‘The Longest Ride’ Chapters 1–3

Nicholas Sparks,

AARP

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Published September 24, 2024

illustration of an old chrysler is facing down on a steep, snowy embankment, its hood crumpled and smoking, and windshield cracked from impact with a tree

Illustration by The Brave Union

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Chapter 1 • Chapter 2 • Chapter 3

Chapter 1

Early February 2011

Ira

I sometimes think to myself that I’m the last of my kind.

My name is Ira Levinson. I’m a southerner and a Jew, and equally proud to have been called both at one time or another. I’m also an old man. I was born in 1920, the year that alcohol was outlawed and women were given the right to vote, and I often wondered if that was the reason my life turned out the way it did. I’ve never been a drinker, after all, and the woman I married stood in line to cast a ballot for Roosevelt as soon as she reached the appropriate age, so it would be easy to imagine that the year of my birth somehow ordained it all.

My father would have scoffed at the notion. He was a man who believed in rules. “Ira,” he would say to me when I was young and working with him in the haberdashery, “let me tell you something you should never do,” and then he would tell me. His Rules for Life, he called them, and I grew up hearing my father’s rules on just about everything. Some of what he told me was moral in nature, rooted in the teachings of the Talmud; and they were probably the same things most parents said to their children. I was told that I should never lie or cheat or steal, for instance, but my father—a sometimes Jew, he called himself back then—was far more likely to focus on the practical. Never go out in the rain without a hat, he would tell me. Never touch a stove burner, on the off chance it still might be hot. I was warned that I should never count the money in my wallet in public, or buy jewelry from a man on the street, no matter how good the deal might seem. On and on they went, these nevers, but despite their random nature, I found myself following almost every one, perhaps because I wanted never to disappoint my father. His voice, even now, follows me everywhere on this longest of rides, this thing called life.

Similarly, I was often told what I should do. He expected honesty and integrity in all aspects of life, but I was also told to hold doors for women and children, to shake hands with a firm grip, to remember people’s names, and to always give the customer a little more than expected. His rules, I came to realize, not only were the basis of a philosophy that had served him well, but said everything about who he was. Because he believed in honesty and integrity, my father believed that others did as well. He believed in human decency and assumed others were just like him. He believed that most people, when given the choice, would do what was right, even when it was hard, and he believed that good almost always triumphed over evil. He wasn’t naive, though. “Trust people,” he would tell me, “until they give you a reason not to. And then never turn your back.”

More than anyone, my father shaped me into the man I am today.

But the war changed him. Or rather, the Holocaust changed him. Not his intelligence—my father could finish the New York Times crossword puzzle in less than ten minutes—but his beliefs about people. The world he thought he knew no longer made sense to him, and he began to change. By then he was in his late fifties, and after making me a partner in the business, he spent little time in the shop. Instead, he became a full-time Jew. He began to attend synagogue regularly with my mother—I’ll get to her later—and offered financial support to numerous Jewish causes. He refused to work on the Sabbath. He followed with interest the news regarding the founding of Israel—and the Arab-Israeli War in its aftermath—and he began to visit Jerusalem at least once a year, as if looking for something he’d never known he’d been missing. As he grew older, I began to worry more about those overseas trips, but he assured me that he could take care of himself, and for many years he did. Despite his advancing age, his mind remained as sharp as ever, but unfortunately his body wasn’t quite so accommodating. He had a heart attack when he was ninety, and though he recovered, a stroke seven months later greatly weakened the right side of his body. Even then, he insisted on taking care of himself. He refused to move to a nursing home, even though he had to use a walker to get around, and he continued to drive despite my pleas that he forfeit his license. It’s dangerous, I would tell him, to which he would shrug.

What can I do? he would answer. How else would I get to the store?

My father finally died a month before he turned 101, his license still in his wallet and a completed crossword puzzle on the bed-stand beside him. It had been a long life, an interesting life, and I’ve found myself thinking about him often of late. It makes sense, I suppose, because I’ve been following in his footsteps all along. I carried with me his Rules for Life every morning as I opened the shop and in the way I’ve dealt with people. I remembered names and gave more than was expected, and to this day I take my hat with me when I think there’s a chance of rain. Like my father, I had a heart attack and now use a walker, and though I never liked crossword puzzles, my mind seems as sharp as ever. And, like my father, I was too stubborn to give up my license. In retrospect, this was probably a mistake. If I had, I wouldn’t be in this predicament: my car off the highway and halfway down the steep embankment, the hood crumpled from impact with a tree. And I wouldn’t be fantasizing about someone coming by with a thermos full of coffee and a blanket and one of those movable thrones that carried the pharaoh from one spot to the next. Because as far as I can tell, that’s just about the only way I’m ever going to make it out of here alive.

I’m in trouble. Beyond the cracked windshield, the snow continues to fall, blurry and disorienting. My head is bleeding, and dizziness comes in waves; I’m almost certain my right arm is broken. Collarbone, too. My shoulder throbs, and the slightest twitch is agonizing. Despite my jacket, I’m already so cold that I’m shivering.

I’d be lying if I told you I wasn’t afraid. I don’t want to die, and thanks to my parents—my mother lived to ninety-six—I long assumed that I was genetically capable of growing even older than I already am. Until a few months ago, I fully believed I had half a dozen good years left. Well, maybe not good years. That’s not the way it works at my age. I’ve been disintegrating for a while now—heart, joints, kidneys, bits and pieces of my body beginning to give up the ghost—but recently something else has been added to the mix. Growths in my lungs, the doctor said. Tumors. Cancer. My time is measured in months now, not years…but even so, I’m not ready to die just yet. Not today. There is something I have to do, something I have done every year since 1956. A grand tradition is coming to an end, and more than anything, I wanted one last chance to say good-bye.

Still, it’s funny what a man thinks about when he believes death to be imminent. One thing I know for sure is that if my time is up, I’d rather not go out this way—body trembling, dentures rattling, until finally, inevitably, my heart just gives out completely. I know what happens when people die—at my age, I’ve been to too many funerals to count. If I had the choice, I’d rather go in my sleep, back home in a comfortable bed. People who die like that look good at the viewing, which is why, if I feel the Grim Reaper tapping my shoulder, I’ve already decided to try to make my way to the backseat. The last thing I want is for someone to find me out here, frozen solid in a sitting position like some bizarre ice sculpture. How would they ever get my body out? The way I’m wedged behind the wheel, it would be like trying to get a piano out of the bathroom. I can imagine some fireman chipping away at the ice and wobbling my body back and forth, saying things like “Swing the head this way, Steve,” or “Wiggle the old guy’s arms that way, Joe,” while they try to manhandle my frozen body out of the car. Bumping and clunking, pushing and pulling, until, with one last big heave, my body thumps to the ground. Not for me, thanks. I still have my pride. So like I said, if it comes to that, I’ll try my best to make my way to the backseat and just close my eyes. That way they can slide me out like a fish stick.

But maybe it won’t come to that. Maybe someone will spot the tire tracks on the road, the ones heading straight over the embankment. Maybe someone will stop and call down, maybe shine a flashlight and realize there’s a car down here. It isn’t inconceivable; it could happen. It’s snowing and people are already driving slowly. Surely someone’s going to find me. They have to find me.

Right?

+++

Maybe not.

The snow continues to fall. My breath comes out in little puffs, like a dragon, and my body has begun to ache with the cold. But it could be worse. Because it was cold—though not snowing—when I started out, I dressed for winter. I’m wearing two shirts, a sweater, gloves, and a hat. Right now the car is at an angle, nose pointed down. I’m still strapped into the seat belt, which supports my weight, but my head rests on the steering wheel. The air bag deployed, spreading white dust and the acrid scent of gunpowder throughout the car. It’s not comfortable, yet I’m managing.

But my body throbs. I don’t think the air bag worked properly, because my head slammed into the steering wheel and I was knocked unconscious. For how long, I do not know. The gash on my head continues to bleed, and the bones in my right arm seem to be trying to pop through my skin. Both my collarbone and my shoulder throb, and I’m afraid to move. I tell myself it could be worse. Though it is snowing, it is not bitterly cold outside. Temperatures are supposed to dip into the mid-twenties tonight but will climb into the high thirties tomorrow. It’s also going to be windy, with gusts reaching twenty miles an hour. Tomorrow, Sunday, the winds will be even worse, but by Monday night, the weather will gradually begin to improve. By then, the cold front will have largely passed and the winds will be almost nonexistent. On Tuesday, temperatures are expected to reach the forties.

I know this because I watch the Weather Channel. It’s less depressing than the news, and I find it interesting. It’s not only about the expected weather; there are shows about the catastrophic effects of weather in the past. I’ve seen shows about people who were in the bathroom as a tornado ripped the house from its foundation, and I’ve seen people talk about being rescued after being swept away by flash flooding. On the Weather Channel, people always survive catastrophe, because these are the people who are interviewed for the program. I like knowing in advance that the people survived. Last year, I watched a story about rush-hour commuters who were surprised by a blizzard in Chicago. Snow came down so fast, the roads were forced to close while people were still on them. For eight hours, thousands of people sat on highways, unable to move while temperatures plummeted. The story I saw focused on two of the people who’d been in the blizzard, but what struck me while watching was the fact that neither of them seemed prepared for the weather. Both of them became almost hypothermic as the storm rolled through. This, I must admit, made no sense to me. People who live in Chicago are fully aware that it snows regularly; they experience the blizzards that sometimes roll in from Canada, they must realize it gets cold. How could they not know these things? If I lived in such a place, I would have had thermal blankets, hats, an additional winter jacket, earmuffs, gloves, a shovel, a flashlight, hand warmers, and bottled water in the trunk of my car by Halloween. If I lived in Chicago, I could be stranded by a blizzard for two weeks before I began to worry.

