The Return

by Nicholas Sparks

  I pulled open a squawky screen door, heard a bell jingle, and entered a small, dimly lit room fronted by a chest-high counter. On the wall behind the counter were hooks with actual keys attached to plastic fobs hanging from them. The doorway behind the counter was partially obscured by a beaded curtain, and I could hear a television blaring. The volume was lowered and a short, red-haired woman who could have been anywhere from thirty to fifty emerged from behind the beads. She seemed disappointed, as though my arrival had taken her away from her sole source of enjoyment at work, that being the television.

  “Do you need a room?”

  “No,” I said, “but I was hoping you could help me.”

  I gave her a brief summary of the information I hoped to learn. As I spoke, her eyes traveled from my injured hand to the scar on my face, her expression openly curious. Instead of answering, she asked, “You Army?”

  “Navy,” I said.

  “My brother was in the Army,” she said. “He was in Iraq three different times.”

  “Tough place,” I said. “I was in Afghanistan.”

  “Not so easy there, either.”

  “No, it wasn’t,” I agreed. “But at least I wasn’t there three times.”

  For the first time, she smiled. “What were you saying? About your grandfather?”

  I told her again about my grandfather before adding that the ambulance company indicated that he’d collapsed near the mile marker out front, early in the morning—which made it possible, if not likely, that he’d stayed at the Evergreen. “I was hoping you could check the register.”

  “When was that?”

  I told her the date and she shook her head.

  “I’m really sorry. As much as I’d like to help, you’ll have to ask Beau about that. I’m not supposed to let people see the records unless they have a warrant. I could lose my job.”

  “Beau’s the owner?”

  “The manager,” she answered. “He runs the place for his uncle in West Virginia.”

  “Do you have a number to call him?”

  “I do, but I’m not supposed to disturb him. He’s sleeping right now. Don’t like to be disturbed. He works nights. Eight to eight.”

  With hours like that, I wouldn’t want to be disturbed, either. “Would you happen to know anything about my grandfather? Were you working here then? Maybe you heard something?”

  Her fingers drummed on the counter. “I recall hearing about some old guy needing an ambulance right out there in the parking lot. Might’ve been him. But might not. There’s been a few people who’ve died here in the last couple of years, so they kinda run together. Heart attacks mostly. One time, a suicide.”

  I wondered if that was typical of this place or motels and hotels in general. “Will Beau be working tonight?”

  “Yep.” She nodded. “But don’t be put off when you meet him. He looks kind of squirrelly, but he’s all right. He’s got a good heart.”

  “I appreciate your help.”

  “I didn’t do much,” she said. “What I can do is leave a note for Beau, telling him to expect you and to help you out if he can.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “Trevor Benson.”

  “I’m Maggie,” she said. “Thank you for your service. And sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

  * * *

  With hours to kill, I drove back to Greenville and spent some time browsing at Barnes & Noble before having a steak dinner at Ruth’s Chris. Figuring I’d need to stay overnight, I arranged for a room at the Marriott. While the Evergreen might have been fine by my grandfather’s standards, I preferred a place with a few more amenities.

  I returned to the Evergreen Motel at a quarter past eight. By then, it was dark and my headlights illuminated four cars in the parking lot. They weren’t the same as the ones that had been there before, the afternoon delights long since over. I parked in the same spot and entered the lobby. Again I heard the television blaring before Beau emerged from the back room.

  My first thought was that I understood what Maggie had meant: The man who approached the counter looked exactly like the kind of guy who worked the night shift at a place called the Evergreen Motel on a quiet highway in the middle of nowhere. I suspected he was about the same age as or younger than me; he was rail thin, with a scraggly half beard and hair that probably hadn’t been washed in a week. His white T-shirt was stained and he had a small chain hooked from a belt loop to his wallet. His expression flickered between indifference and irritation and I could smell beer on his breath.

  “Are you Beau?”

  He wiped his chin with the back of his hand and sighed. “Who’s asking?”

  “Trevor Benson,” I said. “I came by earlier and spoke to Maggie.”

  “Oh yeah,” he said. “She left me a note and said that I should help you because you’re a veteran. Something about your grandfather.”

  I went through the story again. Even before I finished, he was nodding. “Yeah, I remember him. Old guy—like really old, right? Driving a beater truck?”

  “Probably,” I said. “It sure sounds like him.”

  He reached under the counter and pulled out a notebook, the kind you might find at any office supply store. “What was the date?”

  I told him, watching as he began flipping back through the pages. “Thing is, we only require an ID if they pay with a credit card. With cash and the key deposit, we don’t bother checking. There’s a lot of John Does in here, so I can’t guarantee anything.”

  No surprise there. “I’m sure he would have used his real name.”

  He continued thumbing back, finally zeroing in on the appropriate date. “What was his name again?”

  “Carl Haverson.”

  “Yep,” he said. “Paid cash for one night. Returned the key and got his deposit back.”

  “Do you remember anything he might have said? Where he might have been going?”

  “I can’t help you there. Sorry. Guests kind of run together, you know?”

