The Guardian by Nicholas Sparks Page A

fun-scary when the wind gusted, but fun-of all they did, from holding hands as they walked to posing playfully as Richard took a number of photographs of her, she enjoyed the picnic the most. Now that, she thought, was more along the lines of something she was used to. She'd gone on lots of picnics in her life-Jim had been fond of them-and for a moment she felt like herself again. That feeling didn't last long. In the picnic basket was a bottle of Merlot and a cheese-and-fruit plate, and after they'd finished with the food, Richard had offered to give her a foot rub. It sounded corny when he said it, and she'd initially laughed and said no, but when he'd gently reached for her foot, slipped off her sandal, and begun his massage, she couldn't help but give in, imagining that Cleopatra must have felt much the same way as she relaxed under the gently swaying palm fronds.
    Strangely, at that moment, she thought of her mother.
    Though she'd long since decided her mother was pretty unreliable as a mother or a role model, she couldn't help but remember something her mother had said once when Julie had asked her why she'd stopped seeing a recent boyfriend.
    "He didn't rock my boat," her mother had informed her matter-of-factly. "Sometimes it's like that."
    Julie, eight years old at the time, nodded, wondering where they kept the boat and why she'd never seen it.
    Years later, she finally realized what her mother had meant, and while staring at Richard, her foot in his hands, the expression came back to her.
    Did Richard rock her boat?
    He should, she knew. Lord knew she probably wouldn't find anyone better, not in Swansboro, anyway. He was the full package as far as eligible men went, but even now, after four romantic dates and a lot of time spent together, she suddenly knew that he didn't. The realization left her feeling as if she were weighted down in a swimming pool, but she couldn't deny that whatever it was that brought couples together-whether it was chemistry or magic or some combination of both-simply wasn't there. She just didn't feel the little tingles on her neck that she had when Jim first took her hand. She didn't feel like closing her eyes and dreaming of a future together, and she knew with certainty that she wouldn't spend the following day wandering around in a romance-induced daze. The dates he planned were fabulous; it was just that, as much as she wished otherwise, she wasn't so sure about Richard, other than that he seemed like a nice guy . . . the kind of guy who'd be perfect for someone else.
    Sometimes, as her mother had said, it's like that.
    She wondered if part of the problem was that she was trying to rush her feelings. They might need some more time before things were comfortable and easy. Her relationship with Jim had taken time to develop, after all. After a few more dates, she might look back and wonder why she'd been so skittish. Right?
    While brushing her hair in front of the mirror, she considered it. Maybe. Then, laying down her brush, she thought, Yes, that's got to be it. We just need to get to know each other better. Besides, it's partly my fault. I'm the one who's holding back.
    Though she had talked for hours with Richard, most of their conversations had hovered over the surface. Yes, he knew the obvious things about her, and yes, she knew the obvious things about him. But she didn't volunteer much more than that. Whenever the past had come up, she'd found a way to avoid it. She hadn't revealed how difficult her relationship with her mother had really been, how unnerving it was to see men wandering in and out of her house at all hours, how desolate she felt leaving home before graduating high school. Or how scared she'd been when living on the streets, especially late at night. Or what it felt like when Jim had died, when she wondered how she would ever find the strength to go on. Those were the hard memories, the ones that left a bitter taste when she spoke them. Part of her was tempted to