"In a way it is, I think. The creek flows from the forest. There's not a single farmbetween here and where it starts, and the water is pure as rain. It's probably aspure as it's ever been."
She leaned toward him.
"Tell me, Noah, what do you remember most from the summer we spent together?"
"All of it."
"Anything
in
particular?"
"No," he said.
"You don't remember?"
He answered after a moment, quietly, seriously. "No, it's not that. It's not what you'rethinking. I was serious when I said 'all of it.' I can remember every moment we weretogether, and in each of them there was something wonderful. I can't really pick anyone time that meant more than any other. The entire summer was perfect, the kindof summer everyone should have. How could I pick one moment over another?
"Poets often describe love as an emotion that we can't control, one that overwhelmslogic and common sense. That's what it was like for me. I didn't plan on falling in lovewith you, and I doubt if you planned on falling in love with me. But once we met, itwas clear that neither of us could control what was happening to us. We fell in love,despite our differences, and once we did, something rare and beautiful was created.
For me, love like that has happened only once, and that's why every minute we spenttogether has been seared in my memory. I'll never forget a single moment of it.”
Allie stared at him. No one had ever said anything like that to her before. Ever.
She didn't know what to say and stayed silent, her face hot.
"I'm sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, Allie. I didn't mean to. But that summerhas stayed with me and probably always will. I know it can't be the same between
us, but that doesn't change the way I felt about you then." Shespoke quietly, feeling warm.
"It didn't make me uncomfortable, Noah .... It's just that I don't ever hear thingslike that. What you said was beautiful. It takes a poet to talk the way you do, andlike I said, you're the only poet I've ever met."
Peaceful silence descended on them. An osprey cried somewhere in the distance. Amullet splashed near the bank. The paddle moved rhythmically, causing baffles thatrocked the boat ever so slightly. The breeze had stopped, and the clouds grew blackeras the canoe moved toward some unknown destination.
Allie noticed it all, every sound, every thought. Her senses had come alive,invigorating her, and she felt her mind drifting through the last few weeks. Shethought about the anxiety coming here had caused her. The shock at seeing thearticle, the sleepless nights, her short temper during daylight. Even yesterday she hadbeen afraid and wanted to run away. The tension was gone now, every bit of it,replaced by something else, and she was glad about that as she rode in silence in theold red canoe.
She felt strangely satisfied that she'd come, pleased that Noah had turned into thetype of man she'd thought he would, pleased that she would live forever with thatknowledge. She had seen too many men in the past few years destroyed by war, ortime, or even money. It took strength to hold on to inner passion, and Noah had donethat.
This was a worker's world, not a poet's, and people would have a hard timeunderstanding Noah. America was in full swing now, all the papers said so, and peoplewere rushing forward, leaving behind the horrors of war. She understood thereasons, but they were rushing, like Lon, toward long hours and profits, neglectingthe things that brought beauty to the world.
Who did she know in Raleigh who took time off to fix a house? Or read Whitman orEliot, finding images in the mind, thoughts of the spirit? Or hunted dawn from thebow of a canoe? These weren't the things that drove society, but she felt theyshouldn't be treated as unimportant. They made living worthwhile.
To her it was the same with art, though she had realized it only upon coming here. Orrather, remembered it. She had known it once before, and again she cursed herselffor forgetting something as important as creating beauty. Painting was what she wasmeant to do, she was sure of that now. Her feelings this morning had confirmed it,
and she knew that whatever happened, she was going to give it another shot. A fairshot, no matter what anyone said.
Would Lon encourage her painting? She remembered showing him one of herpaintings a couple of months after they had first started going out. It was an abstractpainting and was meant to inspire thought. In a way, it resembled the painting aboveNoah's fireplace, the one Noah understood completely, though it may have been atouch less passionate. Lon had stared at it, studied it almost, and then had asked herwhat it was supposed to be. She hadn't bothered to answer. She shook her headthen, knowing she wasn't being completely fair. She loved Lon, and always had, forother reasons. Though he wasn't Noah, Lon was a good man, the kind of man she'dalways known she would marry. With Lon there would be no surprises, and there wascomfort in knowing what the future would bring. He would be a kind husband to her,and she would be a good wife. She would have a home near friends and family,children, a respectable place in society.
It was the kind of life she'd always expected to live, the kind of life she wanted to live.
And though she wouldn't describe theirs as a passionate relationship, she hadconvinced herself long ago that this wasn't necessary to be fulfilled in a relationship,even with a person she intended to marry. Passion would fade in time, and things likecompanionship and compatibility would take its place. She and Lon had this, and shehad assumed this was all she needed. But now, as she watched Noah rowing, shequestioned this basic assumption. He exuded sexuality in everything he did,everything he was, and she caught herself thinking about him in a way that anengaged woman shouldn't. She tried not to stare and glanced away often, but theeasy way he moved his body made it hard to keep her eyes from him for long. "Herewe are," Noah said as he guided the canoe toward some trees near the bank. Allielooked around, not seeing anything. "Where is it?"
"Here," he said again, pointing the canoe at an old tree that had fallen over, obscuringan opening almost completely hidden from view.
He guided the canoe around the tree, and both of them had to lower their heads tokeep from bumping them.
"Close your eyes," he whispered, and Allie did, bringing her hands to her face. Sheheard the baffles of the water and felt the movement of the canoe as he propelled itforward, away from the pull of the creek.
"Okay," he finally said after he'd stopped paddling. "You can open them now."
sat in the middle of a small lake fed by the waters of Brices Creek. It wasn't large,maybe a hundred yards across, and she was surprised at how invisible it had beenjust moments before.
It was spectacular. Tundra swan and Canada geese literally surrounded them.
Thousands of them. Birds floating so close' together in some places that she couldn'tsee the water. From a distance, the groups of swans looked almost like icebergs.
"Oh, Noah," she finally said softly, "it's beautiful.''
They sat in silence for a long while, watching the birds. Noah pointed out a groupof chicks, recently hatched, following a pack of geese near the shore, strugglingto keep up.
The air was filled with honking and chirping as Noah moved the canoe through thewater. The birds ignored them for the most part. The only ones who seemedbothered were those forced to move when the canoe approached them. Alliereached out to touch the closest ones and felt their feathers ruffling under herfingers.
Noah brought out the bag of bread he'd brought earlier and handed it to Allie.
She scattered the bread, favoring the little ones, laughing and smiling as theyswam in circles, looking for food.
They stayed until thunder boomed in the distance‐‐faint but powerful‐‐and both ofthem knew it was time to leave.