My problem, however, is that I live in North Carolina. And normally when I drive—except for an annual trip to the mountains, usually in the summer—I stay within a few miles of my home. Thus, my trunk is empty, but I’m somewhat comforted by the fact that even if I had a portable hotel in my trunk, it would do me no good. The embankment is icy and steep, and there’s no way I could reach it, even if it held the riches of Tutankhamun. Still, I’m not altogether unprepared for what’s happened to me. Before I left, I packed a thermos full of coffee, two sandwiches, prunes, and a bottle of water. I put the food in the passenger seat, next to the letter I’d written, and though all of it was tossed about in the accident, I’m comforted by the knowledge that it’s still in the car. If I get hungry enough, I’ll try to find it, but even now I understand that there’s a cost to eating or drinking. What goes in must go out, and I haven’t yet figured out how it will go out. My walker is in the backseat, and the slope would propel me to my grave; taken with my injuries, a call of nature is out of the question.

About the accident. I could probably concoct an exciting story about icy conditions or describe an angry, frustrated driver who forced me off the road, but that’s not the way it happened. What happened was this: It was dark and it began to snow, then snow even harder, and all at once, the road simply vanished. I assume I entered a curve—I say assume, because I obviously didn’t see a curve—and the next thing I knew, I crashed through the guardrail and began to careen down the steep embankment. I sit here, alone in the dark, wondering if the Weather Channel will eventually do a show about me.

I can no longer see through the windshield. Though it sends up flares of agony, I try the windshield wipers, expecting nothing, but a moment later they push at the snow, leaving a thin layer of ice in their wake. It strikes me as amazing, this momentary burst of normalcy, but I reluctantly turn the wipers off, along with the headlights, though I’d forgotten they were even on. I tell myself that I should conserve whatever is left of the battery, in case I have to use the horn.

I shift, feeling a lightning bolt shoot from my arm up to my collarbone. The world goes black. Agony. I breathe in and out, waiting for the white-hot agony to pass. Dear God, please. It is all I can do not to scream, but then, miraculously, it begins to fade. I breathe evenly, trying to keep the tears at bay, and when it finally recedes, I feel exhausted. I could sleep forever and never wake up. I close my eyes. I’m tired, so tired.

Strangely, I find myself thinking of Daniel McCallum and the afternoon of the visit. I picture the gift he left behind, and as I slip away, I wonder idly how long it will be until someone finds me.

“Ira.”

I hear it first in my dream, slurry and unformed, an underwater sound. It takes a moment before I realize someone is saying my name. But that is not possible.

“You must wake up, Ira.”

My eyes flutter open. In the seat beside me, I see Ruth, my wife.

“I’m awake,” I say, my head still against the steering wheel. Without my glasses, which were lost in the crash, her image lacks definition, like a ghost.

“You drove off the highway.”

I blink. “A maniac forced me off the road. I hit a patch of ice. Without my catlike reflexes, it would have been worse.”

“You drove off the road because you are blind as a bat and too old to be driving. How many times have I told you that you are a menace behind the wheel?”

“You’ve never said that to me.”

“I should have. You didn’t even notice the curve.” She pauses. “You are bleeding.”

Lifting my head, I wipe my forehead with my good hand and it comes back red. There is blood on the steering wheel and the dash, smears of red everywhere. I wonder how much blood I’ve lost. “I know.”

“Your arm is broken. And your collarbone, too. And there is something wrong with your shoulder.”

“I know,” I say again. As I blink, Ruth fades in and out. “You need to get to the hospital.”

“No argument there,” I say.

“I am worried about you.”

I breathe in and out before I respond. Long breaths. “I’m worried about me, too,” I finally say.

My wife, Ruth, is not really in the car. I realize this. She died nine years ago, the day I felt my life come to a full stop. I had called to her from the living room, and when she didn’t answer, I rose from my chair. I could move without a walker back then, though it was still slow going, and after reaching the bedroom, I saw her on the floor, near the bed, lying on her right side. I called for an ambulance and knelt beside her. I rolled her onto her back and felt her neck, detecting nothing at all. I put my mouth to hers, breathing in and out, the way I had seen on television. Her chest went up and down and I breathed until the world went black at the edges, but there was no response. I kissed her lips and her cheeks, and I held her close against me until the ambulance arrived. Ruth, my wife of more than fifty five years, had died, and in the blink of an eye, all that I’d loved was gone as well.

“Why are you here?” I ask her.

“What kind of question is that? I am here because of you.”

Of course. “How long was I asleep?”

“I do not know,” she answers. “It is dark, though. I think you are cold.”

“I’m always cold.”

“Not like this.”

“No,” I agree, “not like this.”

“Why were you driving on this road? Where were you going?”

I think about trying to move, but the memory of the lightning bolt stops me. “You know.”

“Yes,” she says. “You were driving to Black Mountain. Where we spent our honeymoon.”

“I wanted to go one last time. It’s our anniversary tomorrow.”

She takes a moment to respond. “I think you are going soft in your head. We were married in August, not February.”

“Not that anniversary,” I say. I don’t tell her that according to the doctor, I will not last until August. “Our other anniversary,” I say instead.

“What are you talking about? There is no other anniversary. There is only one.”

“The day my life changed forever,” I say. “The day I first saw you.”

For a moment, Ruth says nothing. She knows I mean it, but unlike me, she has a hard time saying such things. She loved me with a passion, but I felt it in her expressions, in her touch, in the tender brush of her lips. And, when I needed it most, she loved me with the written word as well.

“It was February sixth, 1939,” I say. “You were shopping downtown with your mother, Elisabeth, when the two of you came into the shop. Your mother wanted to buy a hat for your father.”

She leans back in the seat, her eyes still on me. “You came out of the back room,” she says. “And a moment later, your mother followed you.”

Yes, I suddenly recall, my mother did follow. Ruth has always had an extraordinary memory.

Like my mother’s family, Ruth’s family was from Vienna, but they’d immigrated to North Carolina only two months earlier. They’d fled Vienna after the Anschluss of Austria, when Hitler and the Nazis absorbed Austria into the Reich. Ruth’s father, Jakob Pfeffer, a professor of art history, knew what the rise of Hitler meant for the Jews, and he sold everything they owned to come up with the necessary bribes to secure his family’s freedom. After crossing the border into Switzerland, they traveled to London and then on to New York, before finally reaching Greensboro. One of Jakob’s uncles manufactured furniture a few blocks from my father’s shop, and for months Ruth and her family lived in two cramped rooms above the plant floor. Later, I would learn that the endless fumes from the lacquer made Ruth so sick at night, she could barely sleep.

“We came to the store because we knew your mother spoke German. We had been told that she could help us.” She shakes her head. “We were so homesick, so hungry to meet someone from home.”

I nod. At least I think I do. “My mother explained everything after you left. She had to. I couldn’t understand a word that any of you were saying.”

“You should have learned German from your mother.”

“What did it matter? Before you’d even left the store, I knew that we would one day be married. We had all the time in the world to talk.”

“You always say this, but it is not true. You barely looked at me.”

“I couldn’t. You were the most beautiful girl I’d ever seen. It was like trying to stare into the sun.”

“Ach, Quatsch…,” she snorts. “I was not beautiful. I was a child. I was only sixteen.”

“And I had just turned nineteen. And I ended up being right.”

She sighs. “Yes,” she says, “you were right.”

I’d seen Ruth and her parents before, of course. They attended our synagogue and sat near the front, foreigners in a strange land. My mother had pointed them out to me after services, eyeing them discreetly as they hurried home.

I always loved our Saturday morning walks home from the synagogue, when I had my mother all to myself. Our conversation drifted easily from one subject to the next, and I reveled in her undivided attention. I could tell her about any problems I was having or ask any question that crossed my mind, even those that my father would have found pointless. While my father offered advice, my mother offered comfort and love. My father never joined us; he preferred to open the shop early on Saturdays, hoping for weekend business. My mother understood. By then, even I knew that it was a struggle to keep the shop open at all. The Depression hit Greensboro hard, as it did everywhere, and the shop sometimes went days without a single customer. Many people were unemployed, and even more were hungry. People stood in lines for soup or bread. Many of the local banks had failed, taking people’s savings with them. My father was the type to set money aside in good times, but by 1939 times were difficult even for him.

My mother had always worked with my father, though seldom out front with the customers. Back then, men—and our clientele was almost exclusively men—expected another man to help them, in both the selection and the fitting of suits. My mother, however, kept the storeroom door propped open, which allowed her a perfect view of the customer. My mother, I must say, was a genius at her craft. My father would tug and pull and mark the fabric in the appropriate places, but my mother in a single glance would know immediately whether or not to adjust the marks my father had made. In her mind’s eye, she could see the customer in the completed suit, knowing the exact line of every crease and seam. My father understood this—it was the reason he positioned the mirror where she could see it. Though some men might have felt threatened, it made my father proud. One of my father’s Rules for Life was to marry a woman who was smarter than you. “I did this,” he would say to me, “and you should do it, too. I say, why do all the thinking?”

