to the freezer as she set a quart of half-and-half on the counter.

  "Can you get the ice-cream maker? It's in the pantry. Top shelf on the left."

  Thibault emerged from the pantry with a crank-handled ice-cream maker that looked to be at least fifty years old. "Is this the one?"

  "Yeah, that's it."

  "Does it still work?" he wondered aloud.

  "Perfectly. Amazing, isn't it? Nana got that as a gift for her wedding, but we still use it all the time. It makes delicious ice cream."

  He brought it over to the counter and stood beside her. "What can I do?"

  "If you agree to crank, I'll do the mixing."

  "Fair enough," he said.

  She dug out an electric mixer and a bowl, along with a measuring cup. From the spice cabinet, she chose sugar, flour, and vanilla extract. She added three cups of sugar and a cup of flour to the bowl and mixed it by hand, then put the bowl on the mixer. Next, she beat in three eggs, all the half-and-half, and three teaspoons of vanilla extract before turning on the mixer. Finally, she splashed in a bit of milk and poured the entire mixture into the cream can, put the can in the ice-cream maker, and surrounded it with crushed ice and rock salt.

  "We're ready," she announced, handing it to him. She picked up the rest of the ice and the rock salt. "To the porch we go. You have to make it on the porch, or it isn't the same."

  "Ah," he said.

  She took a seat beside him on the porch steps, sitting fractionally closer than she had the day before. Wedging the can between his feet, Thibault began to rotate the crank, surprised at how easily it turned.

  "Thanks for doing this," she said. "I really need the ice cream. It's been one of those days."

  "Yeah?"

  She turned toward him, a sly smile playing on her lips. "You're very good at that."

  "What?"

  "Saying, 'Yeah?' when someone makes a comment. It's just enough to make someone keep talking without being too personal or prying."

  "Yeah?"

  She giggled. "Yeah," she mimicked. "But most people would have said something like, 'What happened?' Or, 'Why?'"

  "All right. What happened? Why was it one of those days?"

  She gave a disgusted snort. "Oh, it's just that Ben was really grumpy this morning while he was packing, and I ended up snapping at him to hurry up because he was taking so long. His dad usually doesn't like it when he's late, but today? Well, today, it was as if he'd forgotten that Ben was even coming. I must have knocked on the door for a couple of minutes before he eventually opened it, and I could tell he'd just gotten out of bed. Had I known he was sleeping in, I wouldn't have been so hard on Ben, and I still feel guilty about it. And, of course, as I'm pulling away, I see Ben already hauling out the garbage because dear old Dad was too lazy to do it. And then, of course, I spent the whole day cleaning, which wasn't so bad the first couple of hours. But by the end, I really needed ice cream."

  "Doesn't sound like a relaxing Saturday."

  "It wasn't," she muttered, and he could tell she was debating whether to say more. There was something more, something else bothering her, and she drew a long breath before sighing. "It's my brother's birthday today," she said, the faintest tremor in her voice. "That's where I went today, after dropping Ben off. I brought flowers to the cemetery."

  Thibault felt a thickness in his throat as he remembered the photograph on the mantel. Though he'd suspected that her brother had been killed, it was the first time that either Nana or Elizabeth had confirmed it. He immediately understood why she hadn't wanted to be alone tonight.

  "I'm sorry," he said, meaning it.

  "So am I," she said. "You would have liked him. Everyone liked him."

  "I'm sure."

  She twisted her hands in her lap. "It slipped Nana's mind. Of course, she remembered this afternoon and called to tell me how sorry she was that she couldn't be here. She was practically in tears, but I told her it was okay. That it wasn't a big deal."

  "It is a big deal. He was your brother and you miss him."

  A wistful smile flickered across her face, then faded away. "You remind me of him," she offered, her voice soft. "Not so much in your appearance, but in your mannerisms. I noticed that the first time you walked in the office to apply for the job. It's like you two were stamped out of the same mold. I guess it's a marine thing, huh?"

  "Maybe," he said. "I've met all types."

  "I'll bet." She paused, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "Did you like it? Being in the marines?"

  "Sometimes."

  "But not all the time?"

  "No."

  "Drake loved it. Loved everything about it, in fact." Though she seemed mesmerized by the movement of the crank, Thibault could tell she was lost in her memories. "I remember when the invasion began. With Camp Lejeune less than an hour away, it was big news. I was scared for him, especially when I heard talk about chemical weapons and suicide stands, but do you want to know what he was worried about? Before the invasion, I mean?"

  "What?"

  "A picture. A dumb old photograph. Can you believe that?"

