After finishing my coffee, I tossed the empty in a nearby garbage can and wandered to the railing. Leaning over, I admitted that small-town life had its charms. I especially thought so a couple of minutes later, when I saw Natalie meandering in my direction, the basket trailing at her side. She seemed to be watching the paddleboarders as they worked their way toward deeper water.
I suppose I could have waved or called out, but considering our recent encounter in the farmers’ market, I restrained myself. Instead, I continued to study the slow-moving current until I heard a voice behind me.
“You again.”
I peeked over my shoulder. Natalie’s stance and expression telegraphed that she hadn’t expected to find me here.
“Are you talking to me?”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m enjoying my Saturday morning.”
“Did you know I would be coming here?”
“How would I have known where you were going?”
“I don’t know,” she said, suspicion seeping into her voice.
“It’s a beautiful morning and a great view. Why wouldn’t I come here?”
She opened her mouth to answer, then closed it again before speaking. “I guess it’s none of my business, anyway. I’m sorry for bothering you.”
“You’re not bothering me,” I assured her. Then, nodding toward her basket: “Did you find everything you needed at the market?”
“Why are you asking?”
“Just making conversation. Since you’re following me, I mean.”
“I’m not following you!”
I laughed. “Kidding. If anything, I have the impression that you’re trying to avoid me.”
“I’m not avoiding you. I barely know you.”
“Exactly,” I agreed, and feeling like I was suddenly back in the batter’s box, I decided to take another swing. “And that’s a shame.” I gave her a mischievous smile before turning back toward the river.
Natalie studied me, as though uncertain whether to stay or go. Though I thought she would opt to leave, I eventually sensed her presence beside me. Hearing her sigh as she set her basket on the ground, I knew that my third swing at bat had somehow connected.
Finally, she spoke. “I have a question.”
“Go ahead.”
“Are you always this forward?”
“Never,” I said. “By nature I’m quiet and reserved. A wallflower, really.”
“I doubt that.”
In the river, the paddleboarders upstream were now hovering in place.
In the silence, I saw her clasp her hands together at the railing. “About what happened earlier,” she said. “In the market, when I walked away. If that seemed brusque, I apologize.”
“No apology necessary.”
“Still, I felt bad afterward. But it’s just that in small towns, people talk. And Julie…”
When she trailed off, I finished for her. “Talks more than most?”
“I didn’t want her to get the wrong idea.”
“I understand,” I said. “Gossip is the bane of small-town life. Let’s just hope she went home to the kids instead of coming to the park, or she might really have something to talk about.”
Though I said it as a joke, Natalie immediately scanned the vicinity and my eyes followed hers. As far as I could tell, no one was paying us any attention at all. Still, it made me wonder what was so terrible about the thought of being seen with someone like me. If she had any idea that she knew what I was thinking, she gave no indication, but I thought I noted an expression of relief.
“How do you make sweet potato pie?”
“Are you asking for the recipe?”
“I don’t think I’ve ever had sweet potato pie. I’m trying to figure out what it tastes like.”
“It’s a bit like pumpkin pie. In addition to the potatoes, there’s butter, sugar, eggs, vanilla, cinnamon, nutmeg, evaporated milk, and a little bit of salt. But the key is really the crust.”
“Do you make a good crust?”
“I make a great crust. The secret is using butter, not shortening. There are strong feelings on both sides of that debate, by the way. But I’ve experimented with my mom and we both agree.”
“Does she live in town?”
“No. She’s still in La Grange, where I grew up.”
“I’m not sure I know where that is.”
“It’s between Kinston and Goldsboro, on the way to Raleigh. My dad was a pharmacist. Still is, in fact. My dad started the business before I was born. There’s a store, too, of course. My mom manages that and works the register.”
“When we first met, you said it was a small town.”
“It’s only about 2,500 people.”
“And the pharmacy does okay?”
“You’d be surprised. People need their medicines, even in small towns. But you already know that. Since you’re a doctor, I mean.”
“Was a doctor. And hope to be a doctor again one day.”
She was quiet for a moment. I studied her profile, but again had no idea what was going through her mind.
Finally, she sighed. “I was thinking about what you said the other night. About you becoming a psychiatrist to help people with PTSD. I think that’s a great thing.”
“I appreciate that.”
“How do people even know they have it? How did you know?”
