"How could I forget?" She grinned. "An umbrella."
"If I recall correctly, you didn't seem too thrilled about it."
"Well," she said, throwing up her hands, "how was I supposed to meet any guys after that? Having someone walk me to my car was my modus operandi back then. You have to remember that at Meredith, the only men around were teachers or janitors."
"That's why I picked it out," I said. "I knew exactly how you operated."
"You didn't have a clue," she said with a smirk. "I was the first girl you ever dated."
"No, you weren't. I'd dated before."
Her eyes were playful. "Okay, the first girl you'd ever kissed, then."
This was true, though I've come to regret that I ever told her this, since she's never forgotten this fact and it tends to come up in moments like this. In my defense, however, I said: "I was too busy preparing for my future. I didn't have time for such a thing."
"You were shy."
"I was studious. There's a difference."
"Don't you remember our dinner? Or the drive over? You barely said anything to me at all, except about your classes."
"I talked about more than that," I said. "I told you that I liked your sweater, remember?"
"That doesn't count." She winked. "You were just lucky I was so patient with you."
"Yes," I agreed, "I was."
I said it the way I would have wanted to hear it from her, and I think she caught the tone in my voice. She smiled briefly.
"Do you know what I remember most from that night?" I went on.
"My sweater?"
My wife, I should add, has always had a quick wit. I laughed but was clearly in a more reflective mood and went on. "I liked the way you stopped for the dog, and were unwilling to leave until you made sure he was safe. It told me your heart was in the right place."
I could have sworn she blushed at my comment, but she quickly picked up her wineglass, so I couldn't be sure. Before she could say anything, I changed the subject.
"So is Anna getting nervous yet?" I asked.
Jane shook her head. "Not at all. She doesn't seem worried in the slightest. I guess she believes that it's all going to work out, like it did today with the pictures and the cake. This morning, when I showed her the list of all we had to do, all she said was, 'I guess we'd better get started, then, huh?'"
I nodded. I could imagine Anna saying those words.
"What about her friend, the pastor?" I asked.
"She said she called him last night, and he said he'd be happy to do it."
"That's good. One less thing," I offered.
"Mmm." Jane fell silent. I knew her mind was beginning to turn to the activities of the coming week.
"I think I'm going to need your help," she said at last.
"What did you have in mind?"
"Well, you'll need a tux for you, Keith, and Joseph, of course. And Daddy, too. . . ."
"No problem."
She shifted in her seat. "And Anna is supposed to be getting the names of some of the people she'd like to invite. We don't have time to send any invitations, so someone's going to have to call. And since I'm out and about with Anna, and you're on vacation . . ."
I held up my hands. "I'd be glad to take care of it," I said. "I'll start tomorrow."
"Do you know where the address book is?"
This is the type of question with which I've become quite familiar over the years. Jane has long believed that I have a natural inability to find certain items within our home. She also believes that while I misplace objects occasionally, I have assigned her the responsibility of knowing exactly where it is I might have misplaced them. Neither of these things, I might add, is completely my fault. While it's true that I don't know where every item in the house is located, this has more to do with different filing systems than any ineptitude on my part. My wife, for instance, believes the flashlight logically belongs in one of the kitchen drawers, while my reasoning tells me it should be in the pantry where we keep the washer and dryer. As a result, it shifts from one location to the next, and because I work outside the home, it's impossible for me to keep up with such things. If I set my car keys on the counter, for instance, my instincts tell me they will still be there when I go to look for them, while Jane automatically believes that I will look for them on the bulletin board near the door. As to the location of the address book, it was plain to me that it was in the drawer by the phone. That's where I put it the last time I used it, and I was just about to say this when Jane spoke up.
"It's on the shelf next to the cookbooks."
I looked at her.
"Of course it is," I agreed.
The easy mood between us lasted until we finished dinner and began to clear the table.
Then, slowly, almost imperceptibly at first, the quick banter between us gave way to more stilted conversation, punctuated by longer pauses. By the time we'd started to clean the kitchen, we had retreated into a familiar dialogue, in which the most animated sound came not from either of us, but from the scraping of plates in the kitchen.
I can't explain why this happened, other than to say that we'd run out of things to say to each other. She asked about Noah a second time, and I repeated what I'd said previously. A minute later, she started speaking of the photographer again, but halfway through her story, she stopped herself, knowing she'd already recounted that as well. Because neither of us had spoken to Joseph or Leslie, there was no news on those fronts, either. And as for work, because I was out of the office, I had nothing whatsoever to add, even in an offhanded way. I could feel the earlier mood of the evening beginning to slip away and wanted to prevent the inevitable from happening. My mind began to search for something, anything, and I finally cleared my throat.
"Did you hear about the shark attack down in Wilmington?" I asked.
"You mean the one last week? With the girl?"
"Yes," I said, "that's the one."
"You told me about it."
"I did?"
"Last week. You read me the article."
I washed her wineglass by hand, then rinsed the colander. I could hear her sorting through the cupboards for the Tupperware.
"What a horrible way to start a vacation," she remarked. "Her family hadn't even finished unpacking the car yet."
The plates came next, and I scraped the remains into the sink. I turned on the garbage disposal, and the rumbling seemed to echo against the walls, underscoring the silence between us. When it stopped, I put the plates into the dishwasher.
"I pulled some weeds in the garden," I said.
"I thought you just did that a few days ago."
"
I did."
I loaded the utensils and rinsed the salad tongs. I turned the water on and off, slid the dishwasher rack in and out.
"I hope you didn't stay in the sun too long," she said.
She mentioned this because my father had died of a heart attack while washing the car when he was sixty-one years old. Heart disease ran in my family, and I knew it was something that worried Jane. Though we were less like lovers than friends these days, I knew that Jane would always care for me. Caring was part of her nature and always would be.
Her siblings are the same way, and I attribute that to Noah and Allie. Hugs and laughter were a staple in their home, a place where practical jokes were relished, because no one ever suspected meanness. I've often wondered about the person I would have become had I been born into that family.
"It's supposed to be hot again tomorrow," Jane said, breaking into my thoughts.
"I heard on the news it's supposed to hit ninety-five degrees," I concurred. "And the humidity is supposed to be high, too."
"Ninety-five?"
"That's what they said."
"That's too hot."
Jane put the leftovers into the refrigerator as I wiped the counters. After our earlier intimacy, the lack of meaningful conversation seemed deafening. From the expression on Jane's face, I knew she too was disappointed by this return to our normal state of affairs. She patted her dress, as if looking for words in her pockets. Finally, she drew a deep breath and forced a smile.
"I think I'll give Leslie a call," she said.
A moment later, I was standing in the kitchen alone, wishing again that I were someone else and wondering whether it was even possible for us to start over.
In the two weeks following our first date, Jane and I saw each other five more times before she returned to New Bern for the Christmas holidays. We studied together twice, went to a movie once, and spent two afternoons walking through the campus of Duke University.
But there was one particular walk that will always stand out in my mind. It was a gloomy day, having rained all morning, and gray clouds stretched across the sky, making it look almost like dusk. It was Sunday, two days after we'd saved the stray, and Jane and I were strolling among the various buildings on campus.
"What are your parents like?" she asked.
I took a few steps before answering. "They're good people," I finally said.