My mother, I must admit, really was smarter than my father. Though she never mastered the art of cooking— my mother should have been banned from the kitchen— she spoke four languages and could quote Dostoyevsky in Russian; she was an accomplished classical pianist and had attended the University of Vienna at a time when female students were rare. My father, on the other hand, had never gone to college. Like me, he’d worked in his father’s haberdashery since he was a boy, and he was good with numbers and customers. And like me, he’d first seen his wife-to-be at the synagogue, soon after she’d arrived in Greensboro.

There, however, is where the similarity ends, because I often wondered whether my parents were happy as a couple. It would be easy to point out that times were different back then, that people married less for love than for practical reasons. And I’m not saying they weren’t right for each other in many ways. They made good partners, my parents, and I never once heard them argue. Yet I often wondered whether they were ever in love. In all the years I lived with them, I never saw them kiss, nor were they the kind of couple who felt comfortable holding hands. In the evenings, my father would do his bookkeeping at the kitchen table while my mother sat in the sitting room, a book open in her lap. Later, after my parents retired and I took over the business, I hoped they might grow closer. I thought they might travel together, taking cruises or going sightseeing, but after the first visit to Jerusalem, my father always traveled alone. They settled into separate lives, continuing to drift apart, becoming strangers again. By the time they were in their eighties, it seemed as though they’d run out of anything at all to say to each other. They could spend hours in the same room without uttering a single word. When Ruth and I visited, we tended to spend time first with one and then the other, and in the car afterward, Ruth would squeeze my hand, as if promising herself that we would never end up the same way.

Ruth was always more bothered by their relationship than either of them seemed to be. My parents seemed to have little desire to bridge the gap between them. They were comfortable in their own worlds. As they aged, while my father grew closer to his heritage, my mother developed a passion for gardening, and she spent hours pruning flowers in the backyard. My father loved to watch old westerns and the evening news, while my mother had her books. And, of course, they were always interested in the artwork Ruth and I collected, the art that eventually made us rich.

+++

“You didn’t come back to the shop for a long time,” I said to Ruth.

Outside the car, the snow has blanketed the windshield and continues to fall. According to the Weather Channel, it should have stopped by now, but despite the wonders of modern technology and forecasting, weather predictions are still fallible. It is another reason I find the channel interesting.

“My mother bought the hat. We had no money for anything more.”

“But you thought I was handsome.”

“No. Your ears were too big. I like delicate ears.”

She’s right about my ears. My ears are big, and they stick out in the same way my father’s did, but unlike my father, I was ashamed of them. When I was young, maybe eight or nine, I took some extra cloth from the shop and cut it into a long strip, and I spent the rest of the summer sleeping with the strip wrapped around my head, hoping they would grow closer to my scalp. While my mother ignored it when she’d check on me at night, I sometimes heard my father whispering to her in an almost affronted tone. He has my ears, he’d say to her. What is so bad about my ears?

I told Ruth this story shortly after we were married and she laughed. Since then, she would sometimes tease me about my ears like she is doing now, but in all our years together, she never once teased me in a way that felt mean.

“I thought you liked my ears. You told me that whenever you kissed them.”

“I liked your face. You had a kind face. Your ears just happened to come with it. I did not want to hurt your feelings.”

“A kind face?”

“Yes. There was a softness in your eyes, like you saw only the good in people. I noticed it even though you barely looked at me.”

“I was trying to work up the courage to ask if I could walk you home.”

“No,” she says, shaking her head. Though her image is blurred, her voice is youthful, the sixteen-year-old I’d met so long ago. “I saw you many times at the synagogue after that, and you never once asked me. I even waited for you sometimes, but you went past me without a word.”

“You didn’t speak English.”

“By then, I had begun to understand some of the language, and I could talk a little. If you had asked, I would have said, ‘Okay, Ira. I will walk with you.’ ”

She says these last words with an accent. Viennese German, soft and musical. Lilting. In later years her accent faded, but it never quite disappeared.

“Your parents wouldn’t have allowed it.”

“My mother would have. She liked you. Your mother told her that you would own the business one day.”

“I knew it! I always suspected you married me for my money.”

“What money? You had no money. If I wanted to marry a rich man, I would have married David Epstein. His father owned the textile mill and they lived in a mansion.”

This, too, was one of the running jokes in our marriage. While my mother had been speaking the truth, even she knew it was not the sort of business that would make anyone wealthy. It started, and remained, a small business until the day I finally sold the shop and retired.

“I remember seeing the two of you at the soda parlor across the street. David met you there almost every day during the summer.”

“I liked chocolate sodas. I had never had them before.”

“I was jealous.”

“You were right to be,” she says. “He was rich and handsome and his ears were perfect.”

I smile, wishing I could see her better. But the darkness makes that impossible. “For a while I thought the two of you were going to get married.”

“He asked me more than once, and I would tell him that I was too young, that he would have to wait until after I finished college. But I was lying to him. The truth was that I already had my eye on you. That is why I always insisted on going to the soda parlor near your father’s shop.”

I knew this, of course. But I like hearing her say it.

“I would stand by the window and watch you as you sat with him.”

“I saw you sometimes.” She smiles. “I even waved once, and still, you never asked to walk with me.”

“David was my friend.”

This is true, and it remained true for most of our lives. We were social with both David and his wife, Rachel, and Ruth tutored one of their children.

“It had nothing to do with friendship. You were afraid of me. You have always been shy.”

“You must be mistaking me for someone else. I was debonair, a ladies’ man, a young Frank Sinatra. I sometimes had to hide from the many women who were chasing me.”

“You stared at your feet when you walked and turned red when I waved. And then, in August, you moved away. To attend university.”

I went to school at William & Mary in Williamsburg, Virginia, and I didn’t return home until December. I saw Ruth twice at the synagogue that month, both times from a distance, before I went back to school. In May, I came home for the summer to work at the shop, and by then World War II was raging in Europe. Hitler had conquered Poland and Norway, vanquished Belgium, Luxembourg, and the Netherlands, and was making mincemeat of the French. In every newspaper, in every conversation, the talk was only of war. No one knew whether America would enter the conflict, and the mood was grim. Weeks later, the French would be out of the war for good.

“You were still seeing David when I returned.”

“But I had also become friends with your mother in the year you were gone. While my father was working, my mother and I would go to the shop. We would speak of Vienna and our old lives. My mother and I were homesick, of course, but I was angry, too. I did not like North Carolina. I did not like this country. I felt that I did not belong here. Despite the war, part of me wanted to go home. I wanted to help my family. We were very worried for them.”

I see her turn toward the window, and in the silence, I know that Ruth is thinking about her grandparents, her aunts and uncles, her cousins. On the night before Ruth and her parents left for Switzerland, dozens of her extended family members had gathered for a farewell dinner. There were anxious good-byes and promises to stay in touch, and although some were excited for them, nearly everyone thought Ruth’s father was not only overreacting, but foolish to have given up everything for an uncertain future. However, a few of them had slipped Ruth’s father some gold coins, and in the six weeks it took to journey to North Carolina, it was those coins that provided shelter and kept food in their stomachs. Aside from Ruth and her parents, her entire family had stayed in Vienna. By the summer of 1940, they were wearing the Star of David on their arms and largely prohibited from working. By then, it was too late for them to escape.

My mother told me about these visits with Ruth and their worries. My mother, like Ruth, still had family back in Vienna, but like so many, we had no idea what was coming or just how terrible it would eventually be. Ruth didn’t know, either, but her father had known. He had known while there was still time to flee. He was, I later came to believe, the most intelligent man I ever met.

“Your father was building furniture then?”

“Yes,” Ruth said. “None of the universities would hire him, so he did what he had to do to feed us. But it was hard for him. He was not meant to build furniture. When he first started, he would come home exhausted, with sawdust in his hair and bandages on his hands, and he would fall asleep in the chair almost as soon as he walked in the door. But he never complained. He knew we were the lucky ones. After he woke, he would shower and then put on his suit for dinner, his own way of reminding himself of the man he once had been. And we would have lively conversations at dinner. He would ask what I had learned at school that day, and listen closely as I answered. Then he would lead me to think of things in new ways. ‘Why do you suppose that is?’ he would ask, or, ‘Have you ever considered this?’ I knew what he was doing, of course. Once a teacher, always a teacher, and he was good at it, which is why he was able to become a professor once again after the war. He taught me how to think for myself and to trust my own instincts, as he did for all his students.”

I study her, reflecting on how significant it was that Ruth, too, had become a teacher, and my mind flashes once more to Daniel McCallum. “And your father helped you learn all about art in the process.”

“Yes,” she says, a mischievous lilt in her voice. “He helped me do that, too.”

Chapter 2

Four Months Earlier

Sophia

You’ve got to come,” Marcia pleaded. “I want you to come. There’s like thirteen or fourteen of us going. And it’s not that far. McLeansville is less than an hour away, and you know we’ll have a blast in the car.”

Sophia made a skeptical face from her bed, where she was halfheartedly reviewing some Renaissance history notes. “I don’t know . . . the rodeo?”

