room.
The case had gone nowhere for a year. Once Robert Torrelson’s attorney received the autopsy report, had another surgeon review
the videotape, and the attorneys from the insurance company and hospital started the process of filing motions to drag out
the process and run up the costs, he’d painted a bleak picture of what his client was up against. Though they didn’t say so
directly, the attorneys for the insurance company expected Robert Torrelson to eventually drop the suit.
It was like the few other cases that had been filed against Paul Flanner over the years, except for the fact that Paul had
received a personal note from Robert Torrelson two months ago.
He didn’t need to bring it with him to recall what had been written.
Dear Dr. Flanner,
I would like to talk to you in person. This is very important to me.
Please.
Robert Torrelson
At the bottom of the letter, he’d left his address.
After reading it, Paul had showed it to the attorneys, and they’d urged him to ignore it. So had his former colleagues at
the hospital. Just let it go, they’d said. Once this is over, we can set up a meeting with him if he still wants to talk.
But there was something in the simple plea above Robert Torrelson’s neatly scrawled signature that had gotten to Paul, and
he’d decided not to listen to them.
To his mind, he’d ignored too many things already.
Paul put on his jacket, walked down the steps, and went out the front door, heading toward the car. From the front seat, he
grabbed the leather pouch containing his passport and tickets, but instead of going back inside, he made his way around the
side of the house.
On the beach side the wind grew cold, and Paul paused for a moment to zip his jacket. Pinching the leather pouch beneath his
arm, he tucked his hands into his jacket and bowed his head, feeling the breeze nip at his cheeks.
The sky reminded him of those he’d seen in Baltimore before snowstorms that tinted the world into shades of washed-out gray.
In the distance, he could see a pelican gliding low over the water, its wings unmoving, floating with the wind. He wondered
where it would go when the storm hit full force.
Near the water, Paul stopped. The waves were rolling in from two different directions, sending up plumes as they collided.
The air was moist and chilly. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the light in the kitchen of the Inn glowing yellow. Adrienne’s
figure passed shadowlike by the window, then vanished from sight.
He would try to talk to Robert Torrelson tomorrow morning, he thought. The storm was expected to arrive in the afternoon and
would probably last through most of the weekend, so he couldn’t do it then. Nor did he want to wait until Monday; his flight
left on Tuesday afternoon out of Dulles, and he had to leave Rodanthe no later than nine. He didn’t want to run the risk of
not speaking with him, and in light of the storm, one day was cutting it close. By Monday, power lines might be down, there
might be flooding, or Robert Torrelson might be taking care of who knew what in the aftermath.
Paul had never been in Rodanthe before, but he didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes to find the house. The town,
he figured, had no more than a few dozen streets, and he could walk the length of the town in less than half an hour.
After a few minutes on the sand, Paul turned and started making his way back toward the Inn. As he did, he caught a glimpse
of Adrienne Willis in the window again.
Her smile, he thought. He liked her smile.
From the window, Adrienne found herself glancing at Paul Flanner as he made his way back from the beach.
She was unpacking the groceries, doing her best to put them in the right cupboards. Earlier in the afternoon, she’d bought
the items that Jean had recommended, but now she wondered if she should have waited until Paul arrived to ask him if there
was anything
The case had gone nowhere for a year. Once Robert Torrelson’s attorney received the autopsy report, had another surgeon review
the videotape, and the attorneys from the insurance company and hospital started the process of filing motions to drag out
the process and run up the costs, he’d painted a bleak picture of what his client was up against. Though they didn’t say so
directly, the attorneys for the insurance company expected Robert Torrelson to eventually drop the suit.
It was like the few other cases that had been filed against Paul Flanner over the years, except for the fact that Paul had
received a personal note from Robert Torrelson two months ago.
He didn’t need to bring it with him to recall what had been written.
Dear Dr. Flanner,
I would like to talk to you in person. This is very important to me.
Please.
Robert Torrelson
At the bottom of the letter, he’d left his address.
After reading it, Paul had showed it to the attorneys, and they’d urged him to ignore it. So had his former colleagues at
the hospital. Just let it go, they’d said. Once this is over, we can set up a meeting with him if he still wants to talk.
But there was something in the simple plea above Robert Torrelson’s neatly scrawled signature that had gotten to Paul, and
he’d decided not to listen to them.
To his mind, he’d ignored too many things already.
Paul put on his jacket, walked down the steps, and went out the front door, heading toward the car. From the front seat, he
grabbed the leather pouch containing his passport and tickets, but instead of going back inside, he made his way around the
side of the house.
On the beach side the wind grew cold, and Paul paused for a moment to zip his jacket. Pinching the leather pouch beneath his
arm, he tucked his hands into his jacket and bowed his head, feeling the breeze nip at his cheeks.
The sky reminded him of those he’d seen in Baltimore before snowstorms that tinted the world into shades of washed-out gray.
In the distance, he could see a pelican gliding low over the water, its wings unmoving, floating with the wind. He wondered
where it would go when the storm hit full force.
Near the water, Paul stopped. The waves were rolling in from two different directions, sending up plumes as they collided.
The air was moist and chilly. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw the light in the kitchen of the Inn glowing yellow. Adrienne’s
figure passed shadowlike by the window, then vanished from sight.
He would try to talk to Robert Torrelson tomorrow morning, he thought. The storm was expected to arrive in the afternoon and
would probably last through most of the weekend, so he couldn’t do it then. Nor did he want to wait until Monday; his flight
left on Tuesday afternoon out of Dulles, and he had to leave Rodanthe no later than nine. He didn’t want to run the risk of
not speaking with him, and in light of the storm, one day was cutting it close. By Monday, power lines might be down, there
might be flooding, or Robert Torrelson might be taking care of who knew what in the aftermath.
Paul had never been in Rodanthe before, but he didn’t think it would take more than a few minutes to find the house. The town,
he figured, had no more than a few dozen streets, and he could walk the length of the town in less than half an hour.
After a few minutes on the sand, Paul turned and started making his way back toward the Inn. As he did, he caught a glimpse
of Adrienne Willis in the window again.
Her smile, he thought. He liked her smile.
From the window, Adrienne found herself glancing at Paul Flanner as he made his way back from the beach.
She was unpacking the groceries, doing her best to put them in the right cupboards. Earlier in the afternoon, she’d bought
the items that Jean had recommended, but now she wondered if she should have waited until Paul arrived to ask him if there
was anything
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