The Longest Ride

simple became difficult.”

“You sound like me,” I remark, and she shrugs, untroubled by the revelation that she is nothing but a figment of my imagination. Instead, she circles back to the memory of my visit.

“I was so happy that you were able to come on holiday with us.”

“I regret that my visit was so short.”

It takes her a moment to respond. “I think,” she says, “that it was good for me to have a couple of weeks of quiet time alone. My parents seemed to know this, too. There was little to do other than sit on the porch and walk in the sand and sip a glass of wine while the sun went down. I had much time to think. About me. About us.”

“Which is why you threw yourself at me when I showed up,” I tease.

“I did not throw myself at you,” she says indignantly. “Your memory is distorted. I walked down the steps and offered a hug. I was raised to be a lady. I simply greeted you. This embellishment is a product of your imagination.”

Maybe. Or maybe not. Who can know after so long? But I suppose it doesn’t matter.

“Do you remember what we did next?” she asks.

Part of me wonders if she’s testing me. “Of course,” I answer. “We went inside and I greeted your parents. Your mother was slicing tomatoes in the kitchen and your father was grilling tuna on the back porch. He told me that he’d bought it that afternoon from a fisherman tying up at the pier. He was very proud of that. He seemed different as he stood over the grill that evening… relaxed.”

“It was a good summer for him,” Ruth agrees. “By then, he was managing the factory, so the days were not so hard on him, and it was the first time in years that we had enough money to go on holiday. Most of all, he was ecstatic at the thought of teaching again.”

“And your mother was happy.”

“My father’s good spirits were infectious.” Ruth pauses for a moment. “And, like me… she had grown to like it here. Greensboro would never be Vienna, but she had learned the language and made some friends. She had also grown to appreciate the warmth and generosity of the people here. In a way, I think she had finally begun to think of North Carolina as her home.”

Outside the car, the wind blows clumps of snow from the branches. None of them hits the car, but somehow it is enough to remind me again of exactly where I am. But it does not matter, not right now.

“Do you remember how clear the sky was when we ate dinner?” I say. “There were so many stars.”

“That is because it was so dark. No lights from the city. My father noted the same thing.”

“I’ve always loved the Outer Banks. We should have gone every year,” I say.

“I think it would have lost its magic if we went every year,” she responds. “Every few years was perfect – like we did. Because every time we went back, it felt new and untamed and fresh again. Besides, when would we have gone? We were always traveling in the summers. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, even California. And always, Black Mountain. We had the chance to see this country in a way that most people never could, and what could be better?”

Nothing, I think to myself, knowing in my heart that she is right. My home is filled with keepsakes from those trips. Strangely, though, aside from a seashell we found the following morning, I had nothing to remind me of this place, and yet the memory never dimmed.

“I always enjoyed having dinner with your parents. Your father seemed to know something about everything.”

“He did,” she says. “His father had been a teacher, his brother was a teacher. His uncles were teachers. My father came from a family of scholars. But you were interesting to my father, too – he was fascinated by your work as a navigator during the war, despite your reluctance to speak of it. I think it increased his respect for you.”

“But your mother felt differently.”

Ruth pauses and I know she is trying to choose her words carefully. She toys with a windblown strand of hair, inspecting it before going on. “At that time, she was still worried about me. All she knew was that you had broken my heart only a few months earlier, and that even though we were seeing each other again, there was still something troubling me.”

Ruth was talking about the consequences of my bout with mumps and what it would likely mean for our future. It was something she would tell her mother only years later, when her mother’s puzzlement turned to