The Wedding by Nicholas Sparks Page A

restaurant took only a few minutes. Our conversation was typical of first dates and simply skimmed the surface of things. We spoke about school and how chilly it was, and I noted that it was a good thing we both brought jackets. I also remember mentioning that I thought her sweater was lovely, and she mentioned that she’d purchased it the day before. Though I wondered if she had done this in anticipation of our date, I knew enough not to ask her directly.   Owing to holiday shoppers, it was difficult to find a space near the restaurant, so we parked a couple of blocks away. I’d allotted plenty of time, however, and felt sure we would arrive at the restaurant in time to make our reservation. On the way to the restaurant, the tips of our noses turned red and our breath came out in little clouds. A few of the shop windows were ringed with twinkling lights, and as we passed one of the neighborhood pizza parlors, we could hear Christmas music coming from the jukebox inside.
    It was as we were approaching the restaurant that we saw the dog. Cowering in an alley, he was medium size but skinny and covered in grime. He was shivering, and his coat made it plain that he had been on the run for quite a while. I moved between Jane and the dog in case he was dangerous, but Jane stepped around me and squatted down, trying to get the dog’s attention.   “It’s okay,” she whispered. “We won’t hurt you.”
    The dog shrank back farther into the shadows.
    “He’s got a collar,” Jane pointed out. “I’ll bet he’s lost.” She didn’t look away from the dog, who seemed to be studying her with wary interest.   Checking my watch, I saw that we had a few minutes to spare until our reservation came up. Though I still wasn’t sure whether or not the dog was dangerous, I squatted beside Jane and began speaking to him in the same soothing tones that she was using. This went on for a short while, but still the dog remained where he was. Jane took a small step toward him, but the dog whined, skittering away.
    “He’s scared,” she said, looking worried. “What should we do? I don’t want to leave him out here. It’s supposed to fall below freezing tonight. And if he’s lost, I’m sure all he wants is to get back home.”
    I suppose I could have said just about anything. I could have told her that we tried, or that we could call the pound, or even that we could come back after dinner, and if he was still around that we could try again. But Jane’s expression stopped me. Her face was a mixture of worry and defiance—the first inkling I had of Jane’s kindness and concern for those less fortunate. I knew then that I had no choice but to go along with what she wanted.   “Let me try,” I said.
    In all honesty, I wasn’t quite sure what to do. Growing up, I’d never owned a dog for the simple reason that my mother had been allergic to them, but I held out my hand and continued to whisper to him, resorting to what I had seen people do in the movies.
    I let the dog get used to my voice, and when I slowly inched forward, the dog remained in place. Not wanting to startle the mutt, I stopped, let him get used to me for a moment, and inched forward again. After what seemed forever, I was close enough to the dog that when I held out my hand, he stretched his nose toward it. Then, deciding he had nothing to fear from me, he let his tongue flicker against my fingers. A moment later, I was able to stroke his head, and I glanced over my shoulder at Jane.
    “He likes you,” she said, looking amazed.
    I shrugged. “I guess he does.”
    I was able to read the phone number on the collar, and Jane went into the bookstore next door to call the owner from a pay phone. While she was gone, I waited with the dog, and the more I stroked him, the more he seemed to crave the touch of my hand. When Jane returned, we waited for nearly twenty minutes until the owner arrived to claim him. He was in his mid-thirties, and he practically bounded