Strangely, I had the impression that she wasn’t asking for conversation’s sake, or even because she was particularly interested in me. Rather, I had the sense she was asking because she was curious for her own reasons, whatever those might be. In the past, I likely would have tried to change the subject, but regular sessions with Dr. Bowen made talking about my issues easier, no matter who was asking.
“Everyone’s different, so the symptoms can vary, but I was pretty much a textbook example of the condition. I alternated between insomnia and nightmares at night, and during the day, I felt on edge almost all the time. Loud noises bothered me, my hands sometimes trembled, I got in ridiculous arguments. I spent almost a year feeling angry at the world, drinking more than I should, and playing way too much Grand Theft Auto.”
“And now?”
“I’m managing,” I said. “Or, at least, I like to think I am. My doctor thinks so, too. We still talk every Monday.”
“So you’re cured?”
“It’s not something that can really be cured. It’s more about managing the condition. Which isn’t always easy. Stress tends to make things worse.”
“Isn’t stress part of life?”
“No question,” I admitted. “That’s what makes it impossible to cure.”
She was silent for a moment before glancing at me with a wry smile. “Grand Theft Auto, huh? For whatever reason, I can’t picture you sitting on a couch playing video games all day.”
“I got really good at it. Which wasn’t easy, since I’m missing fingers, by the way.”
“Do you still play?”
“No. That was one of the changes I made. Long story short, my therapy is all about changing negative behaviors into positive ones.”
“My brother loves that game. Maybe I should get him to stop.”
“You have a brother?”
“And a sister. Sam is five years older than me, Kristen is three years older. And before you ask, they both live in the Raleigh area. They’re married with kids.”
“How did you end up here, then?”
She shifted her weight from one foot to the other, as though debating how best to answer before finally offering a shrug. “Oh, you know. I met a boy in college. He was from here, and I made the move after I graduated. And here I am.”
“I take it that it didn’t work out.”
She closed her eyes before opening them again. “Not the way I wanted.”
The words came out quietly, but it was hard to read the emotion behind them. Regret? Resentment? Sadness? Figuring it wasn’t the time or place to ask, I let the subject drop. Instead, I shifted gears. “What was it like growing up in a small town? I mean, I thought New Bern was small, but 2,500 is tiny.”
“It was wonderful,” she replied. “My mom and dad knew just about everyone in town, and we left our doors unlocked. I knew everyone in all my classes, and I’d spend my summers riding my bike and swimming in the pool and catching butterflies. The older I get, the more I marvel at the simplicity of it.”
“Do you think your parents will live there forever?”
She shook her head. “No. A few years ago, they bought a place in Atlantic Beach. They already spend as much time there as they can, and I’m pretty sure that’s where they’ll end up when they finally retire. We actually had Thanksgiving there last year, and it’s just a matter of time now.” She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
“How did you end up working for the sheriff’s department?”
“You asked me that before.”
“I’m still curious,” I said. “Because you didn’t really answer.”
“There’s not much to say about it. It just kind of happened.”
“How so?”
“In college, I majored in sociology, and after I graduated, I realized that unless I wanted to get my master’s or a PhD, there weren’t a lot of jobs in my field. And when I moved here, it became clear that unless you own a business or have a job at Cherry Point or work for the government or the hospital, you’re limited to service jobs. I thought about going back to school to become a nurse, but at the time, it seemed like too much effort. Then, I heard the sheriff’s department was hiring and on a whim, I applied. I was as surprised as anyone that I was accepted into the training program. I mean, to that point in my life, I’d never even held a gun. And that’s what I thought it would be like—bad guys, dangerous situations, shoot-outs—it’s all about the gun, right? That’s what they show on television, anyway, and that’s all I knew. But once I got in, I quickly figured out that it was more about people skills. It’s about defusing situations and calming emotions whenever possible. And, of course, paperwork. Lots of paperwork.”
“Do you enjoy it?”
“It’s like any job, I guess. There are parts about it I like, and other parts that I don’t. You occasionally experience things that you wish you hadn’t. Gut-wrenching things you can’t forget.”
“Have you ever shot someone?”
“No. And I’ve only had to draw my gun once. Like I said, it’s not what you see on television. But you know what?”
“Do tell.”
“Even though I’d never held a gun, I ended up being a pretty good shot. Top in my class, in fact. And since then, I’ve taken up skeet shooting and sporting clays, and I’m pretty good at those, too.”
“Sporting clays?”
