The Best of Me (8 page)

It was then, while Amanda was staring back at him from across the years, that he suddenly knew why Tuck Hostetler had insisted he come back home.

N
either one of them was able to move or speak as surprise gradually turned to recognition. Dawson’s first thought was how much more vivid she was in person than in his memories of her. Her blond hair caught the late afternoon light like burnished gold, and her blue eyes were electric even at a distance. But as he continued to stare, subtle differences slowly came into focus. Her face, he noticed, had lost the softness of youth. The angles of her cheekbones were more visible now and her eyes seemed deeper, framed by a faint tracing of lines at the corners. The years, he realized, had been more than kind: Since he’d seen her last, she’d grown into a mature and remarkable beauty.

Amanda was also trying to absorb what she was seeing. His sand-colored shirt was tucked casually into faded jeans, outlining his still-angular hips and wide shoulders. His smile was the same, but he wore his dark hair longer than he had as a teenager, and she noticed a wash of gray at his temples. His dark eyes were as striking as she remembered, but she thought she detected a new wariness in them, the sign of someone who’d lived a life that had been harder than expected. Perhaps it was the result of seeing him here, in this place where they’d shared so much, but in the sudden rush of emotion she could think of nothing to say.

“Amanda?” he finally asked, beginning to walk toward her.

She heard the wonder in his voice as he said her name, and it was that, more than anything, that let her know he was real.
He’s here,
she thought,
it’s really him,
and as he closed the distance between them, she felt the years slowly falling away, as impossible as that seemed. When he finally reached her, he opened his arms and she went into them naturally, as she’d done so long ago. He pulled her close, holding her like the lovers they once had been, and she leaned into him, suddenly feeling eighteen again.

“Hello, Dawson,” she whispered.

They embraced for a long time, holding each other close in the waning sunlight, and for an instant he thought he felt her tremble. When they finally pulled apart, she could sense his unspoken emotion.

She studied him up close, noting the changes the years had wrought. He was a man now. His face was weathered and tanned, like someone who spent long hours in the sun, and his hair had thinned only slightly.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, touching her arm as if to reassure himself that she was real.

The question helped her regain her bearings, reminding her of who she’d become, and she took a tiny step backward. “I’m here probably for the same reason that you are. When did you get in?”

“Just now,” he said, wondering at the impulse that had driven him to make this unplanned visit to Tuck’s. “I can’t believe you’re here. You look… amazing.”

“Thank you.” Despite herself, she could feel the blood in her cheeks. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I didn’t,” he said. “I had the urge to swing by and I saw the car out front. I came around back and…”

When he trailed off, Amanda finished for him. “And here I was.”

“Yeah.” He nodded, meeting her eyes for the first time. “And there you were.”

The intensity of his gaze hadn’t changed, and she took another step backward, hoping the space would make things easier. Hoping he wouldn’t get the wrong impression. She motioned toward the house. “Were you planning to stay here?”

He squinted at the house before turning back to her. “No, I have a room at the bed-and-breakfast downtown. You?”

“I’m staying with my mom.” When she noticed his quizzical expression, she explained, “My dad passed away eleven years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

She nodded, saying nothing further, and he remembered that, in the past, it was how she’d usually closed a subject. When she glanced toward the garage, Dawson took a step toward it. “Do you mind?” he asked. “I haven’t seen the place in years.”

“No, of course not,” she said. “Go ahead.”

She watched him move past her and felt her shoulders relax, unaware that she’d been tensing them. He peeked into the small cluttered office before trailing his hand along the workbench and over a rusting tire iron. Wandering slowly, he took in the plank walls, the open beamed ceiling, the steel barrel in the corner where Tuck disposed of excess oil. A hydraulic jack and snap-on tool chest stood along the back wall, fronted by a pile of tires. An electronic sander and welding equipment occupied the side opposite the workbench. A dusty fan was propped in the corner near the paint sprayer, electric lights dangled from wires, and parts lay strewn on every available surface.

“It looks exactly the same,” he commented.

She followed him deeper into the garage, still feeling a little shaky, trying to keep a comfortable distance between them.

“It probably is the same. He was meticulous about where he put his tools, especially in the last few years. I think he knew he was beginning to forget things.”

“Considering his age, I can’t believe he was still working on cars at all.”

“He’d slowed way down. One or two a year, and then only when he knew he could do the work. No major restorations or anything like that. This is the first car I’ve seen here in a while.”

“You sound like you spent a lot of time with him.”

“Not really. I saw him every few months or so. But we were out of touch for a long time.”

“He never mentioned you in his letters,” Dawson mused.

She shrugged. “He didn’t mention you, either.”

He nodded before turning his attention back to the workbench again. Folded neatly on the end was one of Tuck’s bandannas, and lifting it up, he tapped his finger on the bench. “The initials I carved are still here. Yours, too.”

“I know,” she said. Below them, she also knew, was the word
forever
. She crossed her arms, trying not to stare at his hands. They were weathered and strong, a workingman’s hands, yet tapered and graceful at the same time.

“I can’t believe he’s gone,” he said.

