The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks Page B

and brought them inside when he was finished, putting them by the fireplace.
    He looked at Allie’s painting again and reached out to touch it, bringing back the feelings of disbelief at seeing her again. God, what was it about her that made him feel this way? Even after all these years? What sort of power did she have over him?
    He finally turned away, shaking his head, and went back to the porch. He checked the barometer again. It hadn’t changed. Then he looked at his watch.
    Allie should be here soon.
    Allie had finished her bath and was already dressed. Earlier she’d opened the window to check the temperature. It wasn’t cold outside, and she’d decided on a cream-colored spring dress with long sleeves and a high neck. It was soft and comfortable, maybe a little snug, but it looked good, and she had selected some white sandals that matched.
    She spent the morning walking around downtown. The Depression had taken its toll here, but she could see the signs of prosperity beginning to work their way back. The Masonic theater, the oldest active theater in the country, looked a little more run-down but was still operating with a couple of recent movies. Fort Totten Park looked exactly the same as it had fourteen years ago, and she assumed the kids who played on the swings after school looked the same as well. She smiled at the memory then, thinking back to when things were simpler. Or at least had seemed to be.
    Now, it seemed, nothing was simple. It seemed so improbable, everything falling into place as it had, and she wondered what she would have been doing now, had she never seen the article in the paper. It wasn’t very difficult to imagine, because her routines seldom changed. It was Wednesday, which meant bridge at the country club, then on to the Junior Women’s League, where they would probably be arranging another fund-raiser for the private school or hospital. After that, a visit with her mother, then home to get ready for dinner with Lon, because he made it a point to leave work by seven. It was the one night a week she saw him regularly.
    She suppressed a feeling of sadness about that, hoping that one day he would change. He had often promised to and usually followed through for a few weeks before drifting back to the same schedule. “I can’t tonight, honey,” he would always explain. “I’m sorry, but I can’t. Let me make it up to you later.”
    She didn’t like to argue with him about it, mostly because she knew he was telling the truth. Trial work was demanding, both beforehand and during, yet she couldn’t help wondering sometimes why he had spent so much time courting her if he didn’t want to spend the time with her now.
    She passed an art gallery, almost walked by it in her preoccupation, then turned and went back. She paused at the door for a second, surprised at how long it had been since she’d been in one. At least three years, maybe longer. Why had she avoided it?
    She went inside—it had opened with the rest of the shops on Front Street—and browsed among the paintings. Many of the artists were local, and there was a strong sea flavor to their works. Lots of ocean scenes, sandy beaches, pelicans, old sailing ships, tug-boats, piers, and seagulls. But most of all, waves. Waves of every shape, size, and color imaginable, and after a while they all looked alike. The artists were either uninspired or lazy, she thought.
    On one wall though, there were a few paintings that more suited her tastes. All were by an artist she’d never heard of, Elayn, and most appeared to have been inspired by the architecture of the Greek islands. In the painting she liked the best, she noted the artist had purposely exaggerated the scene with smaller-than-life figures, wide lines, and heavy sweeps of color, as if not completely focused. Yet the colors were vivid and swirling, drawing the eye in, almost directing what it should see next. It was dynamic, dramatic. The more she thought about it, the more she