“Don’t say it like that,” Marcia said, adjusting a black cowboy hat in the mirror, tilting it this way and that. Sophia’s roommate since sophomore year, Marcia Peak was easily her best friend on campus. “A, it’s not the rodeo—it’s only bull riding. And B, it’s not even about that. It’s about getting off campus for a quick road trip, and hanging out with me and the girls. There’s a party afterwards, where they set up bars in this big, old-fashioned barn near the arena . . . there’s going to be a band, and dancing, and I swear to God you’ll never find so many cute guys in one place again.”

Sophia looked up over the top of her notebook. “Finding a cute guy is the last thing I want right now.”

Marcia rolled her eyes. “The point is, you need to get out of the house. It’s already October. We’re two months into school and you need to stop moping.”

“I’m not moping,” Sophia said. “I’m just . . . tired of it.”

“You mean you’re tired of seeing Brian, right?” She spun around to face Sophia. “Okay, I get that. But it’s a small campus. And Chi Omega and Sigma Chi are paired this year. No matter what, it’s going to be inevitable.”

“You know what I mean. He’s been following me. On Thursday, he was in the atrium of Scales Center after my class. That never happened while we were together.”

“Did you talk to him? Or did he try to talk to you?”

“No.” Sophia shook her head. “I headed straight for the door and pretended I didn’t notice him.”

“So no harm, no foul.”

“It’s still creepy—”

“So what?” Marcia gave an impatient shrug. “Don’t let it get to you. It’s not like he’s psycho or anything. He’ll figure it out eventually.”

Sophia glanced away, thinking, I hope so, but when she didn’t answer, Marcia crossed the room and took a seat on the bed beside her. She patted Sophia’s leg. “Let’s think about this logically, okay? You said he stopped calling and texting you, right?”

Sophia nodded, albeit with a feeling of reluctance.

“So okay, then,” she concluded. “It’s time to move on with your life.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to do. But everywhere I go, he’s there. I just don’t understand why he won’t leave me alone.”

Marcia pulled her knees up, resting her chin on them. “Simple—Brian thinks that if he can talk to you, if he says the right things and pours on the charm, he’ll convince you to change your mind. He honestly believes that.” Marcia fixed her with an earnest expression. “Sophia, you have to realize that all guys think like this. Guys think they can talk their way out of anything, and they always want what they can’t have. It’s in their DNA. You dumped him, so now he wants you back. It’s Guy 101.” She winked at her friend. “He’ll eventually accept that it’s over. As long as you don’t give in, of course.”

“I’m not giving in,” Sophia said.

“Good for you,” Marcia said. “You were always too good for him.”

“I thought you liked Brian.”

“I do like him. He’s funny and good-looking and rich—what’s not to like? We’ve been friends since freshman year, and I still talk to him. But I also get that he’s been a crappy boyfriend who cheated on my roommate. Not just once or twice, either, but three times.”

Sophia felt her shoulders sag. “Thanks for reminding me.”

“Listen, it’s my job as your friend to help you move past this. So what do I do? I come up with this amazing solution to all your problems, a night out with the girls away from campus, and you’re thinking of staying here?”

When Sophia still said nothing, Marcia leaned closer. “Please? Come with us. I need my wingman.”

Sophia sighed, knowing how persistent Marcia could be. “Okay,” she relented, “I’ll go.” And though she didn’t know it then, whenever her thoughts drifted back toward the past, she would always remember that this was how it all began.

+++

As midnight gradually approached, Sophia had to concede that her friend had been right. She’d needed a night out . . . she realized that for the first time in weeks, she was actually having fun. After all, it wasn’t every night that she got to enjoy the aromas of dirt, sweat, and manure, while watching crazy men ride even crazier animals. Marcia, she learned, thought bull riders oozed sex appeal, and more than once, her roommate had nudged her to point out a particularly handsome specimen, including the guy who’d won it all. “Now that is definitely eye candy,” she’d said, and Sophia had laughed in agreement despite herself.

The after-party was a pleasant surprise. The decaying barn, featuring dirt floors, wood plank walls, exposed beams, and gaping holes in the roof, was jammed. People stood three deep at the makeshift bars and clustered around a haphazard collection of tables and stools scattered throughout the cavernous interior. Even though she didn’t generally listen to country-western music, the band was lively and the improvised wooden dance floor was thronged. Every now and then a line dance would start, which everyone except her seemed to know how to do. It was like some secret code; a song would end and another would begin, dancers streaming off the floor while others replaced them, choosing their places in line, leaving her with the impression that the whole thing had been choreographed in advance. Marcia and the other sorority girls would also join in, executing all the dance moves perfectly and leaving Sophia to wonder where they’d all learned how to do it. In more than two years of living together, neither Marcia nor any of the others had ever once mentioned they knew how to line dance.

Though she wasn’t about to embarrass herself on the dance floor, Sophia was glad she’d come. Unlike most of the college bars near campus—or any bar she’d been to, for that matter—here the people were genuinely nice. Ridiculously nice. She’d never heard so many strangers call out, “Excuse me,” or, “Sorry ’bout that,” accompanied by friendly grins as they moved out of her path. And Marcia had been right about another thing: Cute guys were everywhere, and Marcia—along with most of the other girls from the house—was taking full advantage of the situation. Since they’d arrived, none of them had had to buy a single drink.

It all felt like the kind of Saturday night she imagined occurring in Colorado or Wyoming or Montana, not that she’d ever been to any of those places. Who knew that there were so many cowboys in North Carolina? Surveying the crowd, she realized they probably weren’t real cowboys—most were there because they liked to watch the bull riding and drink beer on Saturday nights—but she’d never seen so many cowboy hats, boots, and belt buckles in one place before. And the women? They wore boots and hats, too, but between her sorority sisters and the rest of the women here, she noticed more short-shorts and bare midriffs than she’d ever seen in the campus quad on the first warm day of spring. It might as well have been a Daisy Duke convention. Marcia and the girls had gone shopping earlier that day, leaving Sophia feeling almost dowdy in her jeans and sleeveless blouse.

She sipped her drink, content to watch and listen and take it all in. Marcia had wandered off with Ashley a few minutes earlier, no doubt to talk to some guys she’d met. Most of the other girls were forming similar clusters, but Sophia didn’t feel the need to join them. She’d always been a bit of a loner, and unlike a lot of people in the house, she didn’t live and die by the rules of the sorority. Though she’d made some good friends, she was ready to move on. As scary as the prospect of real life seemed, she was excited at the thought of having her own place. She vaguely imagined a loft in some city, with bistros and coffeehouses and bars nearby, but who knew how realistic that was. The truth was that even living in a dumpy apartment off the highway in Omaha, Nebraska, would be preferable to her current situation. She was tired of living in the sorority house, and not just because Chi Omega and Sigma Chi were paired again. It was her third year in the house, and by now the drama of sorority life was wearing thin. No, scratch that. In a house with thirty-four girls, the drama was endless, and though she’d done her best to avoid it, she knew this year’s version was already under way. The new crop of sophomore girls fretted endlessly about what everyone else thought of them and how best to fit in as they vied for a higher place in the pecking order.

Even when she’d joined, Sophia hadn’t really cared about any of that stuff. She’d become a member of the sorority partly because she hadn’t gotten along with her freshman roommate and partly because all the other freshmen were rushing. She was curious to find out what it was all about, especially since the social life at Wake was defined largely by the Greek system. The next thing she knew, she was a Chi Omega and putting a deposit down on the room in the house.

She’d tried to get into the whole thing. Really. During her junior year, she’d briefly considered becoming an officer. Marcia had burst out laughing as soon as Sophia had mentioned it, and then Sophia had begun to laugh as well, and that had been the end of it. A good thing, too, because Sophia knew she would have made a lousy officer. Even though she’d attended every party, formal, and mandatory meeting, she couldn’t buy into the whole “sisterhood will change your life” ethos, nor did she believe that “being a Chi Omega will bestow lifelong benefits.”

Whenever she heard those slogans at the chapter meetings, she’d wanted to raise her hand and ask her fellow sisters if they honestly believed that the amount of spirit she showed during Greek Week really mattered in the long run. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t imagine sitting in an interview and hearing her future boss say, I notice here that you helped choreograph the dance number that helped to put Chi Omega at the top of the sorority rankings your junior year. Frankly, Miss Danko, that happens to be exactly the skill set we’ve been searching for in a museum curator.

Please.

Sorority life was part of her college experience and she didn’t regret it, but she never wanted it to be the only part. Or even the major part. First and foremost, she’d come to Wake Forest because she’d wanted a good education, and her scholarship required that she put her studies first. And she had.

She rotated her drink, reflecting on the past year.

Well . . . almost, anyway.

Last semester, after she’d learned that Brian had cheated on her for the second time, she’d been a wreck. She’d found it impossible to study, and when finals rolled around, she’d had to cram like crazy to maintain her GPA. She’d made it . . . barely. But it was just about the most stressful thing she’d ever gone through, and she was determined not to let it happen again. If it hadn’t been for Marcia, she wasn’t sure how she could have gotten through last semester at all, and that was reason enough to be grateful she’d joined Chi Omega in the first place. To her, the sorority had always been about individual friendship, not some rah-rah group identity; and to her, friendship had nothing to do with anyone’s place in the pecking order. And so, as she had since the beginning, she would do what she had to in the house during her senior year, but no more than that. She’d pay her fees and dues and ignore the cliques that were no doubt already forming, especially the ones that believed that being a Chi Omega was the be-all and end-all of existence.

Cliques that worshipped people like Mary-Kate, for instance.