 
The unexpected words made Thibault's heart suddenly hammer in his chest, but he forced himself to appear calm.

  "He took this picture of me when we first arrived at the fair that year," she said, going on. "It was the last weekend we spent together before he joined, and after we made the usual rounds, we just kind of wandered off to be alone. I remember sitting with him near this giant pine tree and talking for hours as we watched the Ferris wheel. It was one of the big ones, all lit up, and we could hear kids oohing and aahing as it went round and round under this perfect summer sky. We talked about our mom and dad, and we wondered what they would have been like or whether they'd have gray hair or whether we would have stayed in Hampton or moved away, and I remember looking up at the sky. All of a sudden, this shooting star went by, and all I could think was that they were listening to us somehow."

  She paused, lost in the memory, before going on. "He had the picture laminated and kept it with him all through basic training. After he got to Iraq, he e-mailed me and told me that he'd lost it, and asked if I could send him another one. It seemed kind of crazy to me, but I wasn't there, and I didn't know what he was going through, so I said I'd send another one. But I didn't get around to sending it right away. Don't ask me why. It was like I had some sort of mental block against doing it. I mean, I'd put the disk into my purse, but every time I was near the drugstore, I'd just forget to get the photograph developed. And before I knew it, the invasion had started. I finally got around to sending it, but the letter was eventually returned to me unopened. Drake died in the first week of the invasion."

  She stared at him over the tops of her knees. "Five days. That was how long he lasted. And I never got him the one thing he wanted from me. You know how that makes me feel?"

  Thibault felt sick to his stomach. "I don't know what to say."

  "There's nothing you can say," she said. "It's just one of those terrible, impossibly sad things. And now . . . today, I kept thinking that he's just slipping away. Nana didn't remember, Ben didn't remember. At least with Ben, I can sort of understand it. He wasn't even five when Drake was killed, and you know how memories are at that age. Only a little bit sticks. But Drake was so good with him because he actually enjoyed being around him." She shrugged. "Kind of like you."

  Thibault wished she hadn't said it. He didn't belong here. . . .

  "I didn't want to hire you," she continued, oblivious to Thibault's turmoil. "Did you know that?"

  "Yes."

  "But not because you walked here from Colorado. That was part of it, but it was mainly because you'd been in the marines."

  He nodded, and in the silence she reached for the ice-cream maker. "It probably needs some more ice," she said. She opened the lid, added more ice, and then handed it back to him.

  "Why are you here?" she finally asked.

  Though he knew what she really meant, he pretended he didn't. "Because you asked me to stay."

  "I mean, why are you here in Hampton? And I want the truth this time."

  He grasped for the right explanation. "It seemed like a nice place, and so far, it has been."

  He could tell by her expression that she knew there was more, and she waited. When he didn't add anything else, she frowned. "It has something to do with your time in Iraq, doesn't it?"

  His silence gave him away.

  "How long were you there?" she asked.

  He shifted in his seat, not wanting to talk about it but knowing he had no choice. "Which time?"

  "How many times did you go?"

  "Three."

  "Did you see a lot of combat?"

  "Yes."

  "But you made it out."

  "Yes."

  Her lips tightened, and she suddenly looked on the verge of tears. "Why you and not my brother?"

  He turned the crank four times before answering with what he knew was a lie. "I don't know."

  When Elizabeth got up to get bowls and spoons for the ice cream, Thibault fought the urge to call Zeus and simply leave, right then, before he changed his mind, and go back home to Colorado.

  He couldn't stop thinking about the photograph in his pocket, the photograph that Drake had lost. Thibault had found it, Drake had died, and now he was here, in the home where Drake had been raised, spending time with the sister he'd left behind.

  On the surface, it was all so improbable, but as he fought the sudden dryness in his mouth, he concentrated on those things he knew to be true. The photograph was simply that: a picture of Elizabeth that her brother had taken. There were no such things as lucky charms. Thibault had survived his time in Iraq, but so had the vast majority of marines who'd been posted there. So, in fact, had most of his platoon, including Victor. But some marines had died, Drake among them, and though it was tragic, it had nothing to do with the photograph. It was war. As for him, he was here because he'd made a decision to search for the woman in the picture. It had nothing to do with destiny or magic.

  But he'd searched because of Victor. . . .

  He blinked and reminded himself that he didn't believe anything Victor had told him.

  What Victor believed was just superstition. It couldn't be true. At least not all of it.

  Zeus seemed to sense his struggle and lifted his head to stare. With his ears raised, he gave a soft whine and wandered up the stairs to lick Thibault's hand. Thibault raised Zeus's head, and the dog nuzzled his face.

