The Last Song by Nicholas Sparks | Page 6

knew he could probably eat better and exercise more, he doubted that either would
have helped. Stomach problems ran in his family. His father’s death six years a go had changed him, and since th e funeral, he’d felt as though
he’d been on a countdown of sorts. In a way, he supposed he had. Five years ago, he’d quit his
position at Juilliard, and a year after that, he’d deci ded to try his luck as a concert pianist. Three
years ago, he and Kim decided to divorce; less than twelve months later, the tour dates began

drying up, until they finally ended completely. Last year, he ’d moved back here, to the town
where he’d grown up, a place he never thought he’d see again. Now he was about to spend the
summer with his children, and though he tried to imagine what the fall would bring once Ronnie
and Jonah were back in New York, he knew only th at leaves would yellow before turning to red
and that in the mornings his breaths would co me out in little puffs. He’d long since given up
trying to predict the future. This didn’t bother him. He knew predictions we re pointless, and besides, he could barely
understand the past. These days, all he could say for sure was that he was ordinary in a world
that loved the extraordinary, and the realization le ft him with a vague feeling of disappointment
at the life he’d led. But what could he do? Unlike Kim, who’d been outgoing and gregarious,
he’d always been more reticent and blended in to crowds. Though he had certain talents as a
musician and composer, he lacked the charisma or showmanship or whatever it was that made a
performer stand out. At times, even he admitted that he’d been more an observer of the world
than a participant in it, and in moments of painful honesty, he sometimes believed he was a
failure in all that was important. He was fo rty-eight years old. His marriage had ended, his
daughter avoided him, and his so n was growing up without him. Th inking back, he knew he had
no one to blame but himself, and more than a nything, this was what he wanted to know: Was it
still possible for someone like him to experience the presence of God?
Ten years ago, he could never have imagined wondering about such a thing. Two years,
even. But middle age, he sometimes thought, had made him as reflective as a mirror. Though
he’d once believed that the answer lay somehow in the music he created, he suspected now that
he’d been mistaken. The more he thought about it, the more he’d come to realize that for him,
music had always been a movement away from real ity rather than a means of living in it more
deeply. He might have experienced passion and cat harsis in the works of Tchaikovsky or felt a
sense of accomplishment when he’d written so natas of his own, but he now knew that burying
himself in music had less to do with G od than a selfish desire to escape.
He now believed that the real answer lay some where in the nexus of love he felt for his
children, in the ache he experienced when he woke in the quiet house and realized they weren’t
here. But even then, he knew there was something more. And somehow, he hoped his chil dren would help him find it.
A few minutes later, Steve noticed the sun reflec ting off the windshield of a dusty station wagon
outside. He and Kim had purchased it years a go for weekend outings to Costco and family
getaways. He wondered in passing if she’d rememb ered to change the oil before she’d driven
down, or even since he’d left. Probably not, he decided. Kim had never been good at things like
that, which was why he’d always taken care of them. But that part of his life was over now.
Steve rose from his seat, and by the time he stepped onto the porch, Jonah was already out
of the car and rushing toward him. His hair ha dn’t been combed, his glasses were crooked, and
his arms and legs were as skinny as pencils. St eve felt his throat tighten, reminded again of how
much he’d missed in the past three years. “Dad!”
“Jonah!” Steve shouted back as he crossed th e rocky sand that constituted his yard. When
Jonah jumped into his arms, it was all he could do to remain upright. “You’ve