Mary-Kate was the chapter president, and not only did she ooze sorority life, but she looked the part as well—with full lips and a slightly turned-up nose, set off by flawless skin and well-defined bone structure. With the added allure of her trust fund—her family, old tobacco money, was still one of the wealthiest in the state—to many people, she was the sorority. And Mary-Kate knew it. Right now, at one of the larger circular tables she was holding court, surrounded by younger sisters who clearly wanted to grow up to be just like her. As always, she was talking about herself.

“I just want to make a difference, you know?” Mary-Kate was saying. “I know I’m not going to be able to change the world, but I think it’s important to try to make a difference.”

Jenny, Drew, and Brittany hung on her every word. “I think that’s amazing,” Jenny agreed. She was a sophomore from Atlanta, and Sophia knew her well enough to exchange greetings in the mornings, but not much more than that. No doubt she was thrilled to be spending time with Mary-Kate.

“I mean, I don’t want to go to Africa or Haiti or anything like that,” Mary-Kate went on. “Why go all the way over there? My daddy says that there are plenty of opportunities to help people right around here. That’s why he started his charitable foundation in the first place, and that’s why I’m going to work there after graduation. To help eliminate local problems. To make a difference right here in North Carolina. Do you know that there are some people in this state who still have to use outhouses? Can you imagine that? Not having any indoor plumbing? We need to address these kinds of problems.”

“Wait,” Drew said, “I’m confused.” She was from Pittsburgh, and her outfit was nearly identical to Mary-Kate’s, even down to the hat and boots. “You’re saying that your dad’s foundation builds bathrooms?”

Mary-Kate’s shapely brows formed a V. “What are you talking about?”

“Your dad’s foundation. You said it builds bathrooms.”

Mary-Kate tilted her head, inspecting Drew as if she were a mental midget. “It provides scholarships to needy children. Why on earth would you think it builds bathrooms?”

Oh, I don’t know, Sophia thought, smiling to herself. Maybe because you were talking about outhouses? And you made it sound that way? But she said nothing, knowing Mary-Kate wouldn’t appreciate the humor. When it came to her plans for the future, Mary-Kate had no sense of humor. The future was serious business, after all.

“But I thought you were going to be a newscaster,” Brittany said. “Last week, you were telling us about your job offer.”

Mary-Kate tossed her head. “It’s not going to work out.”

“Why not?”

“It was for the morning news. In Owensboro, Kentucky.”

“So?” asked one of the younger sorority sisters, clearly puzzled.

“Hello? Owensboro? Have you ever heard of Owensboro?”

“No.” The girls exchanged timid glances.

“That’s my point,” Mary-Kate announced. “I’m not moving to Owensboro, Kentucky. It’s barely a blip on the map. And I’m not getting up at four in the morning. Besides, like I said, I want to make a difference. There are a lot of people out there that need help. I’ve been thinking about this for a long time. My daddy says . . .”

By then, Sophia was no longer listening. Wanting to find Marcia, she rose from her seat and scanned the crowd. It really was packed in here, and it was getting more crowded as the evening wore on. Squeezing past a few of the girls and the guys they were talking to, she began to slip through the crowd, searching for Marcia’s black cowboy hat. Which was hopeless. There were black hats everywhere. She tried to remember the color of Ashley’s hat. Cream colored, yes? With that, she was able to narrow down the choices until she spotted her friends. She had started in their direction, squeezing past clusters of people, when she caught something from the corner of her eye.

Or, more accurately, someone.

She stopped, straining for a better sight line. Usually, his height made him easy to find in crowds, but there were so many tall hats in the way that she couldn’t be sure it was him. Even so, she suddenly felt uneasy. She tried to tell herself that she’d been mistaken, that she was just imagining things.

Despite herself, she couldn’t stop staring. She tried to ignore the sinking feeling in her stomach as she searched the faces in the moving crowd. He’s not here, she told herself again, but in that instant she saw him again, swaggering through the crowd, flanked by two friends.

Brian.

She froze, watching as the three of them moved toward an open table, Brian muscling his way through the crowd the way he did on the lacrosse field. For a second, she couldn’t believe it. All she could think was, Really? You followed me here, too?

She felt a flush rising in her cheeks. She was with her friends, off campus . . . what was he thinking? She’d made it plain that she didn’t want to see him; she’d told him point-blank that she didn’t want to talk to him. She was tempted to march right up and tell him—again, right to his face—that it was over.

But she didn’t, because she knew that it wouldn’t make any difference. Marcia was right. Brian believed that if he could just talk to her, he could change her mind. Because he thought that at his most charming and apologetic, he was irresistible. She’d forgiven him before, after all. Why not again?

Turning away, she worked her way through the crowd toward Marcia, thanking God she’d left the tables when she had. The last thing she needed was for him to saunter up, feigning surprise at finding her. Because no matter what the facts were, she’d end up being painted as the heartless one. Why? Because Brian was the Mary-Kate of his fraternity. An all-American lacrosse player blessed with startlingly good looks and a wealthy investment banker father, Brian ruled their social circle effortlessly. Everyone in the sorority revered Brian, and she knew for a fact that half the girls in the house would hook up with him given the slightest encouragement.

Well, they could have him.

Sophia continued to weave through the crowd as the band finished one song and rolled into the next. She glimpsed Marcia and Ashley near the dance floor, talking to three guys wearing tight jeans and cowboy hats, who she guessed were a couple of years older than them. Sophia made her way in that direction, and when she reached for Marcia’s arm, her roommate turned, looking almost flustered. Or, more accurately, drunk.

“Oh, hey!” she drawled, dragging out the words. She maneuvered Sophia forward. “Guys, this is my roommate, Sophia. And this is Brooks and Tom . . . and . . .” Marcia squinted at the guy in the middle. “Who are you again?”

“Terry,” he offered.

“Hi,” Sophia said, the word automatic. She turned back to Marcia. “Can I talk to you alone?”

“Right now?” Marcia frowned. She cut her eyes toward the cowboys as she turned to face Sophia, not bothering to hide her irritation. “What’s up?”

“Brian’s here,” Sophia hissed.

Marcia squinted at her, as if trying to make sure she’d heard her right, before finally nodding. The two of them retreated to a place farther removed from the dance floor. It wasn’t quite as deafening, but Sophia still had to raise her voice to be heard.

“He followed me. Again.”

Marcia peered over Sophia’s shoulder. “Where is he?”

“Back by the tables, with everyone else from school. He brought Jason and Rick.”

“How did he know you’d be here?”

“It’s not exactly a secret. Half the campus knew we were coming tonight.”

As Sophia fumed, Marcia’s interest flickered to one of the guys she’d been talking to, then she turned back to Sophia with a trace of impatience.

“Okay . . . he’s here.” She shrugged. “What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know,” Sophia said, crossing her arms. “Did he see you?”

“I don’t think so,” she said. “I just don’t want him to start anything.”

“Do you want me to go talk to him?”

“No.” Sophia shook her head. “Actually, I don’t know what I want.”

“Then just relax. Ignore him. Hang with me and Ashley for a while. We don’t have to go back to the tables. Maybe he’ll leave. And if he finds us here, I’ll just start flirting with him. Distract him.” Her mouth curved into a provocative smile. “You know he used to have a thing for me. Before you, I mean.”

Sophia pulled her arms tighter. “Maybe we should just go.”

Marcia waved a hand. “How? We’re an hour from campus, and neither of us has a car here. We rode with Ashley, remember? And I know for a fact that she’s not going to want to leave.”

Sophia hadn’t thought of that.

“Come on,” Marcia cajoled. “Let’s get a drink. You’ll like these guys. They’re in graduate school at Duke.”

Sophia shook her head. “I’m not really in the mood to talk to any guys right now.”

“Then what do you want to do?”

Sophia caught sight of the night sky at the far end of the barn and suddenly felt the overwhelming desire to get out of this sweaty, densely packed scene. “I think I just need some fresh air.”

Marcia followed her gaze, then looked at Sophia again. “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll find you again. Just hang around here, okay?”

“Yeah, sure,” Marcia agreed with obvious relief. “But I can go with you . . .”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m not going to be long.”

As Marcia headed back to her new friends, Sophia started toward the rear of the barn, the crowd thinning out as she moved farther from the dance floors and the band. A few men tried to catch her attention as she maneuvered past them, but Sophia pretended not to notice, refusing to be sidetracked.

The oversize wooden doors had been propped open, and as soon as she stepped outside, she felt a wave of relief wash over her. The music wasn’t nearly as loud, and the crisp autumn air felt like a cool balm on her skin. She hadn’t realized how hot it was inside the barn. She looked around, hoping to find a place to sit. Off to the side was a massive oak tree, its gnarled limbs stretching in all directions, and here and there, people were standing in small groups, smoking and drinking. It took a second for her to realize that they were all inside a large enclosure bounded by wooden rails radiating from either side of the barn; no doubt it had once been a corral of sorts.

There weren’t any tables. Instead, knots of people mostly sat on or leaned against the rails; one group perched on what she thought was an old tractor tire. Farther off to the side, a solitary man in a cowboy hat stared out over the neighboring pasture, his face in shadow. She wondered idly whether he, too, was in graduate school at Duke, but she doubted it. Somehow, cowboy hats and Duke graduate school just didn’t go together.