  “Can you tell me what you do remember?”

  “I remember finding him,” he said. “He was in his truck, with the engine still idling. I don’t know how long he was there, but I remember looking out the window and seeing the truck about to turn onto the highway. A couple of minutes later, the truck was still there. I remember because it was belching out a lot of smoke. But anyway, the truck was blocking part of the exit, so I finally went out there and was about to knock on the window when I saw him slumped over the wheel. I opened the door and he didn’t look good. I wasn’t sure if he was dead or alive, so I went back inside and called 911. The police showed up and an ambulance came and the crew did their thing before loading him into the back. He was still alive at that point, but it was the last I saw of him.”

  After he finished, I glanced through the window toward the exit, visualizing the scene. Squirrelly or not, Beau had been helpful.

  “Do you know what happened to the truck?”

  “Some of it.”

  “Just some?”

  “I asked the sheriff if I could move it so it wasn’t blocking the exit. Like I explained, it was still running. He told me to go ahead, but to put the keys in an envelope, in case the guy came back. So I moved the truck into the lot over by the end and did what he told me to do.”

  “Do you still have the keys?”

  “No,” he said, shaking his head.

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t want any trouble. I waited a couple of weeks for the guy to come back. Your grandfather, I mean. But he never did and I never heard anything.”

  “I’m not angry,” I said, “and you’re not in trouble. I’m just trying to find his truck on the off chance there was something inside that would tell me where he was going.”

  He studied me.

  “My uncle told me to have it towed,” he finally said. “I gave the tow truck driver the keys.”

  “Do you happen to remember who you c
alled?”

  “AJ’s,” he said. “AJ’s Towing.”

  * * *

  It was probably too late to pay a visit to AJ’s, so I drove back to the Greenville Marriott. I showered and watched an action movie on pay-per-view before crawling in bed. Reaching for my phone, I texted Natalie.

  Hey there. It was a long drive, but I’m glad I came. Learned some things, found out the truck was towed. Looking into that tomorrow. Love you.

  Too tired to text a second time if she responded, I put the phone on silent and turned out the lamp. I fell asleep within minutes and my last conscious thought was to wonder again where my grandfather had been going.

  In the morning, there was no response from Natalie.

  * * *

  After breakfast, I debated whether to call AJ’s or swing by, finally deciding on the latter. The GPS guided me to an industrial area of Easley and though I found the address, I saw no sign indicating the name of the business, nor could I find an entrance to any office. Instead, I saw a large, rectangular prefabricated building with three large roll-up doors squatting in the center of a crumbling asphalt yard, all behind tall chain-link fencing. Though there was a gate that led to the property, it was chained and locked. On the opposite side of the yard, I saw three dusty cars parked in a row. No one seemed to be out and about.

  It was regular business hours, but once I thought about it, the locked premises seemed logical. Unless someone had their car or truck impounded on the property, there was probably no reason to keep an office staff, or even someone around to answer the phone. Most likely, the phone number for the business went straight to a cell phone.

  I dialed it, listened to it ring, and after hearing the gruff recorded voice of AJ, I left a brief message about the information I needed and asked him to call me.

  With little to do other than wait, I toured Easley, finding it prettier than I’d expected. I also found the hospital again and though I didn’t get out of my vehicle, I sent a silent thanks to the good people who worked there. My grandfather had been well cared for in his final days by conscientious doctors and nurses, people who were thoughtful enough to try to track me down.

  At noon, I drove back to Greenville and had lunch downtown, at a place that served an exceptional crab melt and appeared to be frequented by women who worked in nearby office buildings. Because I’d checked out of the hotel, I lingered in the restaurant until I finally felt self-conscious, then went for a walk.

  Three hours passed without hearing from AJ. Then four and five hours. I debated leaving for New Bern, but felt compelled to speak with AJ face-to-face. Anyway, even if I left then, I wouldn’t get home until nearly midnight.

  I went back to the Marriott and checked in again. While charging my phone, I kept the ringer on high. I texted Natalie again.

  Thinking of you. Probably heading home tomorrow, back in the afternoon.

  I opted for Mexican food for dinner, within walking distance of the hotel. As I walked back, I dialed AJ’s cell number a second time. This time I got an answer. I identified myself, mentioned that I’d called earlier about my grandfather’s truck, and was abruptly cut off. Either AJ had hung up on me or my service had dropped. I dialed again and—as it had earlier that morning—the call went straight to voicemail and I disconnected the call.

  In the hotel, I lay in bed thinking about that. It seemed that AJ didn’t want to speak with me, though I wasn’t sure why. Nor was I sure what to do. Since I couldn’t find him at his place of business and didn’t know his last name, I was at a loss as to how to reach him. I supposed I could possibly find a business license with a name, or maybe I could call the county offices in the hopes they would provide me with a home address, but would he speak to me then? If I showed up at his front door? Or would he simply shut the door in my face? Based on the way he’d hung up on me, I suspected the latter. I briefly considered calling for a tow, but figured that as soon as he learned why I’d really called, he’d be angry and even less likely to help.

