Nicholas Sparks - Dear John

“Yeah, I know, but still… he did get used to it. And that’s the thing. I can’t tell you how many kids we have here who never adapt at all, no matter how long we work with them. This isn’t just a weekend thing; some kids have come here regularly for more than a year. We work at the developmental evaluation center, so we’ve spent a lot of time with most of the kids, and when we started the ranch, we insisted on opening it up to kids no matter how severe their condition. We felt it was an important commitment, but with some kids… I just wish I knew how to get through to them. Sometimes it feels like we’re just spinning our wheels.”

I could see Savannah cataloging her memories. “I don’t mean that we feel like we’re wasting our time,” she went on. “Some kids really benefit from what we’re doing. They come out here and spend a couple of weekends, and it’s like… a flower bud slowly blossoming into something beautiful. Just like it did with Alan. It’s like you can sense their mind opening up to new ideas and possibilities, and when they’re riding with a great big smile on their faces, it’s like nothing else matters in the world. It’s a heady feeling, and you want it to happen over and over with every child who comes here. I used to think it was a matter of persistence, that we could help everyone, but we can’t. Some of the kids never even get close to the horse, let alone ride it.”

“You know that’s not your fault. I wasn’t too thrilled with the idea of riding, either, remember?”

She giggled, sounding remarkably girlish. “Yeah, I remember. The first time you got on a horse, you were more scared than a lot of the kids.”

“No, I wasn’t,” I protested. “And besides, Pepper was frisky.”

“Ha!” she cried. “Why do you think I let you ride him? He’s just about the easiest horse you can imagine. I don’t think he’s ever so much as shimmied when someone rode him.”

“He was frisky,” I insisted.

“Spoken like a true rookie,” she teased. “But even if you’re wrong, I’m touched that you still remember it.”

Her playfulness summoned a tidal wave of memories.

“Of course I remember,” I said. “Those were some of the best days of my life. I won’t ever forget them.” Over her shoulder, I could see the dog wandering in the pasture. “Maybe that’s why I’m still not married.”

At my words, her gaze faltered. “I still remember them, too.”

“Do you?”

“Of course,” she said. “You might not believe it, but it’s true.”

The weight of her words hung heavy in the air.

“Are you happy, Savannah?” I finally asked.

She offered a wry smile. “Most of the time. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, which made her laugh again.

“That’s your standard answer, you know. When you’re asked to look into yourself for the answer? It’s like a reflex with you. It always has been. Why don’t you ask me what you really wanted to ask.”

“What did I really want to ask?”

“Whether or not I love my husband. Isn’t that what you mean?” she asked, looking away for a moment.

For an instant I was speechless, but I realized her instincts were correct. It was the real reason I was here.

“Yes,” she said at last, reading my mind again. “I love him.”

The unmistakable sincerity in her tone stung, but before I could dwell on it, she turned to face me again. Anxiety flickered in her expression, as if she were remembering something painful, but it passed quickly.

“Have you eaten yet?” she asked.

I was still trying to make sense of what I’d just seen. “No,” I said. “Actually, I didn’t have breakfast or lunch, either.”

She shook her head. “I’ve got some leftover beef stew in the house. Do you have time for dinner?”

Though I wondered again about her husband, I nodded. “I’d like that,” I said.

We started toward the house and stopped when we reached a porch lined with muddy and worn cowboy boots. Savannah reached for my arm in a way that struck me as being remarkably easy and natural, using me for balance as she slipped off her boots. It was, perhaps, her touch that emboldened me to really look at her, and though I saw the mysteriousness and maturity that had always made her attractive, I noticed a hint of sadness and reticence as well. To my aching heart, the combination made her even more beautiful.

Her small kitchen was what one would expect from an old house that had probably been remodeled half a dozen times over the last century: ancient linoleum floors that were peeling slightly near the walls; functional, unadorned white cabinets—thick with countless paint jobs—and a stainless-steel sink set beneath a wood-framed window that probably should have been replaced years ago. The countertop was cracking, and against one wall stood a woodstove as old as the house itself. In places, it was possible to see the modern world encroaching: a large refrigerator and dishwasher near the sink; a microwave propped kitty-corner near a half-empty bottle of red wine. In some ways, it reminded me of my dad’s place.