She started toward an empty section of the railings a few fence posts down from the solitary cowboy. Above her, the sky was as clear as a glass bell, the moon hovering just over the distant tree line. She propped her elbows on the rough wooden rails and took in her surroundings. Off to the right were the rodeo stands, where she had watched the bull-riding contests earlier; directly behind them was a series of small enclosed pastures, which held the bulls. Though the corrals weren’t lit, a few of the arena lights were still on, casting the animals in a spectral glow. Behind the pens were twenty or thirty pickups and trailers, surrounded by their owners. Even from a distance, she could see the glowing tips of the cigarettes some of them were smoking and hear the occasional clink of bottles. She wondered what the place was used for when the rodeos weren’t in town. Did they use this place for horse shows? Dog shows? County fairs? Something else? There was a desolate, ramshackle feel to the place, suggesting that it sat empty much of the year. The rickety barn reinforced that impression, but then what did she know? She’d been born and raised in New Jersey.

That’s what Marcia would have said, anyway. She’d been saying it since they were sophomores, and it had been funny at first, then had worn thin after a while, and now was funny again, a kind of long-running joke just between the two of them. Marcia was from Charlotte, born and raised only a few hours from Wake Forest. Sophia could still remember Marcia’s bewildered reaction when she said she’d grown up in Jersey City. For all intents and purposes, Sophia might as well have said she’d been raised on Mars.

Sophia had to admit that Marcia’s reaction hadn’t been completely off base. Their backgrounds couldn’t have been more different. Marcia was the second of two; her father was an orthopedic surgeon, and her mother was an environmental attorney. Her older brother was in his last year of law school at Vanderbilt, and although the family wasn’t on the Forbes list, it definitely resided comfortably in the upper crust. She was the kind of girl who took equestrian and dance lessons as a girl and who received a Mercedes convertible on her sixteenth birthday. Sophia, on the other hand, was the child of immigrants. Her mother was French, her father was from Slovakia, and they’d arrived in the country with little more than the money they had in their pockets. Though educated—her father was a chemist, her mother a pharmacist—their English skills were limited and they spent years working menial jobs and living in tiny, run-down apartments until they saved enough to open their own delicatessen. Along the way, they had three more kids—Sophia was the oldest—and Sophia grew up working alongside her parents at the deli after school and on weekends.

The business was moderately successful, enough to provide for the family but never much more than that. Like many of the better students in her graduating class, until a few months before graduation she’d expected to attend Rutgers. She’d applied to Wake Forest on a whim because her guidance counselor had suggested it, but never in a million years could she have afforded it, nor did she really know much about the place beyond the beautiful photos that were posted on the university’s website. But surprising no one more than her, Wake Forest had come through with a scholarship that covered tuition, and in August Sophia had boarded the bus in New Jersey, bound for a virtually unknown destination where she’d spend much of the next four years.

It had been a great decision, at least from an educational standpoint. Wake Forest was smaller than Rutgers, which meant the classes were, too, and the professors in the Art History Department were passionate about teaching. She’d already had one interview for an internship at the Denver Art Museum—and no, they hadn’t asked a thing about her role at Chi Omega—which she thought had gone well, but she hadn’t heard back yet. Last summer, she’d also managed to save enough to buy her first car. It wasn’t much—an eleven-year-old Toyota Corolla with more than a hundred thousand miles on the engine, a dent in the rear door, and more than a few scrapes— but for Sophia, who’d grown up walking or riding the bus everywhere, it was liberating to be able to come and go as she pleased.

At the railing, she grimaced. Well, except for tonight, anyway. But that was her fault. She could have driven, but . . .

Why did Brian have to come here tonight? What did he think was going to happen? Did he honestly believe that she’d forget what he’d done to her—not once or twice, but three times? That she’d take him back just as she had previously?

The thing was, she didn’t even miss him. She wasn’t going to forgive him, and if he hadn’t been following her, she doubted she’d be thinking about him at all. Yet he was still able to ruin her night, and that bothered her. Because she was allowing it to happen. Because she was giving him that power over her.

Well, not anymore, she decided. She’d head back inside and hang with Marcia and Ashley and those Duke boys, and so what if Brian found her and wanted to talk? She’d simply ignore him. And if he tried to interfere with her good time? Well, she might even kiss one of the guys to make sure he knew she had moved on, period.

Smiling at the image, she turned from the railing, bumping into someone and almost losing her balance.

“Oh . . . excuse me,” she said automatically as she reached out to brace herself. As her hand met his chest and she looked up, she felt a burst of recognition and she recoiled.

“Whoa,” Brian said, catching her by the shoulders.

By then, she’d regained her balance and she assessed the situation with a sickening sense of predictability. He’d found her. They were face-to-face and alone together. Everything she’d been trying to avoid since the breakup. Great.

“Sorry about sneaking up on you like that.” Like Marcia’s, his words were slurred, which didn’t surprise her—Brian never missed an opportunity to tie one on. “I didn’t find you at the tables, and I had a hunch that you might be out here—”

“What do you want, Brian?” she demanded, cutting him off.

He flinched visibly at her tone. But as always, he recovered quickly. Rich people—spoiled people—always did.

“I don’t want anything,” he said, tucking one hand into the pocket of his jeans. When he staggered slightly, she realized he was well on his way to being falling-down drunk.

“Then why are you here?”

“I saw you out here all alone and thought I’d come over to make sure you were doing okay.” He cocked his head, trying on his “I’m so wholesome” routine, but his bloodshot eyes undermined his efforts.

“I was fine until you got here.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Wow. That’s harsh.”

“I have to be. You’ve been following me like a stalker.”

He nodded, acknowledging the truth of her words. And, of course, to show that he accepted her disdain. He could probably star in a video entitled How to Get Your Ex-Girlfriend to Forgive You . . . Again.

“I know,” he offered, right on cue. “I’m sorry about that.”

“Are you?”

He shrugged. “I didn’t want it to end the way it did … and I just wanted to tell you how ashamed I am about everything that happened. You didn’t deserve it and I don’t blame you for ending it. I realize that I’ve been . . .”

Sophia shook her head, already tired of listening to him. “Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

“This,” she said. “This whole phony show. Coming out here, pretending to be so abject and apologetic. What do you want?”

Her question seemed to catch him off guard. “I’m just trying to say sorry—”

“For what?” she asked. “For cheating on me for the third time? Or for lying to me ever since I’ve known you?”

He blinked. “Come on, Sophia,” he said. “Don’t be like this. I don’t have any kind of agenda—really. I just don’t want you to go through the whole year feeling like you have to avoid me. We’ve been through too much for that.”

Despite the occasional slurring, he sounded almost credible. Almost. “You don’t get it, do you?” She wondered if he honestly thought she’d forgive him. “I know I don’t have to avoid you. I want to avoid you.”

He stared at her, plainly confused. “Why are you acting like this?”

“Are you kidding?”

“After you broke up with me, I knew I’d made the biggest mistake of my life. Because I need you. You’re good for me. You make me a better person. And even if we can’t be together, I’d like to think we could get together and talk sometime. Just talk. The way we used to. Before I screwed things up.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but his bravado left her speechless. Did he really think she’d fall for this again?

“Come on,” he said, reaching for her hand. “Let’s get a drink and talk. We can work through this—”

“Don’t touch me!” Her voice rang out sharply. “Sophia . . .”

She slid farther down the railing, away from him. “I said don’t touch me!”

For the first time, she glimpsed a flash of anger in his expression as he lunged for her wrist. “Calm down . . .”

She yanked her arm, trying to free it. “Let go of me!”

Instead, he drew close enough for her to smell the stale beer on his breath. “Why do you always have to make such a scene?” he demanded.

As she struggled to break free, she looked up at him and felt a cold blade of fear. This wasn’t a Brian she recognized. His brow was furrowed, almost wrinkled, his jaw ropy and distended. She froze, leaning away from his hot, labored breath. Later, she would recall only how paralyzed with fear she was, until she heard the voice behind her.

“You need to let her go,” the voice said.

Brian looked over and back to her again, squeezing harder. “We’re just talking,” he said, his teeth clenched, the muscle in his jaw flexing.

“It doesn’t look like you’re just talking to me,” the voice said. “And I’m not asking you to let her go. I’m telling you.”

There was no mistaking the warning in the tone, but unlike the adrenaline-charged exchanges she’d sometimes witnessed at the frat houses, this stranger’s voice sounded calm.

It was a beat before Brian even registered the threat, but he clearly wasn’t intimidated. “I’ve got it handled. Why don’t you mind your own business?”

“Last chance,” came the voice. “I don’t want to have to hurt you. But I will.”

Too nervous to turn around, Sophia couldn’t help noticing bystanders outside the barn beginning to turn their way. From the corner of her eye, she watched two men rise from the tractor tire and start toward them; another pair pushed off a section of the railing, their hats shadowing their faces as they approached.

Brian’s bloodshot eyes flickered toward them, then he glared over Sophia’s shoulder at the man who had just spoken. “What? You calling in your friends now?”

“I don’t need them to deal with you,” the stranger said, his voice even.

At the comment, Brian pushed Sophia aside, releasing the viselike grip on her arm. He turned and took a step toward the voice. “You seriously want to do this?”

When she turned, it was easy to understand the reason for Brian’s swagger. Brian was six and a half feet tall and over two hundred pounds; he worked out at the gym five times a week. The guy who’d threatened him was more than half a foot shorter and wiry; he wore a cowboy hat, though it had definitely seen better days.

