Though I began many letters to Natalie, in the end I never sent them. Nor, during my regular but infrequent visits to New Bern, did I seek out or call her. Occasionally I would overhear things, usually people talking in low whispers about how hard it must be for her, or whether she should somehow find a way to move on. Whenever I heard those comments, I felt a deep ache at the thought that her life remained on permanent hold.

For me, moving on meant five years of residency, long hours, and completing enough clinical practice to finish the program. Though I’d originally thought that my interest would lie almost exclusively in the treatment of PTSD, I quickly came to discover that patients with PTSD often presented with other issues as well. They might be concurrently struggling with drug or alcohol addiction or suffering from depression; still others had bipolar disorder or various personality disorders. I learned that the treatment of every patient was unique, and though I tried, I couldn’t help everyone. While I was in Baltimore, two patients committed suicide, and another was arrested after an argument in a bar led to a charge of second-degree murder. That patient is currently behind bars for a minimum of nine years. Every now and then, he’ll send me a letter complaining that he isn’t receiving the treatment he needs, and I have no doubt that he is correct.

I have found the work deeply interesting, perhaps more than I expected. In its own way, it is more of an intellectual challenge than orthopedic surgery had ever been and I can honestly say that I look forward to my work every day. Unlike some of the other residents, I have little trouble separating myself from my patients at the end of the day; to carry the cumulative psychological burdens of others is too much for anyone to bear. Still, there are times when it isn’t possible to simply walk away; even when some patients can’t afford to pay for treatment, I often make myself available to them.

I have continued my own sessions with Dr. Bowen as well, though over time, the sessions have become more infrequent. Now I speak with him about once a month and only rarely do I experience any physical symptoms associated with PTSD. I sleep well and my hands haven’t trembled since my time in New Bern, but every now and then, I still feel an ache of sadness for Natalie and the life I imagined we would have made together.

As for Callie, there were regular calls in the beginning, but those eventually faded to the occasional text, usually around the holidays. The transplant was successful, her health was as stable as it could be considering her situation, and she had moved back in with her family. She graduated from high school and became a dental hygienist. I have no idea how or when she met Jeff McCorkle—she hinted that it was a story in and of itself—and as I wait in the church for Callie to walk down the aisle, the cynical side of me wonders whether the two of them are too young to be getting married. Both of them are only twenty-one, and the statistics don’t paint an entirely rosy scenario for their marriage in the long run. On the other hand, Callie has always been a person of extraordinary maturity and determination.

Most important, she—like me—fully understands that life’s twists and turns are impossible to predict.

When I drove through Helen on my way to the church, I was overwhelmed with déjà vu. The town looked exactly the same as it had the last time I’d been here. I passed the police station and the Bodensee restaurant, and despite running late, I idled in front of the hotel where Natalie had asked me to hold her on our last night together.

I like to think that I’ve moved forward since then, and in many ways, I know that I have. My residency and training complete, I have multiple offers in three different states. I have a favorite, but whether I choose that position depends to a degree on what happens later today.

From my seat, I can hear murmuring and whispers from people in the pews all around me; despite myself, I can’t help turning around to scrutinize every new arrival. When Natalie finally arrives, I feel my heart skip a beat. She is wearing a lovely peach-colored sundress and although she’s allowed her hair to grow out, she doesn’t appear to have aged in the five years since I last saw her. I watch as she scans the church, trying to locate an open seat, and is eventually escorted to a spot three rows in front of me. As I stare at the back of her head, I offer a silent thank-you to Callie, who had agreed to extend a special invitation to Natalie at my request.

Jeff eventually takes his place at the front of the church near the minister, with three groomsmen and a best man beside him. The music begins, Wagner’s Lohengrin, and Callie appears at the back of the church. Standing beside her is her clean-shaven father, Curtis, dressed in a dark blue suit. Both of them are beaming and we all stand as they proceed down the aisle. Curtis kisses his daughter on the cheek and takes his seat beside Louise, who is already dabbing at her eyes. Tammy and Heather are both bridesmaids, wearing matching pink dresses.

The ceremony is as traditional as I’d expected, and Callie and Jeff are pronounced husband and wife in short order. The guests applaud, and I smile when I hear a few whistles as well.

At the reception under an expansive white tent, I am seated with some of Callie’s cousins and their spouses, and grin every time guests gently tap their wineglasses with spoons, prompting yet another kiss by Callie and Jeff.

Callie dances with her husband and then her father, before others join in. I even manage to snag a dance with Callie, after which she introduces me to her new husband. He comes across as an earnest young man, and they are enviably, obviously in love. As I part from them, I hear Jeff ask Callie in a puzzled whisper, “Why does he call you Callie?”

I wonder how much she’s told him about the time she spent in New Bern, or whether she’s simply glossed over the details. In the long run, I suppose it won’t matter. Jeff, I suspect, will probably learn everything, as secrets are almost always impossible to keep.

Not long after the dancing began, I had seen Natalie step out of the tent. I follow and spot her standing near an ancient magnolia tree. As I approach, the music from the reception dwindles, leaving only the two of us in the still summer afternoon. I marvel again at how ageless and beautiful she is.

