Through it all, Natalie stayed quiet, but for the first time, I knew what she was thinking. I could see in her radiant smile that she was feeling exactly the same way about me.
* * *
I forced myself to turn away as Natalie glided onto the porch. Clearing my throat, I asked, “Would you like another glass? I think I’d like one.”
“Just half,” she murmured.
“I’ll be right back.”
In the kitchen, it felt like I was finally able to exhale. I tried to get hold of myself, focusing on the simple act of pouring the wine as a means of slowing things down. I somehow made it to the back porch holding the two glasses, trying desperately to hide my inner turmoil.
I handed her the wine. “We can eat whenever you’re ready. I still have to sear your tuna, but that won’t take long.”
“Do you need help?”
“There are a few things in the refrigerator and the oven, but let me start your tuna first, okay?”
At the grill, I unwrapped the tuna, alert to Natalie’s approach. She stood close, enveloping me in the smell of her perfume.
“How do you like your tuna?” I asked robotically. “Rare or medium rare?”
“Rare,” she said.
“I mixed up some soy sauce and wasabi for you.”
“Aren’t you something?” she asked in a husky drawl, nudging me slightly, the feeling making me light-headed.
I really, truly have to get hold of myself.
After checking the heat, I put the tuna on the grill. Natalie took that as her cue, returning to the kitchen to bring the other dishes to the table.
I looked over my shoulder. “Could you bring me your plate? For your tuna?”
“Of course,” she said, sauntering toward me.
I plated the tuna and we walked to the table. As she took her seat, she nodded toward the food.
“You made enough for four people,” she observed. Then, leaning forward, she added, “I had a really nice time on the boat today. I’m glad you asked me to come.”
“A perfect day,” I agreed.
We served up, passing various sides back and forth with easy familiarity. The conversation roamed from the alligators and the eagles and life in Florida, to the places we wanted to visit one day. Her eyes sparkled with hidden fire, making me feel intensely alive. How had I fallen in love with her so quickly, without even being aware of it?
Afterward, she helped me bring the dishes to the kitchen and put the leftovers away. When we finished, we returned to the porch railing and stared toward the creek, my shoulder nearly touching hers. The music was still playing, a melancholy Fleetwood Mac ballad. Though I wanted to slip my arm around her, I didn’t. She cleared her throat before finally raising her eyes to meet mine.
“There’s something I should probably tell you,” she said. Her tone was soft but serious, and I felt my stomach contract. I already knew what she was going to say.
“You’re seeing someone else,” I said.
She was absolutely still. “How did you know?”
“I didn’t. But I suspected.” I stared at her. “Does it really matter?”
“I suppose it doesn’t.”
“Is it serious?” I asked, hating that I wanted to know.
“Yes,” she said. She turned away, unable to meet my eyes. “But it’s not what you probably think.”
“How long have you been together?”
“A few years,” she answered.
“Do you love him?”
She seemed to struggle with her answer. “I know I loved him at one time. And until a couple of weeks ago, I thought I still did, but then…” She ran her hands through her hair before turning to face me. “I met you. Even on that first night when we talked right here, I knew that I was attracted to you. Honestly, it terrified me. But as scared as I was, and as wrong as I knew it was, there was part of me that wanted to spend time with you. I tried to pretend the feeling wasn’t there; I told myself to ignore it and forget about you. As small a town as New Bern is, I hardly ever go out, so it was unlikely I’d ever see you again. But then…you were at the farmers’ market. And I knew exactly why you were there. And all those feelings bubbled up again.”
She closed her eyes, something weary in the slump of her shoulders.
“I saw you walking,” she said. “After you bought a coffee. I just happened to be leaving the market, and there you were. I told myself to let it go. Let you go. But the next thing I knew, I was walking in the same direction and I saw you go into the park.”
“You followed me?”
“It felt like I didn’t have a choice. It was like something else—or someone else—was propelling me forward. I…I wanted to get to know you even better.”
Despite the seriousness of her words, I smiled. “Why did you accuse me of following you?”
“Panic,” she admitted. “Confusion. Shame. Take your pick.”
“You’re a good actress.”
“Maybe,” she said. “I don’t know why I couldn’t say what I’d hoped to say. We fell so easily into talking about other things…and when you offered to show me the beehives, I knew I had to accept. I tried to convince myself that it meant nothing, but deep down, I knew it wasn’t true. And it just kept happening…with dinner in Beaufort, and the boat, and now this. Every time I’m with you, I tell myself that I shouldn’t, that we should stop seeing each other. And every time, the words never come.”
“Until now.”
She nodded, her lips a tight line, and my throat constricted in the silence that followed. Instinctively, I found myself reaching for her hand, felt her fingers stiffen and then, finally, relax. I gently turned her to face me. With my other hand, I reached up and caressed her cheek.
“Look at me,” I whispered. When she slowly lifted her gaze, I went on. “Do you really want to leave right now?”
At my words, her eyes moistened. Her jaw trembled slightly, but she didn’t pull away. “Yes,” she whispered. And then, with a swallow, she squeezed her eyes shut. “No.”