“I know.”

“You said he was forgetting things?”

“Just little things. Considering his age and how much he smoked, he was in pretty good health the last time I saw him.”

“When was that?”

“Late February, maybe?”

He motioned toward the Stingray. “Do you know anything about this?”

She shook her head. “Just that Tuck was working on it. There’s a work order on the clipboard with Tuck’s notes about the car, but other than the owner, I can’t make heads or tails of it. It’s right over there.”

Dawson found the order and scanned the list before inspecting the car. She watched as he opened the hood and leaned in to look, his shirt stretching tight around his shoulders, and Amanda turned away, not wanting him to realize that she’d noticed. After a minute, he turned his attention to the small boxes on the workbench.
He pried back the lids, nodding as he sorted through the parts, his brow furrowing.

“That’s strange,” Dawson said.

“What?”

“It wasn’t a restoration at all. It’s mainly engine work, and minor stuff at that. Carburetor, the clutch, a few other things. My guess is he was just waiting for these parts to arrive. Sometimes, with these old cars, it can take a while.”

“What does that mean?”

“Among other things, it means there’s not a chance the owner can drive it out of here.”

“I’ll have the attorney contact the owner.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes. “I’m supposed to meet with him anyway.”

“The attorney?”

“Yeah.” She nodded. “He’s the one who called about Tuck. He said it was important that I come.”

Dawson closed the hood. “His name wouldn’t happen to be Morgan Tanner, would it?”

“Do you know him?” she asked, startled.

“Just that I’m supposed to meet with him tomorrow, too.”

“What time?”

“Eleven. Which I’m guessing is the same time as your appointment, right?”

It took a few seconds before she grasped what Dawson had already figured out—that Tuck had obviously planned this little reunion all along. Had they not met here at Tuck’s, they would have done so tomorrow no matter what. As the implication became clear, she suddenly didn’t know whether she wanted to punch Tuck in the arm or kiss him for it.

Her face must have telegraphed her feelings, because Dawson said, “I take it that you had no idea what Tuck was up to.”

“No.”

A flock of starlings broke from the trees, and Amanda watched
as they veered overhead, changing direction, tracing abstract patterns in the sky. By the time she faced him again, Dawson was leaning against the workbench, his face half in shadow. In this place, with so much history surrounding them, she swore she could see the young man Dawson used to be, but she tried to remind herself that they were different people now. Strangers, really.

“It’s been a long time,” he said, breaking the silence.

“Yes, it has.”

“I have about a thousand questions.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Only a thousand?”

He laughed, but she thought she heard an undercurrent of sadness in it. “I have questions, too,” she went on, “but before that… you should know that I’m married.”

“I know,” he said. “I saw your wedding band.” He tucked a thumb in his pocket before leaning against the workbench and crossing one leg over the other. “How long have you been married?”

“Twenty years next month.”

“Kids?”

She paused, thinking of Bea, never sure how to answer the question. “Three,” she finally said.

He noticed her hesitation, unsure what to make of it. “And your husband? Would I like him?”

“Frank?” She flashed on the anguished conversations she’d had with Tuck about Frank and wondered how much Dawson already knew. Not because she didn’t trust Tuck with her confidences, but because she had the sudden sense that Dawson would know immediately whether she was lying. “We’ve been together a long time.”

Dawson seemed to evaluate her choice of words before finally pushing off the workbench. He walked past her, heading toward the house, moving with the liquid grace of an athlete. “I suppose Tuck gave you a key, right? I need something to drink.”

She blinked in surprise.

“Wait! Did Tuck tell you that?”

Dawson turned around, continuing to walk backward. “No.”

“Then how did you know?”

“Because he didn’t send one to me, and one of us has to have it.”

She stood in place, debating, still trying to figure out how he knew, before finally following him up the path.

He climbed the porch steps in a single fluid motion, stopping at the door. Amanda fished a key from her purse, brushing against him as she slipped it into the lock. The door swung open with a squeak.

It was mercifully cool inside, and Dawson’s first thought was that the interior was an extension of the forest itself: all wood and earth and natural stains. The plank walls and pine flooring had dulled and cracked over the years, and the brown curtains did little to hide the leaks beneath the windows. The armrests and cushions on the plaid sofa were almost completely worn through. The mortar on the fireplace had begun to crack, and the bricks around the opening were black, charcoaled remnants of a thousand roaring fires. Near the door was a small table bearing a stack of photo albums, a record player that was probably older than Dawson, and a rickety steel fan. The air smelled of stale cigarettes, and after opening one of the windows, Dawson switched on the fan, listening as it began to rattle. The base wobbled slightly.

By then, Amanda was standing near the fireplace, staring at the photograph sitting on the mantel. Tuck and Clara, taken on their twenty-fifth anniversary.

He walked toward Amanda, stopping when he was beside her. “I remember the first time I saw that picture,” he offered. “I’d been here for about a month before Tuck let me inside the house, and I remember asking who she was. I didn’t even know he’d been married.”

She could feel the heat radiating from him and tried to ignore it. “How could you not know that?”