Dreamland: A Novel by Nicholas Sparks Read Free Book Online Page A

I was already itching to get out and become an adult, so I started taking classes at community college and did a summer session at IU. I took accelerated classes so I was able to graduate early. And, yes, I was pretty much one of the youngest freshmen on campus. I’d only been driving a little more than a year.”
    “And your overprotective parents were okay with you leaving home that young?”
    “I threatened that I wouldn’t go to college at all. They knew I was serious.”
    “You drive a hard bargain.”
    “I can be a bit headstrong,” she offered with a wink. “But what about you?”
    “What about me?”
    “Did you go to college?”
    “No.”
    “Why not?”
    “I never liked school all that much to begin with, so it wasn’t really in the cards.”
    “Do you regret not going?”
    “I probably would have failed out.”
    “Not if you tried.”
    “I likely wouldn’t have tried.”
    She smiled. “I know that school’s not for everyone. And you still figured out what you want to do early on, which is more than a lot of people can say.”
    I considered what she’d said. “I have a knack for farming,” Iconceded, “and now that most of the transition work is behind us, my days aren’t as long as they once were. But it’s not what I grew up imagining that I’d be doing.”
    I could still feel her eyes on me, her delicate features intermittently illuminated by passing headlights.
    “You love music,” she announced. “That’s what you really wanted to do, right?”
    “Of course.”
    “You’re young, Colby,” she pointed out. “You still have plenty of time.”
    I shook my head. “It’s not going to happen.”
    “Because of your family?” Though I didn’t answer, she must have seen my expression, because I heard her expel a breath. “Okay, I accept that. Now, changing gears, since I told you about my boring childhood, what was your life like growing up in North Carolina?”
    I gave her the highlights, trying to inject some humor into my dumb middle and high school exploits and responding in detail to her questions about the farm, about which she seemed endlessly fascinated. When I finished, I asked her what she liked most about college.
    “The people,” she said, her answer almost automatic. “That’s where I met Stacy, Maria, and Holly. Others, too.”
    “What did you end up studying?”
    “Can’t you guess?” she asked. “What’s the last thing I said to you on the beach?”
    I love your voice. But still unsure what that had to do with her choice of a major, I gave her a quizzical look.
    “I majored in vocal performance.”

When we reached the Don CeSar, she directed me to the hotel parking lot. Morgan flashed her room key card to the lot’s security guard, and after parking I fished my guitar from behind the driver’s seat and we started toward the hotel. Entering through the lower-level doors, we walked the wide carpeted hallways that zigged and zagged past high-end boutiques and an ice-cream-and-candy shop. I felt underdressed, but Morgan didn’t seem to notice.
    We exited near the perfectly landscaped pool area. Off to the right was a restaurant with additional outdoor seating near the beach; ahead and to the left were two pools surrounded by dozens of lounge chairs and the ever-popular bar. The restaurant, likely closed by then, still had two or three couples relaxing at their tables, enjoying the balmy breezes.
    “This is the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen,” I said, trying not to gape at my surroundings.
    “It’s been around a long time. In the thirties it drew guests from up and down the East Coast, and during World War II itwas leased by the military to treat servicemen struggling with PTSD. Of course, they didn’t call it PTSD back then. I guess it went downhill for a while after that, and then new owners bought it and spruced it up, returning it to its former glory.”
    “You know a lot about it.”
    She elbowed me, smirking. “There’s a history exhibit