In the background, the strains of a song whose name I had forgotten drifted through the air. The porch light cast a golden glow over her sun-kissed skin. I inched forward, placing my other hand on her hip, noting the confusion and fear and love in her expression, then put my arms around her waist. Her eyes were locked on mine as our bodies came together, and I could feel her quiver as I began to caress her back. Beneath the thin fabric of her dress, her skin felt hot, and I was intensely aware of the curves of her body as it pressed against my own.
She felt so good to me—undeniably real, elemental even, as if we had been forged from the same matter. I inhaled the scent of her, unable to stay silent.
“I love you, Natalie,” I whispered. “And I don’t want you to ever leave.”
The words somehow made the feeling even more real, and I suddenly felt the possibility of a lifetime together. I knew I would do anything to make things work between us, even if that meant staying in New Bern. I could switch my residency to East Carolina University, which was less than an hour from my grandfather’s home; I could even give up the practice of medicine altogether. The alternative was a future without her in it, and in that instant, there was nothing more important than remaining with this woman, now and forever.
By her expression, I knew she recognized the intensity of what I was feeling. Though it may have frightened her, she didn’t pull away. Instead, she leaned into me and twined her arms around my neck as she rested her head on my shoulder. I could feel her breasts, soft and full, press against me. She inhaled and slowly let out her breath, a kind of release.
“I love you, too, Trevor,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t, and I know I can’t, but I do.”
She lifted her head from my shoulder as my lips met her neck. Her skin felt as delicate as silk under the tip of my tongue. With a groan, she pulled me even closer, and I finally moved my lips toward hers.
I kissed her, reveling in the tentative fluttering of her lips as sh
e kissed me back; when my mouth opened, I felt hers open in response and our tongues touched, the feeling as exquisite as anything I’d ever known. My hands began to explore her body, tenderly tracing her stomach, then the side of her breast, trailing down her hip, already memorizing the feel of her body. Through it all, I was conscious of my love for her, coupled with a riptide of desire more powerful than I’d ever felt before. I wanted all of her. When I finally pulled back slightly, our bodies still tight against each other, her eyes were half-closed, her mouth parted in sensual anticipation. Then, in a motion that felt utterly natural, I encircled her hand with my own and took a small step backward. Her eyes stayed on mine, and with a gentle tug, I led her inside, toward the bedroom.
Chapter 11
Interesting,” Bowen said to me during our session on Monday.
We were sitting at the dining room table, which I’d moved back into the house, two glasses of iced water between us. He’d arrived almost an hour earlier and I’d walked him around the property and the house. I’d shown him the beehives from a distance (he didn’t receive the full song-and-dance I’d offered Natalie) as well as the boat. When our session had begun, I’d started the conversation as I usually did—with an update on various issues associated with PTSD—before finally proceeding to my date with Natalie. I’d told him just about everything, though not with any of the intimate details.
“That’s all you have to say about it?” I asked. “That it’s interesting?”
“What would you like me to say?”
“I don’t know. Something. Anything.”
Bowen brought his hand to his chin. “Do you really believe you’re in love with her?”
“Yes,” I answered. “Without a doubt.”
“You’ve known her for less than two weeks.”
“My grandfather fell in love with my grandmother the first time they ever spoke,” I countered. In all fairness, though, I’d been pondering the same question all morning. “She’s…unlike anyone I’ve ever met before,” I went on. “And I know it’s not logical. But yes, I love her.”
“And you’d give up your residency for her?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Interesting,” he repeated. The evasive neuter-speak Bowen used could be frustrating, to say the least.
“You don’t believe me?”
“Of course I believe you.”
“But you’re concerned about something, aren’t you?”
“Aren’t you?”
I knew exactly what he was referring to, of course. “You mean the other guy,” I said.
“It does add potentially challenging implications.”
“I understand that. But her feelings for me are real. And she told me that she loved me.”
He adjusted his glasses. “Based on what you’ve described, it sounds like she probably does.”
“You think so?”
“It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest. Sometimes you underestimate how others might perceive you. You’re young, intelligent, successful, wealthy, and some would regard you as a hero for your military service.”
“Well, gee. Thanks, Doc.”
“You’re welcome. However, my point was that while I can easily imagine a woman falling in love with you, that doesn’t necessarily mean that it isn’t complicated for her. Nor does it mean your relationship will progress in the way you hope it will. People are complex, life seldom turns out the way you imagine it will, and emotions can be contradictory. From what you said, it seemed she was trying to tell you she was conflicted about the relationship between the two of you. Until she resolves that conflict, it might be a problem.”
I took a sip of my water, processing what Bowen had just said. “What should I do?” I finally asked.
“About what?”
“About Natalie,” I said, hearing the frustration in my tone. “What do I do about her relationship with the other guy?”
Bowen raised an eyebrow. He said nothing, waiting for me to answer my own question. He knew me well enough to understand that I’d be able to eventually figure it out, which I did.
“I need to accept that I can’t control another person,” I intoned. “I can only control my own behaviors.”
“That’s correct.” Bowen smiled. “But I suspect it doesn’t make you feel any better.”
