The Best of Me (18 page)

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, taking the glass. “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry if I upset you.”

“You didn’t,” she said. “It’s just that talking about Bea is still hard for me sometimes. And it’s been an… unexpected weekend so far.”

“For me, too,” he agreed. He leaned back against the counter. “How do you want to do this?”

“Do what?”

“Go through the house. To see if there’s anything you want.”

Amanda exhaled, hoping her jumpiness wasn’t obvious. “I don’t know. It feels wrong to me somehow.”

“It shouldn’t. He wanted us to remember him.”

“I’ll remember him no matter what.”

“Then how about this? He wants to be more than just a memory. He wants us to have a piece of him and this place, too.”

She took a sip, knowing he was probably right. But the idea of rooting through his things to find a keepsake right now just felt like too much. “Let’s hold off for a bit. Would that be all right?”

“It’s fine. Whenever you’re ready. You want to sit outside for a while?”

She nodded and followed him out to the back porch, where they seated themselves in Tuck’s old rockers. Dawson rested his glass on his thigh. “I imagine that Tuck and Clara used to do this quite a bit,” he commented. “Just sit outside and watch the world go by,” he said.

“Probably.”

He turned toward her. “I’m glad you came to visit him. I hated the thought that he was always all alone out here.”

She could feel the moisture from the sweating glass as she held it. “You know he used to see Clara, right? After she was gone.”

Dawson frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“He swore she was still around.”

For an instant, his mind flashed on the images and movement that he’d been experiencing. “What do you mean, he saw her?”

“Just what I said. He saw her and talked to her,” she said.

He blinked. “Are you saying that Tuck believed he was seeing a ghost?”

“What? He never told you?”

“He never talked to me about Clara, period.”

Her eyes widened. “Ever?”

“The only thing he ever told me was her name.”

So Amanda set her glass aside and began to tell him some of the stories that Tuck had shared with her over the years. About how he’d dropped out of school when he was twelve and found a job in his uncle’s garage; how he’d first met Clara at church when he was fourteen years old and knew in that instant that he was going to marry her; how Tuck’s entire family, including his uncle, had moved north in search of work a few years into the Great Depression and never came back. She told Dawson about his early years with Clara, including the first miscarriage, and his backbreaking work for Clara’s father on the family farm while he worked on building this house at night. She said that Clara had two more miscarriages after the war and talked about Tuck building the garage before gradually beginning to restore cars in the early 1950s, including a Cadillac owned by an up-and-coming singer named Elvis Presley. By the time she finished telling him about Clara’s death and how Tuck talked to Clara’s ghost, Dawson had emptied his tea and was staring into the glass, no doubt trying to reconcile her stories with the man he’d known.

“I can’t believe he didn’t tell you any of that,” Amanda marveled.

“He had his reasons, I guess. Maybe he liked you better.”

“I doubt that,” she said. “It’s just that I knew him later in life. You knew him when he was still hurting.”

“Maybe,” he said, sounding unconvinced.

Amanda went on. “You were important to him. He let you live here, after all. Not once, but twice.” When Dawson finally nodded, she set her glass aside. “Can I ask a question, though?”

“Anything.”

“What
did
the two of you talk about?”

“Cars. Engines. Transmissions. Sometimes we talked about the weather.”

“Must have been scintillating,” she cracked.

“You can’t imagine. But back then, I wasn’t much of a talker, either.”

She leaned toward him, suddenly purposeful. “All right. So now we both know about Tuck and you know about me. But I still don’t know about you.”

“Sure you do. I told you about me yesterday. I work on an oil rig? Live in a trailer out in the country? Still drive the same car? No dates?”

In a languid motion, Amanda draped her ponytail over one shoulder, the movement almost sensual. “Tell me something I don’t know,” she coaxed. “Something about you that no one knows. Something that would surprise me.”

“There’s not much to tell,” he said.

She scrutinized him. “Why don’t I believe you?”

Because,
he thought,
I could never hide anything from you.
“I’m not sure,” he said instead.

She grew quiet at his answer, working through something else in her mind. “You said something yesterday that I’m curious about.” When he fixed her with a quizzical expression, she went on. “How did you know that Marilyn Bonner never remarried?”

“I just do.”

“Did Tuck tell you?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

He laced his fingers together and leaned back in his rocker, knowing that if he didn’t answer, she’d simply ask again. In that, she hadn’t changed, either. “It’s probably better if I start from the beginning,” he said, sighing. He told her then about the Bonners—about his visit to Marilyn’s crumbling farmhouse so long ago, about the family’s years of struggle, that he’d begun sending them money anonymously when he got out of prison. And finally, that over the years he’d had private detectives report on the family’s welfare. When he finished, Amanda was quiet, visibly struggling with a response.

“I don’t know what to say,” she finally burst out.

“I knew you were going to say that.”

“I’m serious, Dawson,” she said, her anger evident. “I mean, I know that there’s something noble about what you’re doing, and I’m sure it made a difference in their lives. But… there’s something sad about it, too, because you can’t forgive yourself for what so clearly was an accident. Everyone makes mistakes, even if some are worse than others. Accidents happen. But having someone follow them? To know exactly what’s happening in their lives? That’s just wrong.”

