Dear John by Nicholas Sparks Page B

expression mischievous. She pointed to my cup. “Is your coffee okay?”
    “Tastes great,” I said.
    “I have to start my day with coffee. It’s my one vice.”
    “Everyone’s got to have one.”
    She glanced at me. “What’s yours?”
    “I don’t have any,” I answered, and she surprised me by giving me a playful nudge.
    “Did you know that last night was the first night of the full moon?”
    I did but thought it best not to admit it. “Really?” I said.
    “I’ve always loved full moons. Ever since I was a kid. I liked to think that they were an omen of sorts. I wanted to believe they always portended good things. Like if I was making a mistake, I would have the chance to start over.”
    She said nothing else about it. Instead she brought the cup to her lips, and I watched as the steam wreathed her face.
    “What’s on your agenda today?” I asked.
    “We’re supposed to have a meeting sometime today, but other than that, nothing. Well, except for church. For me, I mean. And, well, whoever else wants to go. Which reminds me—what time is it?”
    I checked my watch. “A little after nine.”
    “Already? I guess that doesn’t give me much time. Service is at ten.”
    I nodded, knowing our time together was almost up.
    “Do you want to go with me?” I heard her ask.
    “To church?”
    “Yeah. To church,” she said. “Don’t you go?”
    I wasn’t sure what to say. It was obviously important to her, and though I got the impression that my answer would disappoint, I didn’t want to lie. “Not really,” I admitted. “I haven’t been to church in years. I mean, I used to go as a kid, but . . .” I trailed off. “I don’t know why,” I finished.
    She stretched her legs out, waiting to see if I would add more. When I didn’t, she arched an eyebrow. “So?”
    “What?”
    “Do you want to go with me or not?”
    “I don’t have any clothes. I mean, this is all I have, and I doubt if I have enough time to go home, shower, and get back in time. Otherwise I would.”
    She gave me the once-over. “Good.” She patted my knee, the second time she’d touched me. “I’ll get you some clothes.”
    “You look great,” Tim assured me. “The collar’s a little snug, but I don’t think anyone will be able to tell.”
    In the mirror, I saw a stranger dressed in khakis and a pressed shirt and tie. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d worn a tie. I wasn’t sure I was happy about any of this or not. Tim, meanwhile, was way too chipper about the whole thing.
    “How’d she talk you into this?” he asked.
    “I have no idea.”
    He laughed and, leaning over to tie his shoes, winked. “I told you she likes you.”
    We’ve got chaplains in the army, and most of them are pretty good guys. On base, I got to know a couple of them fairly well, and one of them—Ted Jenkins—was the kind of guy you trusted on the spot. He didn’t drink, and I’m not saying he was one of us, but he was always welcome when he showed up. He had a wife and a couple of rugrats, and he’d been in the service for fifteen years. He had personal experience when it came to struggles with family and military life in general, and if you ever sat down to talk with him, he really listened. You couldn’t tell him everything—he was an officer, after all—and he ended up coming down fairly hard on a couple of guys in my platoon who admitted their escapades a bit too freely, but the thing was, he had this kind of presence that made you want to tell him anyway. I don’t know what it was other than the fact that he was a good man and a hell of an army chaplain. He talked about God just as naturally as you might talk about your friend, not in that preachy, irritating way that generally turns me off. Nor did he press you to attend services on Sundays. He sort of left it up to you, and depending what was going on or how dangerous things got, he might find himself talking to either one or two people or a hundred. Before my platoon