The Wedding by Nicholas Sparks Read Free Book Online

wainscoting that complements the hard-pine floor inside. Graceful porches face the narrow streets, harkening back to a time when people sat outside in the early evenings to catch a stray breeze. The streets are shaded with oaks and dogwoods, and thousands of azaleas bloom every spring. It is, quite simply, one of the most beautiful places I’ve ever seen.
    Jane was raised on the outskirts of town in a former plantation house built nearly two hundred years earlier. Noah had restored it in the years following World War II; he was meticulous in the work he did, and like many of the other historic homes in town, it retains a look of grandeur that has only grown with the passage of time.
    Sometimes I visit the old home. I’ll drop by after finishing at work or on my way to the store; other times I make a special trip. This is one of my secrets, for Jane doesn’t know I do this. While I’m certain she wouldn’t mind, there’s a hidden pleasure in keeping these visits to myself. Coming here makes me feel both mysterious and fraternal, for I know that everyone has secrets, including my wife. As I gaze out over the property, I frequently wonder what hers might be.
    Only one person knows about my visits. His name is Harvey Wellington, and he’s a black man about my age who lives in a small clapboard house on the adjacent property. One or more members of his family have lived in the home since before the turn of the century, and I know he’s a reverend at the local Baptist church.   He’d always been close to everyone in Jane’s family, especially Jane, but since Allie and Noah moved to Creekside, most of our communication has taken the form of the Christmas cards we exchange annually. I’ve seen him standing on the sagging porch of his house when I visit, but because of the distance, it’s impossible to know what he’s thinking when he sees me.   I seldom go inside Noah’s house. It’s been boarded up since Noah and Allie moved to Creekside, and the furniture is covered, like sheeted ghosts on Halloween.   Instead, I prefer to walk the grounds. I shuffle along the gravel drive; I walk the fence line, touching posts; I head around to the rear of the house, where the river passes by. The river is narrower at the house than it is downtown, and there are moments when the water is absolutely still, a mirror reflecting the sky. Sometimes I stand at the edge of the dock, watching the sky in the water’s reflection, and listen to the breeze as it gently moves the leaves overhead.   Occasionally I find myself standing beneath the trellis that Noah built after his marriage. Allie had always loved flowers, and Noah planted a rose garden in the shape of concentric hearts that was visible from the bedroom window and surrounded a formal, three-tiered fountain. He’d also installed a series of floodlights that made it possible to see the blooms even in the darkness, and the effect was dazzling. The hand-carved trellis led to the garden, and because Allie was an artist, both had appeared in a number of her paintings—paintings that for some reason always seemed to convey a hint of sadness despite their beauty. Now, the rose garden is untended and wild, the trellis is aged and cracking, but I’m still moved when I stand before them. As with his work on the house, Noah put great effort into making both the garden and the trellis unique;
    I often reach out to trace the carvings or simply stare at the roses, hoping perhaps to absorb the talents that have always eluded me.   I come here because this place is special to me. It was here, after all, that I first realized I was in love with Jane, and while I know my life was bettered because of it, I must admit that even now I’m mystified by how it happened.   I certainly had no intention of falling for Jane when I walked her to her car on that rainy day in 1971. I barely knew her, but as I stood beneath the umbrella and watched her drive away, I was suddenly certain that I wanted to