“You don’t understand—,” he started.

“No,
you
don’t understand,” she interrupted. “Don’t you think they deserve their privacy? Taking photos, digging through their personal lives—”

“It’s not like that,” he protested.

“But it is!” Amanda slapped the armrest of her rocker. “What if they ever found out? Can you imagine how terrible that would be? How betrayed and invaded they’d feel?” Surprising him, she placed a hand on his arm, her grasp firm and yet urgent to make sure he heard her. “I’m not saying I agree with what you’re doing; what you do with your money is your business. But the rest? With the detectives? You’ve got to stop. You’ve got to promise me you’ll do that, okay?”

He could feel the heat radiating from her touch. “All right,” he said finally. “I promise I won’t do it again.”

She studied him, making sure he was telling the truth. For the first time since they’d met, Dawson looked almost tired. There was something defeated in his posture, and as they sat together she found herself wondering what would have happened to him had she never left that summer. Or even if she’d gone to visit him while he’d been in prison. She wanted to believe that it might have made a difference, that Dawson would have been able to live a life less haunted by the past. That Dawson, if not happy, would have at the very least been able to find a sense of peace. For him, peace had always been elusive.

But then he wasn’t alone in that, was he? Wasn’t that what everyone wanted?

“I have another confession,” he said. “About the Bonners.”

She felt her breath as it left her lungs. “More?”

He scratched the side of his nose with his free hand, as if to buy time. “I brought flowers to Dr. Bonner’s grave earlier this morning. It was something I used to do when I got out of prison. When it got to be too much, you know?”

She stared at him, wondering if he was about to tack on another surprise, but he didn’t. “That’s not quite on the level of the other things you’ve been doing.”

“I know. I just thought I should mention it.”

“Why? Because now you want my opinion?”

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

She didn’t answer for a moment. “I think flowers are fine,” she finally said, “as long as you don’t overdo it. That’s actually… appropriate.”

He turned toward her. “Yeah?”

“Yes,” she said. “Placing flowers at his grave is meaningful, but not invasive.”

He nodded but said nothing. In the silence, Amanda leaned even closer. “Do you know what I’m thinking?” she asked.

“After everything I’ve said, I’m almost afraid to guess.”

“I think you and Tuck are more alike than you realize.”

He turned toward her. “Is that good or bad?”

“I’m still here with you, aren’t I?”

When the heat became stifling even in the shade, Amanda led them back inside. The screen door banged shut gently behind them.

“You ready?” he asked, surveying the kitchen.

“No,” she said. “But I suppose we have to do this. For the record, it still seems wrong to me. I don’t even know how to start.”

Dawson paced the length of the kitchen before turning to face her. “Okay, let’s do this: When you think about your last visit with Tuck, what comes to mind?”

“It was the same as always. He talked about Clara, I made him dinner.” She gave a small shrug. “I put a blanket over his shoulders when he fell asleep in the chair.”

Dawson drew her into the living room and nodded toward the fireplace. “Then maybe you should take the picture.”

She shook her head. “I couldn’t do that.”

“You’d rather it be thrown away?”

“No, of course not. But you should take it. You knew him better than I did.”

“Not really,” he said. “He never talked to me about Clara. And when you see it, you’ll think about both of them, not just him, and that’s why he told you about her.”

When she hesitated, he stepped toward the fireplace and gently removed it from the mantel. “He wanted this to be important to you. He wanted the two of them to be important to you.”

She reached for the photo, staring at it. “But if I take this, what’s left for you? I mean, there’s not much here.”

“Don’t worry. There’s something I saw earlier that I’d like to keep.” He moved toward the door. “Come on.”

Amanda followed him down the steps. As they approached the garage it dawned on her: If the house was where she and Tuck had forged their bond, the garage had been that place for Dawson and Tuck. And even before he found it, she already knew what he wanted.

Dawson reached for the faded bandanna folded neatly on the workbench. “This is what he wanted me to have,” he said.

“You sure?” Amanda squinted at the square of red cloth. “It’s not much.”

“It’s the first time I’ve ever noticed a clean one around here, so it has to be for me.” He grinned. “But yeah, I’m sure. To me, this is Tuck. I don’t think I ever saw him without one. Always the same color, of course.”

“Of course,” she agreed. “We’re talking about Tuck, right? Mr. Constant-in-All-Things?”

Dawson tucked the bandanna into his back pocket. “It’s not such a bad thing. Change isn’t always for the best.”

The words seemed to hang in the air, and Amanda didn’t reply. Instead, when he leaned against the Stingray, it triggered something in her memory, and Amanda took a step toward him. “I forgot to ask Tanner what to do with the car.”

“I was thinking that I might as well finish it. Then Tanner can just call the owner to pick it up.”

“Really?”

“As far as I can tell, all the parts are here,” he said, “and I’m pretty sure Tuck would have wanted me to finish it. Besides, you’re going to dinner with your mom, so it’s not like I have anything else to do tonight.”

“How long will it take?” Amanda scanned the boxes of spare parts.