Savannah opened a cupboard and removed a wineglass. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

I shook my head. “I’ve never been much of a wine drinker.”

I was surprised when she didn’t return the glass. Instead, she retrieved the half-empty bottle of wine and poured a glass; she set the glass on the table and took a seat before it.

We sat at the table as Savannah took a sip.

“You’ve changed,” I observed.

She shrugged. “A lot of things have changed since I last saw you.”

She said nothing more and set her glass back on the table. When she spoke again, her voice was subdued. “I never thought I’d be the kind of person who looked forward to a glass of wine in the evenings, but I do.”

She began rotating the glass on the table, and I found myself wondering what had happened to her.

“You know the funny thing?” she said. “I actually care how it tastes. When I had my first glass, I didn’t know what was good or what was bad. Now when it comes to buying, I’ve become pretty selective.”

I didn’t fully recognize the woman who sat before me, and I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“Don’t get me wrong,” she went on. “I still remember everything my folks taught me, and I hardly ever have more than a glass a night. But since Jesus himself turned water into wine, I figured that it can’t be much of a sin.”

I smiled at her logic, recognizing how unfair it was to cling to the time-capsule version I held of her. “I wasn’t asking.”

“I know,” she said. “But you were wondering.”

For a moment, the only sound in the kitchen was the low hum of the refrigerator. “I’m sorry about your dad,” she said, tracing a crack in the tabletop. “I really am. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought about him in the past few years.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Savannah began rotating her glass again, seemingly lost in the swirl of liquid. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

I wasn’t sure I did, but as I leaned back in my chair, the words came surprisingly easily. I told her about my dad’s first heart attack, and the second, and the visits we’d shared in the past couple of years. I told her about our growing friendship, and the comfort I felt with him, the walks that he began taking and then eventually gave up. I recounted my final days with him and the agony of committing him to an extended care facility. When I described the funeral and the photograph I found in the envelope, she reached for my hand.

“I’m glad he saved it for you,” she said, “but I’m not surprised.”

“I was,” I said, and she laughed. It was a reassuring sound.

She squeezed my hand. “I wish I’d have known. I would have liked to go to the funeral.”

“It wasn’t much.”

“It didn’t have to be. He was your dad, and that’s all that matters.” She hesitated before releasing my hand and took another sip of wine.

“Are you ready to eat?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said, flushing at the memory of her earlier comment.

She leaned forward with a grin. “How about I heat you up a plate of stew and we’ll see what happens.”

“Is it any good?” I asked. “I mean… when I knew you before, you never mentioned that you knew how to cook.”

“It’s our special family recipe,” she said, pretending to be offended. “But I’ve got to be honestmy mom made it. She brought it over yesterday.”

“The truth comes out,” I said.

“That’s the funny thing about the truth,” she said. “It usually does.” She rose and opened the refrigerator, bending over as she scanned the shelves. I found myself wondering about the ring on her finger and where her husband was as she pulled out the Tupperware. She scooped some of the stew into a bowl and placed it in the microwave.

“Do you want anything else with that? How about some bread and butter?”

“That would be great,” I agreed.

A few minutes later, the meal was spread before me, and the aroma reminded me for the first time of how hungry I actually was. Surprising me, Savannah took her place again, holding her glass of wine.

“Aren’t you going to eat?”

“I’m not hungry,” she said. “Actually, I haven’t been eating much lately.” She took a sip as I took my first bite and I let her comment pass.

“You’re right,” I said. “It’s delicious.”

She smiled. “Mom’s a good cook. You’d think I would have learned more about cooking, but I didn’t. I was always too busy. Too much studying when I was young, and then lately, too much remodeling.” She motioned toward the living room. “It’s an old house. I know it doesn’t look like it, but we’ve done a lot of work in the past couple of years.”