Free The Best of Me by Nicholas Sparks Page A

toaster the size of a microwave oven and a boxy refrigerator with a latch handle. The wooden countertop was black with water stains near the sink, and the white paint on the cabinets was chipping near the knobs. The flower-patterned curtains—obviously something Clara had hung—had turned a dingy grayish yellow, stained by the smoke from Tuck’s cigarettes. There was a small, barrel-top table with room for two, and a clump of paper napkins had been stuffed beneath it to keep it from wobbling. Dawson swung the latch on the refrigerator door, reached in, and pulled out a jug of tea. Amanda entered as he set the tea on the counter.
    “How did you know that Tuck had sweet tea?” she asked.
    “The same way I knew you had the keys,” he answered as he reached into the cupboard and pulled out a pair of jelly jars.
    “What are you talking about?”
    Dawson filled the jars. “Tuck knew we’d both end up here eventually, and he remembered that I like sweet tea. So he made sure he had some waiting in the refrigerator.”
    Of course he did. Just as he’d done with the attorney. But before she could dwell on it, Dawson offered her the tea, bringing her back to the present. Their fingers brushed as she took it.
    Dawson held up his tea. “To Tuck,” he said.
    Amanda clinked her glass with his, and all of it—standing close to Dawson, the tug of the past, the way she’d felt when he’d held her, the two of them alone in the house—was almost morethan she could handle. A little voice inside her whispered that she needed to be careful, that nothing good could come of this, and reminded her that she had a husband and children. But that only made things more confusing.
    “So, twenty years, huh?” Dawson finally asked.
    He was asking about her marriage, but in her distracted state it took her a moment to grasp. “Almost. How about you? Were you ever married?”
    “I don’t think it was in the cards.”
    She eyed him over the rim of her glass. “Still playing the field, huh?”
    “I keep pretty much to myself these days.”
    She leaned against the counter, unsure what to read into his response. “Where do you live now?”
    “Louisiana. In a parish just outside New Orleans.”
    “Do you like it?”
    “It’s okay. I’d forgotten until I came back here how much it looks like home. There are more pines here and more Spanish moss there, but other than that I’m not real sure I could tell the difference.”
    “Except for the alligators.”
    “Yeah. Except for that.” He offered a faint smile. “Your turn. Where’s home these days?”
    “Durham. I stayed there after I got married.”
    “And you come back a few times a year to see your mom?”
    She nodded. “When my dad was alive, they used to visit us because of the kids. But after my dad died, it got harder. My mom never liked to drive, so now I have to come here.” She took a sip before nodding toward the table. “Do you mind if I sit? My feet are killing me.”
    “Feel free. I’ll stand for a bit, though. I’ve been stuck on an airplane all day.”
    She picked up her glass and started toward the table, feeling his eyes on her.
    “What do you do in Louisiana?” she asked, sliding into her seat.
    “I’m a derrick hand on an oil rig, which basically means that I assist the driller. I help guide the drill pipe in and out of the elevator, I make sure all the connections are proper, I keep on the pumps to make sure they’re running right. I know that probably doesn’t make much sense since you’ve probably never been on a rig, but it’s kind of hard to explain without actually showing you.”
    “That’s a long way from fixing cars.”
    “It’s less different than you think. Essentially, I work with engines and machines. And I still work with cars, too, in my spare time anyway. The fastback runs like new.”
    “You still have it?”
    He grinned. “I like that car.”
    “No,” she challenged, “you
love
that car. I used to have to drag you away from