The Best of Me(59)

As Dawson had predicted, the front door was unlocked. Entering the small house, Amanda’s first thought was that this had been Clara’s refuge.

Though it had the same scuffed pine flooring, cedar walls, and general layout as the house in Oriental, here there were brightly colored pillows on the couch and black-and-white photographs artfully arranged on the walls. The cedar planking had been sanded smooth and painted light blue, and the large windows flooded the room with natural light. There were two white built-in bookshelves, filled with books and interspersed with porcelain figurines, something Clara had obviously collected over the years. An intricate handmade quilt lay over the back of an easy chair, and there wasn’t a trace of dust on the country-style end tables. Floor lamps stood on either side of the room, and a smaller version of the anniversary photograph perched near the radio in the corner.

Behind her, she heard Dawson step into the cottage. He stood silently in the doorway, holding his jacket and her bag, seemingly at a loss for words.

She couldn’t hide her own amazement. “It’s something, isn’t it?”

Dawson slowly took in the room. “I’m wondering if I brought us to the wrong house.”

“Don’t worry,” she said, pointing to the picture. “It’s the right place. But it’s pretty obvious that this place was Clara’s, not his. And that he never changed it.”

Dawson folded his jacket over the back of a chair, setting Amanda’s bag alongside it. “I don’t remember Tuck’s house ever being this clean. I figure that Tanner must have hired someone to get the place ready for us.”

Of course he did, Amanda thought. She recalled Tanner mentioning his plans to come here, and his instructions that they wait until the day after their meeting to make the trip. The unlocked door only confirmed her suspicions.

“Have you already seen the rest of the place?” he asked.

“Not yet. I was too busy trying to figure out where Clara let Tuck sit down. It’s pretty obvious she never let him smoke in here.”

He thumbed over his shoulder, in the direction of the open door. “Which explains the chair on the porch. That’s probably where she made him sit.”

“Even after she was gone?”

“He was probably afraid that her ghost would show up and scold him if he lit up inside.”

She smiled, and they set off to tour the cottage, brushing up against each other as they navigated through the living room. Just as in the house in Oriental, the kitchen was at the rear, overlooking the river, but here the kitchen was all about Clara, too, from the white cabinets and intricate scrollwork in the moldings to the blue-and-white tile backsplash above the counters. There was a teapot on the stove and a vase of wildflowers on the counter, obviously plucked from the garden out front. A table nestled beneath the window; on it stood two bottles of wine, red and white, along with two sparkling glasses.

“He’s getting predictable now,” Dawson commented, taking in the bottles.

She shrugged. “There are worse things.”

They admired the view of the Bay River through the window, neither of them saying anything more. As they stood together, Amanda basked in the silence, comforting in its familiarity. She could sense the slight rise and fall of Dawson’s chest as he breathed, and she had to suppress the urge to reach for his hand again. In unspoken agreement they turned from the window and continued their tour.

Across from the kitchen was a bedroom centered by a cozy four-poster bed. The curtains were white and the bureau had none of the dings and scratches of Tuck’s furniture back in Oriental. There were two matching crystal lamps, one on each of the nightstands, and an Impressionist landscape painting hung on the wall opposite the closet.

Connected to the bedroom was a bathroom with a claw-foot tub, the kind that Amanda had always wanted. An antique mirror hung above the sink, and she caught sight of her reflection next to Dawson’s, the first time she’d seen an image of them together since they’d returned to Oriental. It occurred to her that in all the time they’d been teenagers, they’d never once been photographed as a couple. It had been something they’d talked of doing but had never gotten around to.

She regretted it now, but what if she’d had a photo to keep? Would she have tucked it away in a drawer and forgotten it, only to rediscover it every few years? Or would she have stored it somewhere special, a place known only to her? She didn’t know, but seeing Dawson’s face next to hers in the bathroom mirror felt distinctly intimate. It had been a long time since anyone had made her feel attractive, but she felt that way now. She knew that she was drawn to Dawson. She reveled in the way his gaze traveled over her, and the graceful ease of his body; she was acutely aware of their almost primal understanding of each other. Though it had been only a matter of days, she trusted him instinctively and knew she could tell him anything. Yes, they’d argued on that first night over dinner and again about the Bonners, but there’d also been an unvarnished honesty in what they’d said. There were no hidden meanings, no secret attempts to pass judgment; as quickly as their disagreements had flared up, they’d passed.