No, I thought, it really doesn’t. I took some deep breaths, wishing it weren’t the truth, before automatically repeating much of what I’d learned in our previous sessions. “You’ll tell me that for now, I should strive to be the best version of myself that I can be. I need to sleep, exercise, eat healthy, and keep mood-altering substances to a minimum. Practice DBT and CBT skills when I’m feeling on edge. I understand all those things. And I’m doing those things. What I want to know is what I should do with regard to Natalie, so I don’t go crazy with worry.”
If Bowen heard the emotion in my voice, he didn’t comment on it. Instead, in the calm way he always adopted with me, he shrugged.
“What can you do except to keep doing what you’re doing?”
“But I love her.”
“I know you do.”
“I don’t even know if she lives with him, or if she’s just dating him.”
Bowen appeared almost sad. “Do you really want to know?”
* * *
On the highway the following day, I ruminated on my conversation with Dr. Bowen. I knew what I wanted—I wanted Natalie to dump the guy—but I was only half of that equation. Or maybe only a third of it, which was even worse. I sometimes believe the world would run better if I were put in charge of everything and could indeed control people, but knowing me, I’d probably get tired of the responsibility.
I had the GPS on in the SUV, even though I probably wouldn’t need it until I reached the South Carolina border. It was straightforward until then—Highway 70 to Interstate 40 near Raleigh, then Interstate 85 near Greensboro, through Charlotte, and into South Carolina, all the way to Greenville. The computer was calculating that I’d reach my destination somewhere between one and two in the afternoon, which I hoped was enough time to get some answers.
The drive was easy, relatively flat, and sandwiched between either farmland or forest. Near the cities, the congestion was worse, though nothing like the DC area, where I’d grown up. As I rolled along, I tried to picture my grandfather taking the same route but couldn’t. His truck shivered and shook at speeds above forty miles an hour, and driving slowly on the interstates was dangerous. At his age, he would have known that his eyesight and reflexes weren’t up to par, either. The more I thought about it, the more I figured he would have opted for rural highways, with a single lane in each direction. It would have added even more time to the journey, and for all I knew, he’d taken two days to reach Easley.
I stopped for lunch south of Charlotte, then hit the road again. According to the GPS, Interstate 85 would intersect with Highway 123 in Greenville, and from there, it was a straight shot to my destination. Before I’d left, I’d learned that Highway 123 also led to Clemson University, which was a bit farther west, which made me wonder if Helen was a coed. My grandfather, the old dog, might have been robbing the cradle.
It was an absurd thought, but after more than six hours in the car, it made me laugh aloud.
I found Highway 123 without a problem, settled in for the final stretch, and when I was five minutes out, I began looking for mile markers. To my mind, had the stroke occurred farther east, he would have been transported to a hospital in Greenville, which was a much larger city and had more hospitals. Reaching the outskirts of Easley brought back memories, but none of the town itself. Nothing seemed familiar, nor could I remember the exact route I’d taken to the hospital, those memories overwhelmed completely by the worries I’d had at the time.
I eventually spotted mile marker 9 and I began to slow the SUV, scanning both sides of the highway. Unlike the majority of the drive, there was more than farmland or forest here; there were houses and pawnshops, used car lots and jun
kyards, gas stations, and even an antique store. The sight was discouraging; finding someone in any one of those businesses or houses who would remember my grandfather from more than six months ago—much less someone able to offer any helpful advice—might take days, even weeks, and while I was interested in the mystery, I already knew I wouldn’t commit to something like that. It made me wonder whether the trip had been worthwhile at all.
And yet, as I finally passed mile marker 8, my heart sped up. On the right was a Waffle House—my grandfather was a fan of their restaurants—and then, about a minute later, another smaller sign on the opposite side of the highway advertising the Evergreen Motel. I remembered from medical school that strokes were most likely to occur during two two-hour windows, one in the morning and one in the evening. Taking into account the normal time he woke, a possible breakfast at Waffle House, and his eventual arrival time at the hospital, I just might have stumbled upon the motel where he’d stayed the night.
My hunch deepened as I approached. I saw the same street scene that I’d spotted on Google Earth, but in real life, it was more easily understandable. What I thought was a strip mall was actually an old motel located directly behind mile marker 7, the kind of place that might prefer cash, which was a good thing since my grandfather didn’t have a credit card. More than that, I could easily imagine my grandfather staying there. It was one story, shaped in a U, with maybe twelve rooms total. The olive-colored exterior had faded to a dull green and there were a few decrepit rocking chairs placed out in front of the rooms, no doubt in an attempt to create a homier feel to the place. It brought to mind a cross between my grandfather’s house and the Trading Post, and I could imagine my grandfather breathing a sigh of relief when he’d stumbled across it.
A small sign in a window nearest the highway indicated the lobby, and I pulled to a stop in front of it. There were only three other cars in the lot, but even that struck me as three too many. It was past the normal checkout time, which meant whoever was in the room had decided to stay an additional night here, which was hard to believe. Either that, or they were paying by the hour while enjoying an afternoon fling, which I assumed was far more likely. Not that I was judging them, mind you…
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