  "What am I doing here?" Thibault whispered. "Why did I come?"

  As he waited for an answer that would never come, he heard the screen door slam behind him.

  "Are you talking to yourself or to your dog?" Elizabeth asked.

  "Both," he said.

  She sat next to him and handed him his spoon. "What were you saying?"

  "Nothing important," he said. He motioned for Zeus to lie down, and the dog squished himself onto the step in an attempt to remain close to both of them.

  Elizabeth opened the ice-cream maker and scooped some ice cream into each of the bowls. "I hope you like it," she said, handing him a bowl.

  She dipped her spoon in and had a taste before turning toward him, her expression earnest. "I want to apologize," she said.

  "For what?"

  "For what I said before . . . When I asked why you made it and my brother didn't."

  "It's a fair question." He nodded, uncomfortable under her scrutiny.

  "No, it isn't," she said. "And it was wrong to ask you. So I'm sorry."

  "It's okay," he said.

  She ate another spoonful, hesitating before going on. "Do you remember when I told you that I didn't want to hire you because you were in the marines?"

  He nodded.

  "It's not what you probably think. It wasn't because you reminded me of Drake. It's because of the way Drake died." She tapped her spoon against the bowl. "Drake was killed by friendly fire."

  Thibault turned away as she went on.

  "Of course, I didn't know that at first. We kept getting the runaround. 'The investigation is continuing' or 'We're looking into the matter,' things like that. It took months to find out how he was killed, and even then, we never really learned who was responsible."

  She groped for the right words. "It just . . . didn't seem right, you know? I mean, I know it was an accident, I know whoever did it didn't mean to kill him, but if something like that happened here in the States, someone would be charged with manslaughter. But if it happens in Iraq, no one wants the truth to come out. And it never will."

  "Why are you telling me this?" Thibault said, his voice quiet.

  "Because," she said, "that's the real reason I didn't want to hire you. After I found out what happened, it seemed like every time I saw a marine, I'd be asking myself, Was he the one who killed Drake? Or is he covering up for someone who killed him? I knew it wasn't fair, I knew it was wrong, but I couldn't help it. And after a while, the anger I felt just sort of became part of me, like it was the only way I knew how to handle the grief. I didn't like who I'd become, but I was stuck in this horrible cy
cle of questions and blame. And then, out of the blue, you walked into the office and applied for a job. And Nana, even though she knew exactly how I was feeling--maybe because of the way I was feeling--decided to hire you."

  She set her bowl aside. "That's why I didn't have much to say to you the first couple of weeks. I didn't know what I could say. I figured I wouldn't have to say anything, since more than likely you'd quit within a few days like everyone else. But you didn't. Instead, you work hard and stay late, you're wonderful to Nana and my son . . . and all of a sudden, you're not so much a marine as you are just a man." She paused as if lost in thought, then finally nudged him with her knee. "And not only that, you're a man who allows emotional women to ramble on without telling them to stop."

  He nudged her back to show her it was okay. "It's Drake's birthday."

  "Yes, it is." She raised her bowl. "To my little brother, Drake," she said.

  Thibault tapped his bowl against hers. "To Drake," he echoed.

  Zeus whined and stared up at them anxiously. Despite the tension, she reached out and ruffled his fur. "You don't need a toast. This is Drake's moment."

  He tilted his head in puzzlement, and she laughed.

  "Blah, blah, blah. He doesn't understand a word I'm saying."

  "True, but he can tell you were upset. That's why he stayed close."

  "He's really amazing. I don't think I've ever seen a dog so intuitive and well trained. Nana said the same thing, and believe me, that's saying a lot."

  "Thanks," he said. "Good bloodlines."

  "Okay," she said. "Your turn to talk. You pretty much know everything there is to know about me."

  "What do you want to know?"

  She picked up her bowl and spooned more ice cream into her mouth before asking, "Have you ever been in love?"

  When he raised his eyebrows at the nonchalant way she'd said it, she waved him off. "Don't even think I'm being too personal. Not after everything I've told you. 'Fess up."

  "Once," he admitted.

  "Recently?"

  "No. Years ago. When I was in college."

  "What was she like?"

  He seemed to search for the right word. "Earthy," he offered.

  She said nothing, but her expression told him she wanted more.

  "Okay," he continued. "She was a women's studies major, and she favored Birkenstocks and peasant skirts. She despised makeup. She wrote opinions for the student newspaper and championed the causes of pretty much every sociological group in the world except white males and the rich. Oh, and she was a vegetarian, too."