“It’s like skeet—there are various stands and you use a shotgun—but the clays come from differing angles, with differing speeds and trajectories. It’s supposed to more accurately reflect the way birds and small game move in the wild.”
“I’ve never been hunting.”
“Neither have I. And I don’t want to. But if I ever did, I’d probably be pretty good.”
I couldn’t help but feel a bit of admiration for her. “It’s actually not that hard to imagine you with a shotgun. Since the first time I saw you, you were armed, I mean.”
“I find it…relaxing. When I’m at the range, I’m able to tune everything else out.”
“I hear massages are good for that. Personally, I prefer yoga.”
Her eyebrows shot up. “You do yoga?”
“My psychiatrist’s recommendation. It’s helpful. I can now put on my shoes without having to sit down. It makes me popular at parties.”
“I’ll bet.” She laughed. “Where do you do yoga around here?”
“Nowhere yet. I haven’t looked for a place.”
“Will you?”
“Maybe. I won’t be here that long.”
“Will you ever come back?”
“I don’t know. I guess it depends on whether I sell the house. Who knows? Maybe I’ll be back at the end of summer for a week to finish harvesting the honey.”
“You know how to do that?”
“Sure,” I said. “It’s actually not that hard. It’s sticky and messy, but not hard.”
She shuddered. “Bees scare me. I mean, not the friendly bumblebees, but the ones that buzz around your face like they’re trying to attack you.”
“Guard bees,” I said. “Some people call them bouncer bees. They’re not my favorite, either, but they’re important for the hive. They help protect it from predators and keep bees from other colonies out of the hive.”
“Are guard bees different than regular bees?”
“Not really. As a bee goes through its life cycle, it will serve in various jobs at various times: It’ll be an undertaker bee, or a bee that cleans the hive, or takes care of the queen, or feeds the larvae, or forages for nectar and pollen. And toward the end of its life, it may become a guard bee.”
“Undertaker bees?” she echoed.
“They remove the dead bees from the hive.”
“Really?”
I nodded. “My grandfather considered beehives to be the world’s most perfect community. Of course, the colonies are almost entirely female, so maybe that has something to do with it. In fact, I’d bet that almost every bee you’ve ever come across has been female.”
“Why?”
“Male bees are called drones, and they only have two functions: They eat, and fertilize the queen, so there’s not too many of them.” I grinned. “It’s kind of the perfect job, if you ask me. Eating and sex? I think I would have been a pretty good drone.”
She rolled her eyes, but I could tell she thought it was sort of funny. Score one for Benson.
“So…what does a beehive look like?” she asked. “I mean, the kind that beekeepers maintain, not natural ones?”
“I could describe it, but it would probably be better to actually see one. And I’d be happy to show you my grandfather’s, if you’d like to come by sometime.”
She seemed to study me. “When are you thinking?” she asked.
“Any time tomorrow is fine. Early afternoon? Say one o’clock?”
“Can I think about it?”
“Sure,” I said.
“All right,” she said with a sigh, before bending to retrieve her basket. “Thanks for the visit.”
“You too. But before you leave, would you like to join me for lunch? I’m getting kind of hungry.”
She tilted her head and I almost thought she’d say yes. Then: “Thank you, but I really can’t. I have some errands I have to run.”
“No worries.” I shrugged. “I just thought I’d offer.”
She just smiled and started walking, my eyes following her graceful figure.
“Natalie!” I called out.
She turned. “Yes?”
“If I was a betting man, what kind of odds would you give me that you’ll actually show up tomorrow?”
She pursed her lips. “Fifty-fifty?”
“Is there anything I can do to increase those odds?”
“You know,” she drawled, taking another step backward, “I really don’t think there is. Bye, now.”
I watched her recede into the distance, hoping she would turn to look back at me, but she didn’t. I remained at the rail, replaying our conversation, and contrasting it with the way Natalie had reacted when Julie appeared at the farmers’ market. I understood Natalie’s aversion to being the focus of small-town gossip, and yet the more I considered it, the more I wondered whether that was all of it. Natalie, I suddenly realized, had purposely limited her conversation with Julie not only because of what Julie might say to others, but also because there was something Natalie didn’t want me to know about herself.
Now, we all have secrets. Despite what I’d told her about my past, I was still a stranger, so there was no reason to expect her to share whatever hers were. But as I continued to reflect on the situation, I couldn’t shake the notion that Natalie was less concerned about what her secrets might reveal than about the guilt her secrets seemed to wield over her.