The Notebook (The Notebook #1)(13)

He was standing by the counter, a couple of cabinet doors open wide, empty grocery bags on the floor, whistling quietly. He smiled at her before putting a few more cans into one of the cabinets. She stopped a few feet from him and leaned against the counter, one leg over the other. She shook her head, amazed at how much he had done.

“It’s unbelievable, Noah. How long did the restoration take?”

He looked up from the last bag he was unpacking. “Almost a year.”

“Did you do it yourself?”

He laughed under his breath. “No. I always thought I would when I was young, and I started that way. But it was just too much. It would have taken years, and so I ended up hiring some people . . . actually a lot of people. But even with them, it was still a lot of work, and most of the time I didn’t stop until past midnight.”

“Why’d you work so hard?”

Ghosts, he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“I don’t know. Just wanted to finish, I guess. Do you want anything to drink before I start dinner?”

“What do you have?”

“Not much, really. Beer, tea, coffee.”

“Tea sounds good.”

He gathered the grocery bags and put them away, then walked to a small room off the kitchen before returning with a box of tea. He pulled out a couple of teabags and set them by the stove, then filled the teapot. After putting it on the burner, he lit a match, and she heard the sound of flames as they came to life.

“It’ll be just a minute,” he said. “This stove heats up pretty quick.”

“That’s fine.”

When the teapot whistled, he poured two cups and handed one to her.

She smiled and took a sip, then motioned toward the window. “I’ll bet the kitchen is beautiful when the morning light shines in.”

He nodded. “It is. I had larger windows put in on this side of the house for just that reason. Even in the bedrooms upstairs.”

“I’m sure your guests enjoy that. Unless of course they want to sleep late.”

“Actually, I haven’t had any guests stay over yet. Since my daddy passed on, I don’t really know who to invite.”

By his tone, she knew he was just making conversation. Yet for some reason it made her feel . . . lonely. He seemed to realize how she was feeling, but before she could dwell on it, he changed the subject.

“I’m going to get the crabs in to marinate for a few minutes before I steam ’em,” he said, putting his cup on the counter. He went to the cupboard and removed a large pot with a steamer and lid. He brought the pot to the sink, added water, then carried it to the stove.

“Can I give you a hand with something?”

He answered over his shoulder. “Sure. How about cutting up some vegetables for the fryer. There’s plenty in the icebox, and you can find a bowl over there.”

He motioned to the cabinet near the sink, and she took another sip of tea before setting her cup on the counter and retrieving the bowl. She carried it to the icebox and found some okra, zucchini, onions, and carrots on the bottom shelf. Noah joined her in front of the open door, and she moved to make room for him. She could smell him as he stood next to her— clean, familiar, distinctive—and felt his arm brush against her as he leaned over and reached inside. He removed a beer and a bottle of hot sauce, then returned to the stove.

Noah opened the beer and poured it in the water, then added the hot sauce and some other seasoning as well. After stirring the water to make sure the powders were dissolved, he went to the back door to get the crabs.

He paused for a moment before going back inside and stared at Allie, watching her cut the carrots. As he did that, he wondered again why she had come, especially now that she was engaged. None of this seemed to make much sense to him.

But then, Allie had always been surprising.

He smiled to himself, remembering back to the way she had been. Fiery, spontaneous, passionate—as he imagined most artists to be. And she was definitely that. Artistic talent like hers was a gift. He remembered seeing some paintings in the museums in New York and thinking that her work was just as good as what he had seen there.

She had given him a painting before she’d left that summer. It hung above the fireplace in the living room. She’d called it a picture of her dreams, and to him it had seemed extremely sensual. When he looked at it, and he often did late in the evening, he could see desire in the colors and the lines, and if he focused carefully, he could imagine what she had been thinking with every stroke.

A dog barked in the distance, and Noah realized he had been standing with the door open a long time. He quickly closed it, turning back to the kitchen. And as he walked, he wondered if she had noticed how long he’d been gone.

“How’s it going?” he asked, seeing she was almost finished.

“Good. I’m almost done here. Anything else for dinner?”

“I have some homemade bread that I was planning on.”

“Homemade?”

“From a neighbor,” he said as he put the pail in the sink. He started the faucet and began to rinse the crabs, holding them under the water, then letting them scurry around the sink while he rinsed the next one. Allie picked up her cup and came over to watch him.

“Aren’t you afraid they’ll pinch you when you grab them?”

“No. Just grab ’em like this,” he said, demonstrating, and she smiled.