I remind myself not to expect much. Five years is a long time, and there is no doubt in my mind that it has changed both of us. Part of me wonders whether she will recognize me right away or whether I will notice a split-second hesitation while she tries to locate me in her memories. Nor am I exactly sure what to say to her, but as I draw near, Natalie turns to face me with a knowing smile.

“Hello, Trevor,” she says. “I was wondering how long it would take you to come find me.”

“You knew I was here?”

“I saw you in the church,” she says. “I thought about sitting beside you, but I didn’t want to make it too easy for you.”

With that, she moves closer, and as though our time apart had collapsed in the blink of an eye, she steps into my arms. I pull her close, absorbing the feel of her body with reverence. I catch her familiar scent, something I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispers in my ear.

“You too. You look beautiful.”

We separate and for the first time, I am able to study her up close. Except for the tiniest of lines at the corners of her eyes and her lusciously long hair, she is the same woman who has visited me in my dreams for the last five years. Though I’d dated a few different women, each of those relationships had ended even before they’d had a chance to begin. At the time, I’d told myself that I simply didn’t have the energy for a new relationship; as I stand with Natalie, I know that I’d really been waiting for her.

“So? Are you a psychiatrist now?”

“I passed my boards last month,” I say. “It’s official. How about you? Are you still working for the sheriff’s department?”

“Not anymore,” she says. “Believe it or not, I own a flower shop now.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I’m not. It’s in downtown New Bern.”

“How did that happen?”

“I saw a listing that the shop was for sale. The owner was retiring so he didn’t want much for the business, and by then, I knew that I didn’t want to remain a sheriff’s deputy. So the owner and I worked something out.”

“When was this?”

“About eighteen months ago.”

I smile. “I’m so happy for you.”

“Me too.”

“How’s your family?”

“Other than my parents retiring to the beach, not much has changed.”

“Do you still visit them regularly?”

“I get to the coast every other weekend. They spend all their time there now. They sold their business and the house in La Grange. How about you? Still living in Baltimore?”

“For the time being. Just trying to figure out where I want to settle down.”

“Are you thinking anyplace in particular?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Still working through my options.”

“I’ve heard there’s a shortage of psychiatrists in Eastern North Carolina.”

“Is that so?” I say. “Where would you have heard something like that?”

“I can’t really remember. Oh, by the way, I kept an eye on your grandfather’s house for you. Back when I was a sheriff’s deputy, I mean. But even now, I still look in on the place from time to time.”

“Did you check out the beehives?”

“I didn’t,” she says, with a touch of regret. “You?”

“A couple of times a year. They don’t need much tending.”

“I should have known. They had the honey at the Trading Post the last few years. Only place in town you can get it.”

“I’m glad you remembered.”

Using both hands, she pulls her hair back into a ponytail, then releases it. “Callie sure looked pretty. I loved her dress. And it seems like she’s still getting along with her family, too.”

“It was a lovely ceremony. I’m happy for her. How about you, though? How long are you staying in Helen?”

“Just overnight. I flew and rented a car this morning.”

“And then you’re heading back to New Bern?”

“Of course,” she says. “My mom is standing in for me at the shop, but I’m pretty sure she’d like to get back to the beach.”

For the first time, I notice she isn’t wearing the chain around her neck, the one with the wedding band. Nor is the band on her finger. “Where’s your ring?”

“I don’t wear it any longer.”

“Why not?”

“Mark passed away,” she says, meeting my gaze. “Ten months ago. They think it was a pulmonary embolism.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He was a good man,” she says. “My first love.” She flashes a wistful smile. “And I guess you’ll be heading back to Baltimore after this, huh?”

“In time,” I say. “I’ll need to pack my things eventually. But actually, I’m heading to New Bern, too. It’s time to harvest the honey, and I figure I’ll stick around for a little while. I’m meeting with a couple of practices in the area.”

“In New Bern?”

“One in New Bern, the other in Greenville. I have offers from both, but I want to make sure I’m making the right decision.”

She stares at me before finally beginning to smile.

“You might end up in New Bern?”

“Maybe,” I say. “Hey, by the way, are you dating anyone right now?”

“No,” she says with a coy smile. “I mean, I’ve been on a few dates, but they didn’t stick. How about you?”

“Same,” I say. “I’ve been pretty busy the last few years.”

“I can imagine,” she says, her smile widening.

At that, my heart begins to lift and I thumb toward the tent. “Would you care to dance?”

“I’d love to.” Surprising me just a little, she loops her arm through mine and we start back toward the reception.

“Oh, and one more thing,” I say. “If you’d like to help me harvest the honey once I’m back in New Bern, I’d love to show you the process. Maybe the timing is better this time.”

“How much does it pay?”

I laugh. “How much do you want?”

She pretends to think about it before turning her gaze to me again. “How about dinner on the back porch afterward?”

“Dinner?”

“I’m sure I’ll work up an appetite.”

“That sounds like a fair trade.” I pause, suddenly serious. “I’ve missed you, Natalie.”

At the entrance to the tent, she pulls me to a stop. Then, without hesitation, she leans in to kiss me, the sensation as familiar as coming home.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispers, as we enter the tent together.