“Go along now,” the cowboy said, backing up a step. “There’s no reason to make this any worse.”

Brian ignored him. With surprising speed, he lunged toward the smaller man, his arms wide, intending to take him down. She recognized the move, had watched Brian flatten countless people on the lacrosse field, and knew exactly what was going to happen: He’d lower his head and drive hard with his legs, felling the other man like an axed tree. And yet . . . while Brian did just what she’d expected, it didn’t end the way she’d seen it happen before.

As Brian closed in, the man kept one leg in place as he leaned to the opposite side, his arms sweeping as he used Brian’s momentum to throw him off balance. A moment later, Brian was facedown in the dirt with the smaller man’s scuffed cowboy boot on the back of his neck.

“Just calm down, now,” the cowboy said.

Brian began to struggle beneath the boot, preparing to push himself up, but with a quick hop—while still keeping one boot planted firmly on Brian’s neck—the cowboy’s other foot slammed down on Brian’s fingers, then quickly moved aside. On the ground, Brian retracted his hand and screamed while the boot on his neck pressed down even harder.

“Stop moving or it’s only going to get worse.” The cowboy’s words were clear and slow, as if he were addressing a dimwit.

Still stunned by the rapidity of the events, Sophia stared at the cowboy. Recognizing him as the figure she’d noticed standing alone by the railing when she’d first walked out, she noted that he had yet to look at her. Instead, he seemed intent on keeping his boot in the proper place, as if warily pinning a rattlesnake to the canyon floor. Which, in a way, he was.

On the ground, Brian began to struggle again. Again, his fingers were stomped while the other boot remained fixed on his neck. Brian stifled a wail, his body gradually growing still. Only then did the cowboy look up at Sophia, his blue eyes piercing in the reflected lights outside the barn.

“If you want to go,” he offered, “I’ll be glad to hold him for a bit.”

He sounded unconcerned, as if the circumstances were nothing out of the ordinary. As she struggled for an appropriate response, she took in the messy brown hair poking out from beneath his hat and realized that he wasn’t much older than her. He looked vaguely familiar, but not because she’d seen him at the railing earlier. She’d seen him somewhere else, maybe inside, but that wasn’t quite right. She couldn’t put her finger on it.

“Thanks,” she said, clearing her throat. “But I’ll be okay.”

As soon as he heard her voice, Brian resumed his struggle; again it ended with Brian jerking his hand back amid howls of pain.

“You sure?” the cowboy asked. “I’m sensing he’s a bit angry.”

That’s an understatement, she thought. She had no doubt that Brian was furious. She couldn’t suppress the tiniest of smiles.

“I think he’s learned his lesson.”

The cowboy seemed to evaluate her answer. “Maybe you should check with him,” he suggested, pushing his hat back on his head. “Just to make sure.”

Surprising herself, she smiled at him before leaning over. “Are you going to leave me alone, Brian?”

Brian gave a muffled yelp. “Get him off me! I’m going to kill him . . .”

The cowboy sighed, putting even more pressure on the back of Brian’s neck. This time, Brian’s face was pressed hard into the dirt.

She turned to the cowboy, then back to Brian again. “Is that a yes or a no, Brian?” she asked.

The cowboy laughed, revealing even white teeth and a boyish grin.

Although she hadn’t noticed it earlier, four other cowboys had surrounded them in the meantime, and Sophia wondered if this whole incident could become any more surreal. She felt as though she’d stumbled onto the set of an old western, and all at once, she realized where she’d seen this cowboy before. Not inside the barn, but earlier, at the rodeo. The one Marcia had called eye candy. The bull rider who’d won it all.

“You doing okay, Luke?” one of the circle asked. “Need a hand?”

The blue-eyed cowboy shook his head. “I got it for now. But if he don’t stop wiggling, his nose is gonna get broke whether he likes it or not.”

She looked at him. “You’re Luke?” He nodded. “You?”

“Sophia.”

He tipped his hat. “Nice to meet you, Sophia.” Grinning, he glanced down at Brian again.

“You gonna leave Sophia alone if I let you up?”

Defeated, Brian stopped moving. Slowly but surely, the pressure eased off his neck and Brian cautiously turned his head. “Get your boot off my neck!” he grunted, his expression simultaneously surly and fearful.

Sophia shifted from one foot to the other. “You should probably let him up,” she said.

After a beat, Luke lifted his boot and stepped back. In that instant, Brian leapt to his feet, his body tense. His nose and cheek were scraped, and he had dirt in his teeth. As the circle of other riders tightened, Brian turned from one bull rider to the next, his head swiveling back and forth.

Though drunk, Brian wasn’t stupid, and after glaring at Sophia, he took a step backward. The five cowboys stayed put, appearing not to care one way or the other, but Sophia sensed it was only an illusion. They were prepared for whatever Brian might do, but Brian again took another step backward before pointing at Luke.

“You and I aren’t finished yet,” he spat. “You understand that?”

He let the words hang before focusing on Sophia. There was anger in his expression and betrayal as well, and with that, he turned and started back toward the barn.

Chapter 3

Luke

Ordinarily, he wouldn’t have gotten involved.

Hell, anyone who went to bars had been confronted with this scenario before, the events unfolding with an almost ridiculous predictability: a couple enjoying a night out, both of them drinking, when—no doubt fueled by too much booze—an argument begins. One starts yelling at the other, the other yells back, the anger escalates, and nine times out of ten, the man ends up grabbing the woman. By the hand, the wrist, the arm, whatever. And then?

That’s where things got trickier. A few years ago, when he was riding in Houston, he’d been in much the same situation. He’d been decompressing at a local bar when a man and woman began arguing. After a minute or so, with their voices rising, it turned physical and Luke had intervened then, too—only to be turned on by both the man and the woman, each screaming at him to leave them the hell alone and to mind his own business. The next thing he knew, the woman was clawing at his face and latching on to his hair while he scuffled with the man. Fortunately, no real damage had been done—others had quickly intervened to separate the three of them. Luke had walked away shaking his head and swearing that from then on, he would stick to his own affairs. Hell, if they wanted to act like idiots, why try to stop them?

Which was exactly what he’d intended to do in this instance. He hadn’t even wanted to join the after-party in the first place, but he’d been talked into it by a few fellow riders who wanted to celebrate his comeback and drink to his victory. He’d ended up winning the event, after all— both the short go and the event total. Not because he’d ridden particularly well, but simply because no one else had completed his ride in the final round. He won essentially by default, but sometimes that was how things played out.

He was glad no one had noticed his hands shaking beforehand. The tremors were a first for him, and although he wanted to believe that it was because of the long hiatus, he knew the real reason. His mom did, too, and she’d made it clear that she opposed his return to the ring. Ever since he’d mentioned the possibility of riding again, things had been strained between them. Ordinarily, he’d call her after he finished an event, but not tonight. She wouldn’t care that he’d won. Instead, he’d simply texted her after the event that he was fine. She hadn’t responded.

After a couple of beers, he was only just feeling the acidic rush of fear ebb away. He’d retreated to his truck after each of his first two rides, needing to be alone and settle his nerves. Despite his advantageous standings, he’d actually considered forfeiting. But he’d crushed that instinct and gone back out for his last ride of the night. He’d heard the announcer talking about his injury and subsequent hiatus as he was getting ready in the chute. The bull he’d drawn—a rank bull named Pump and Dump— spun wildly as soon as he broke free, and Luke had been barely able to hold on until the buzzer. He’d landed hard after freeing himself from the wrap, but there’d been no damage done, and he’d waved his hat while the crowd roared its approval.

After that came the backslaps and congratulations, and he couldn’t very well say no when so many people wanted to buy him a drink. He wasn’t ready to go home yet anyway. He needed some time to unwind, to replay the rides in his head. In his mind, he was always able to make the adjustments he hadn’t been able to during the ride, and he needed to think through those steps if he planned to continue. Though he’d won, his balance was nowhere near what it once had been. He still had a long way to go.

He was replaying the second ride when he first noticed the girl. It was hard not to appreciate the cascade of blond hair and deep-set eyes; he had the sense that, like him, she was wrapped up in her own thoughts. She was pretty, but beyond that there was something wholesome and natural about her appearance, the kind of girl who probably looked equally at home in jeans or a formal gown. This was no dolled-up buckle-bunny, hoping to hook up with one of the riders. They were everywhere on tour and easy to find—a pair of them had sidled up to him in the barn and introduced themselves earlier—but he’d had no interest in encouraging them. He’d had a few one-night stands over the years, enough to know they inevitably left him feeling empty.

But the girl on the railing interested him. There was something different about her, though he couldn’t pinpoint what. Maybe, he thought, it was the unguarded, almost vulnerable way she stared into the distance. Whatever it was, he sensed that right now what she really needed was a friend. He considered going over to talk to her, but he pushed aside the idea as he focused on the bulls in the distance. Despite the arena lights, it was too dark to make out all the details, but he searched for Big Ugly Critter anyway. They would forever be linked, he thought, and he wondered idly whether the bull had already been loaded up. He doubted the owner of the bull had planned to drive all night, which meant the animal was here, but it still took some time before he was able to locate him.