  Which left me three options. I could keep leaving messages, I could get an attorney involved, or perhaps I could hire a private investigator. All of those could be done from home, however, and I wanted to evaluate those options in the morning.

  I also wanted to think about Natalie because, strangely, I still hadn’t heard from her.

  Chapter 12

  Leaving Greenville early, I was able to make it home by early afternoon. Because I still hadn’t decided what to do about AJ, I went for a longer-than-usual run and followed up with about an hour of stretching. Spending so much time in the car over the last few days had done my back no favors.

  In the shower, I wondered whether to text Natalie again. I’d texted twice and had heard nothing, but wasn’t sure what to make of that. It was possible she was someone who didn’t like to text, or maybe hadn’t wanted to bother me when she thought I was busy. It was also possible that her job had kept her on the go—and then, too tired to even peek at her phone. I was certainly guilty of such behavior in the past; I could remember Sandra and I had argued about it. She’d told me how much being ignored bothered her, when even a short response would do. At the time, I thought Sandra was making too big of a deal about it; now, it was easier to understand her frustration.

  I made a sandwich at home and ate in front of the television, watching reruns of some cop show set in New York. I was tired from my travels and expected to turn in early. It was already dark, moonlight streaming through the windows. I’d left my phone charging in the kitchen and it was only after I’d washed and dried my plate that I bothered to check it.

  Did you make it home?

  It was thoughtful, I suppose, for Natalie to check in. However, I confess I was still a bit miffed about the delay and the impersonal nature of the text. Feeling slightly passive-aggressive, I didn’t respond right away. I was sure Bowen and I would talk about my decision in our next session, and whether that actually constituted me striving to be the best version of myself.

  On the back porch, I read for another half hour, but my concentration kept lapsing and I finally put the book aside. Reaching for the phone, I decided to keep my reply brief and to the point.

  Yes

  I wondered if she could read the lingering irritation in my terse response. Weren’t early-stage relationships supposed to be filled with eagerness and desire? If so, where was hers?

  Maybe, I heard the voice inside me whisper, the desire is there, but since you’ve been away, it’s been focused on the Other Guy.

  I didn’t even want to go there and a moment later, Natalie texted me again.

  I’m at Green Springs. Can you come and meet me?

  A flood of childhood memories surfaced in my mind. Green Springs was known throughout much of Eastern North Carolina as a Water World–type structure, a throwback to the old-fashioned swimming holes common in the South so long ago. Built by a local, it sat on the Neuse River—or more accurately, in the Neuse River—and was constructed of pressure-treated lumber balanced on pilings sunk deep into the mud. Its three sides, each about twenty-five yards long, boasted two levels, except for the tower, which was five stories high, allowing jumpers to test their courage by leaping off the top into the water. There were ropes you could balance on, a zip line, swings, and pilings that kids would hopscotch across like stepping stones. I’d spent many a summer day there swimming, climbing, swinging, and jumping until I was too exhausted to move. My grandfather, who was more than seventy at the time, once joined me on a leap from the second level, triggering a round of spontaneous applause from onlookers.

  There was no charge for admission but drinking and drugs were forbidden; nor was anything sexual allowed, even kissing. No Sex Play was the actual rule, but strangely, smoking was permitted and I could remember watching young teenagers lighting up while perched in the upper reaches on hot summer days.

  I’d never been there at night, however. I didn’t think the place was even open at night, but maybe Natalie had special privileges as a de
puty. Or maybe the owner of Green Springs had no idea she was even there, despite the fact that it stood in the waters directly behind his property. To get to the structure, you had to walk across his back lawn, to a long pier that extended into the deeper waters of the Neuse.

  It didn’t take me long to make a decision; despite my prickly pride, I still wanted to see her. In fact, I realized that I’d missed her.

  Sure, I texted back. I’ll be there in 15 minutes.

  Shrugging into a windbreaker—the temperature was dropping again, that yo-yo temperature effect common to spring—I found my keys and wallet and headed to the car.

  * * *

  While I recalled the general area in which Green Springs was located, finding it took longer than I’d anticipated. Google wasn’t able to help—there was no listing—so I ended up driving along several roads in James City near the Neuse River, until I finally found the place. I pulled into the graveled parking area, immediately spotting Natalie’s car. I wondered if the owner would emerge to check who was pulling in so late, but aside from a small lamp burning in an upstairs window, I saw no evidence that anyone was even awake.

  There was enough moonlight to illuminate my path as I eased my way down the gently sloping back lawn toward the water. From the neighbor’s house, I heard a dog barking and was again serenaded by crickets as I breathed in the scent of pine and recently cut grass, which always reminded me of summer.

  I reached the low pier, noting how, unlike Brices Creek, the Neuse River never stopped flowing. Starlight dappled its wakes and swells, making it seem as though the water was lit from below. My grandfather had told me once that the Neuse was the widest river in the United States when it finally emptied into the Pamlico Sound—wider even than the Mississippi—but here in James City, it was only a mile across. Suppressing a twinge of foreboding, I wondered why Natalie had come here at night.