a thing for her husband, or what.”
“It must have something to do with her illness,” Daria said.
“It’s time you asked her, don’t you think?”
He dug his feet into the sand, shaking his head.
“She’s not like you,” he said.
“You don’t seem to have a problem talking about anything.
Grace is very. closed. ”” When do you see her again? “
“Saturday. She’s coming to watch the hang-gliding competition with me.
Are you going? “
“I plan to. I haven’t been for a couple of years, but I want to root for my favorite priest.”
“Father Macy’s in the competition?” Rory asked. He’d forgotten that the priest was a hang-glider pilot.
“He wouldn’t miss it,” Daria said.
Suddenly, Daria jumped to her feet and ran onto Kara’s side of the net.
“Kara, girl,” she said, “you need to learn how to rush the net.”
Rory watched as Daria gave Kara a few tips, helping her jump higher, helping her place the ball where Zack didn’t stand a chance.
“No fair!” Zack complained after missing several of Kara’s shots.
“Show me how to do that.”
Daria stepped over to his side of the net to offer him the same training.
Rory leaned back on his elbows in the sand. He remembered the other night, when he’d sat with Daria on her porch steps, acutely aware of the unrelenting anguish the plane crash had brought her. He’d had his hand on the back of her neck, and he wished he’d somehow been able to absorb her pain through his fingertips to free her from it. He hoped her trip to Rodanthe served that purpose, that it eased her guilt and brought an end to her nightmares.
Kara pounded the ball across the net, and both Zack and Daria ran for it. They collided in midair and fell to the sand. laughing. Rory laughed with them, and he knew in his heart that he was watching two people he loved.
1 he day was blistering hot as Daria drove south to Rodanthe, and the heat rose from the road in shimmering waves. She’d barely slept the night before, rehearsing what she would say to the pilot’s parents, but with the meeting looming in front of her, she found she couldn’t think about it. Instead, her mind slipped back to the evening before, when she’d played volleyball with Rory, when he’d touched her on the court. The last thing she’d needed was his help; she was now and always had been a superior volleyball player to him. But she had needed that touch. She’d hoped for it, even moving herself into positions where she thought she might find his hands on her body. And he had read her need and touched her. It had felt like a dance, but she had to remind herself she was dancing alone.
So, he and Grace still were not lovers. She kept him at arm’s length.
A smile formed on her lips at the thought. He was most likely right about Grace: she’d probably had breast cancer, maybe a mastectomy. She always wore those high-necked bathing suits. Naturally, she was struggling with intimacy, and Daria was a grade-A bitch for taking any pleasure in that fact.
She drove across the bridge above the Oregon Inlet and through the green, undeveloped stretch of land that formed the Pea Island Wildlife Refuge. A short time later, she was in Rodanthe, the northernmost town on Hatteras Island.
The houses were fewer here on this narrow strip of land, and the sense of commercialism that permeated Kill Devil Hills was missing.
Rodanthe was so small that she found the street she was looking for with little trouble. She turned onto it, toward Pamlico Sound, and parked in front of the address she’d been given. The house was older, small and yellow, fronted by a tidy landscaped yard. There were no cars in the driveway, but there might have been one in the small garage at the rear of the property. She hadn’t thought about what she would do if no one was home. Maybe she should have called first.
She knocked on the door and waited.
“They’re not home.”
She turned to see a woman getting out of a car in front of the house next door, grocery bags in her arms. “Do you know where I can find them?” Daria asked.
“Probably at their store,” the woman said.
“It’s called Beachside Cafe and Sundries. It’s straight down that way.” She pointed toward the sound.
“Make a left at the fork.”
Back in her car, Daria followed the woman’s directions to the Beachside Cafe. She parked on the street and sat in her car for a moment, debating what she should do. She didn’t want to interrupt them at work with something this weighty. Maybe she could just tell them who she was and ask if there would be a more convenient time for her to speak with them.
With that plan in mind, she got out of the car and walked inside the cafe.
The cafe was small and crowded and smelled strongly of coffee. All the tables by the windows overlooking the sound were full, and a couple of women stood near the counter, waiting for their orders, Daria supposed. A very young woman—too young to be the pilot’s mother—carried a tray of sandwiches to the diners at one of the tables. Standing behind the counter, a dark-haired man worked the espresso machine. He glanced up as Daria approached.