It was while he was staring at Big Ugly Critter that the drunk ex-boyfriend had walked up. It was impossible not to overhear their conversation, but he reminded himself not to get involved. And he wouldn’t have, at least until the huge brute had grabbed her. By then, it was obvious she didn’t want anything to do with him, and when he heard the blonde’s anger give way to fear, Luke found himself pushing away from the railing. He knew his decision would probably backfire on him, but as he stepped toward the two of them, he thought again of the way she’d looked earlier, and he knew he didn’t have a choice.

+++

Luke watched as the drunk ex-boyfriend stalked off, and he turned to thank his fellow riders for coming over. One by one they drifted away, leaving Luke and Sophia alone.

Above them, the stars had multiplied in the ebony sky. In the barn, the band finished one song and eased into another, an older classic by Garth Brooks. With a deep sigh, Sophia let her arms fall to her sides, the autumn breeze lifting her hair gently as she turned to face him.

“I’m sorry you were dragged into all this, but I want to thank you for what you did,” Sophia said, a little sheepish.

Closer now, Luke registered the unusual green color of her eyes and the soft precision of her speech, a sound that made him think of faraway places. For a moment, he found himself tongue-tied.

“I was glad to help,” he managed.

When he said nothing more, she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “He’s . . . not always as crazy as you probably imagine he is. We used to go out and he’s not too happy I broke up with him.”

“I figured,” Luke said.

“Did you . . . hear everything?” Her face was a mixture of embarrassment and fatigue.

“It was kind of hard not to.”

Her lips tightened. “That’s what I thought.”

“If it makes you feel any better, I promise to forget,” he offered.

She gave a genuine laugh, and he thought he heard relief in it. “I’m going to try my best to forget all about it, too,” she said. “I just wish . . .”

When she trailed off, Luke finished her thought for her. “It’s over and done, I’d guess. At least for tonight, anyway.”

She turned, taking her time as she examined the barn. “I sure hope so.”

Luke’s feet scraped at the ground, as if trying to unearth words in the dust. “I assume your friends are inside?”

Her gaze flickered over the figures milling around the barn doors and beyond. “A bunch of us are here,” she said. “I go to Wake Forest and my roommate at the sorority decided that what I really needed was a girls’ night out.”

“They’re probably wondering where you are.”

“I doubt it,” she said. “They’re having too much fun for that.”

From a tree bordering the corral came the sound of an owl calling from a low-hanging branch, and both of them turned at the sound.

“Do you want me to walk you back inside? In case there’s any trouble, I mean?”

She surprised him by shaking her head. “No. I think it’s best if I stay out here for a little longer. It’ll give Brian a chance to cool off.”

Only if he quits drinking, Luke thought. Let it go. It’s not your business, he reminded himself. “Would you rather be alone, then?”

A look of amusement flashed across her face. “Why?

Am I boring you?”

“No,” he said, shaking his head. “Not at all. I just didn’t want—”

“I’m kidding.” She stepped to the railing and propped her elbows on the fence. She leaned forward and turned toward him, smiling. Hesitantly, Luke joined her at the railing.

In the distance, she took in the view, appreciating the gently rolling hills common to this part of the state. Luke studied her features silently, noting the small stud in her earlobe, trying to figure out what to say.

“What year are you in college?” he finally asked. He knew it was an inane question, but it was all he could come up with.

“I’m a senior.”

“That makes you . . . twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one.” She half turned in his direction. “And you?”

“Older than that.”

“Not by much, I’d guess. Did you go to college?”

“It wasn’t really my thing.” He shrugged.

“And you ride bulls for a living?”

“Sometimes,” he answered. “When I stay on, that is. But other times, I’m just a toy the bull gets to play with until I can get away.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You were pretty impressive out there today.”

“You remember me?”

“Of course. You were the only one who rode them all. You won, right?”

“I had a pretty good night,” he admitted.

She brought her hands together. “So it’s Luke . . .”

“Collins,” he finished.

“That’s right,” she said. “The announcer was going on and on about you before your ride.”

“And?”

“To be honest, I wasn’t paying much attention. At the time, I didn’t know you’d end up coming to my rescue.”

He listened for traces of sarcasm but detected none, which surprised him. Hooking a thumb toward the tractor tire, he pointed out, “Those other guys came over to help, too.”

“But they didn’t intervene. You did.” She let the comment sink in for a moment. “Can I ask you a question, though?” she went on. “I’ve been wondering about it all night.”

Luke picked at a sliver on the railing. “Go ahead.”

“Why on earth would you ride bulls? It seems like you could get killed out there.”

That’s about right, he thought. It’s what everyone wanted to know. As usual, he answered it the way he always did. “It’s just something I’ve always wanted to do. I started when I was a little kid. I think I rode my first calf when I was four years old, and I was riding steers by the third grade.”

“But how did you start in the first place? Who got you into it?”

“My dad,” he said. “He was in rodeo for years. Saddle bronc.”

“Is that different than bulls?”

“It’s pretty much the same rules, except that it’s on a horse. Eight seconds, holding on with one hand while the animal tries to throw you.”

“Except that horses don’t have horns the size of baseball bats. And they’re smaller and not as mean.”

He considered it. “That’s about right, I’d guess.”

“Then why don’t you compete in saddle bronc instead of riding bulls?”

He watched her brush her hair back with both hands, trying to capture the flyaways. “That’s kind of a long story. Do you really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t have asked if I didn’t.”

He fiddled with his hat. “It’s just a hard life, I guess. My dad would drive a hundred thousand miles a year going from rodeo to rodeo just to qualify for the National Finals Rodeo. That kind of travel is hard on the family, and not only was he gone almost all the time, but back then, it didn’t pay much. After travel expenses and entry fees, he probably would have been better off working minimum wage. He didn’t want that for me, and when he heard that bull riders were about to start their own tour, he thought it had a pretty good chance to be successful. That’s when he got me into it. There’s still a lot of travel, but the events are on weekends and usually I can get in and out pretty quick. The purses are bigger too.”

“So he was right.”

“He had great instincts. About everything.” The words came out without thinking, and when he saw her expression, he knew she’d picked up on it. He sighed. “He passed away six years ago.”

Her gaze didn’t waver, and impulsively she reached out, touching his arm. “I’m sorry,” she said.

Though her hand barely grazed his arm, the sensation lingered. “It’s okay,” he said, straightening up. Already he could feel the post-ride soreness settling in, and he tried to concentrate on that instead. “Anyway, that’s the reason I ride bulls.”

“And you like it?”

That was a tough one. For a long time, it was how he’d defined himself, no question about it. But now? He didn’t know how to answer, because he wasn’t sure himself. “Why are you so interested?” he countered.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe because it’s a world I know nothing about? Or maybe I’m just naturally curious. Then again, I might just be making conversation.”

“Which one is it?”

“I could tell you,” she said, her green eyes seductive in the moonlight. “But how much fun would that be? The world needs a little mystery.”

Something stirred in him at the veiled challenge in her voice. “Where are you from?” he asked, feeling himself being reeled in and liking it. “I take it you’re not from around here.”

“Why would you think that? Do I have an accent?”

“I suppose that depends on where you’re from. Up north, I’d be the one with the accent. But I can’t really tell where you’re from.”

“I’m from New Jersey.” She paused. “No jokes, please.”

“Why would I joke? I like New Jersey.”

“Have you ever been there?”

“I’ve been to Trenton. I rode in a few events at the Sovereign Bank Arena. Do you know where that is?”

“I know where Trenton is,” she answered. “It’s south of where I live, closer to Philadelphia. I’m up north, by the city.”

“Have you been to Trenton?”

“A handful of times. But I’ve never been to the arena. Or to a rodeo, for that matter. This is my first time.”

“What did you think?”

“Other than being impressed? I thought you were all crazy.”

He laughed, charmed by her frankness. “You know my last name, but I didn’t catch yours.”

“Danko,” she said. Then, anticipating his next question: “My dad is from Slovakia.”

“That’s near Kansas, right?”

She blinked. Her mouth opened and closed, and just as she was about to explain the concept of Europe to him, he raised his hands.

“Joking,” he said. “I know where it is. Central Europe, part of what was once Czechoslovakia. I just wanted to see your reaction.”

“And?”

“I should’ve taken a picture to show my friends.”

She scowled before nudging against him. “That’s not nice.”

“But it was funny.”

“Yeah,” she admitted. “It was funny.”

“So if your dad is from Slovakia . . .”

“My mom is French. They moved here a year before I was born.”

He turned toward her. “No kidding . . .”

“You sound surprised.”

“I don’t know if I’ve ever met a French Slovakian before.” He paused. “Hell, I don’t know if I’ve ever met someone from New Jersey before.”

When she laughed, he felt something relax in him, and he knew he wanted to hear the sound again. “And you live close by?”

“Not too far. A little north of Winston-Salem. I’m right outside of King.”

“Sounds fancy.”

“That’s one thing it isn’t. It’s a small town with friendly people, but that’s about it. We have a ranch up there.”

“We?”

“My mom and I. Well, actually it’s her ranch. I just live and work there.”

“Like . . . a real ranch? With cows and horses and pigs?”

“It’s even got a barn that makes this one here look new.”

She surveyed the barn behind them. “I doubt that.” “Maybe I’ll show you one day. Take you horseback riding and everything.”

Their eyes met, holding for a beat, and again she reached out to touch his arm. “I think I’d like that, Luke.”

From The Longest Ride by Nicholas Sparks. Copyright © 2013 by Willow Holdings, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Grand Central Publishing, a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc., New York, NY, U.S.A. All rights reserved.

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