He fell into an almost trancelike state as he felt the reality of the situation. He watched the car roll slowly forward; he heard the gravel crunching under the wheels. Slowly the car began to turn from him, toward the road that would take her back to town. Leaving—she was leaving!—and Noah felt dizzy at the sight.
Edging forward . . . past him now . . .
She waved one last time without smiling before she began to accelerate, and he waved back weakly. “Don’t go!” he wanted to shout as the car moved farther away. But he didn’t say anything, and a minute later the car was gone and the only remaining signs of her were the tracks that her car had left behind.
He stood there without moving for a long time. As quickly as she had come, she was gone. Forever this time. Forever.
He closed his eyes then and watched her leave once more, her car moving steadily away from him, taking his heart with her.
But, like her mother, he realized sadly, she never looked back.
A Letter fromYesterday
Driving with tears in her eyes was difficult, but she went on anyway, hoping that instinct would take her back to the inn. She kept the window rolled down, thinking the fresh air might help clear her mind, but it didn’t seem to help. Nothing would help.
She was tired, and she wondered if she would have the energy she needed to talk to Lon. And what was she going to say? She still had no idea but hoped that something would come to her when the time came.
It would have to.
By the time she reached the drawbridge that led to Front Street, she had herself a little more under control. Not completely, but well enough, she thought, to talk to Lon. At least she hoped so.
Traffic was light, and she had time to watch strangers going about their business as she drove through New Bern. At a gas station, a mechanic was looking under the hood of a new automobile while a man, presumably its owner, stood beside him. Two women were pushing baby carriages just outside Hoffman-Lane, chatting between themselves while they window-shopped. In front of Hearns Jewelers, a well-dressed man walked briskly, carrying a briefcase.
She made another turn and saw a young man unloading groceries from a truck that blocked part of the street. Something about the way he held himself, or the way he moved, reminded her of Noah harvesting crabs at the end of the dock.
She saw the inn just up the street while she was stopped at a red light. She took a deep breath when the light turned green and drove slowly until she reached the parking lot that the inn shared with a couple of other businesses. She turned in and saw Lon’s car sitting in the first spot. Although the one next to it was open, she passed it and picked a spot a little farther from the entrance.
She turned the key, and the engine stopped promptly. Next she reached into the glove compartment for a mirror and brush, finding both sitting on top of a map of North Carolina. Looking at herself, she saw her eyes were still red and puffy. Like yesterday after the rain, as she examined her reflection she was sorry she didn’t have any makeup, though she doubted it would help much now. She tried pulling her hair back on one side, tried both sides, then finally gave up.
She reached for her pocketbook, opened it, and once again looked at the article that had brought her here. So much had happened since then; it was hard to believe it had been only three weeks. It felt impossible to her that she had arrived only the day before yesterday. It seemed like a lifetime since her dinner with Noah.
Starlings chirped in the trees around her. The clouds had begun to break up now, and Allie could see blue in between patches of white. The sun was still shaded, but she knew it would only be a matter of time. It was going to be a beautiful day.
It was the kind of day she would have liked to spend with Noah, and as she was thinking about him, she remembered the letters her mother had given her and reached for them.
She untied the packet and found the first letter he had written her. She began to open it, then stopped because she could imagine what was in it. Something simple, no doubt—things he’d done, memories of the summer, perhaps some questions. After all, he probably expected an answer from her. Instead she reached for the last letter he’d written, the one on the bottom of the stack. The good-bye letter. This one interested her far more than the others. How had he said it? How would she have said it?
The envelope was thin. One, maybe two pages. Whatever he had written wasn’t too long. First, she turned it over and checked the back. No name, just a street address in New Jersey. She held her breath as she used her fingernail to pry it open.
Unfolding it, she saw it was dated March 1935. Two and a half years without a reply.