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He and his wife Catherine, who met on spring break in 1988, were married in July, 1989. While living in Sacramento, he wrote his second novel that same year, though again, it wasn't published. He worked a variety of jobs over the next three years, including real estate appraisal, waiting tables, selling dental products by phone, and started his own small manufacturing business which struggled from the beginning. In 1990, he collaborated on a book with Billy Mills, the Olympic Gold Medallist and it was published by Feather Publishing before later being picked up by Random House. (It was recently re-issued by Hay House Books.) Though it received scant publicity, sales topped 50,000 copies in the first year of release.
He began selling pharmaceuticals and moved from Sacramento, California to North Carolina in 1992. In 1994, at the age of 28, he wrote The Notebook over a period of six months. In October, 1995, rights to The Notebook were sold to Warner Books. It was published in October, 1996, and he followed that with Message in a Bottle (1998), A Walk to Remember (1999), The Rescue (2000), A Bend in the Road (2001), and Nights in Rodanthe (2002), The Guardian (2003), The Wedding (2003), Three Weeks with my Brother (2004), True Believer (2005) and At First Sight (2005) all with Warner Books. All were domestic and international best sellers and were translated into more than 35 languages. The movie version of Message in a Bottle was released in 1999, A Walk to Remember was released in 2002, and The Notebook was released in 2004. The average domestic box office gross per film was $56 million -- with another $100 million in DVD sales -- making the novels by Nicholas Sparks one of the most successfuly franchises in Hollywood.
The film rights to Nights in Rodanthe, True Believer and At First Sight have been sold, and Nicholas Sparks has written the screenplay for The Guardian, though he has not offered it for sale at this point.
He now has five children: Miles, Ryan, Landon, Lexie, and Savannah. He lives in North Carolina with his wife and children.
His ancestry is German, Czech, English, and Irish, he's 5'10" and weighs 180 lbs. He is an avid athlete who runs daily, lifts weights regularly, and competes in Tae Kwon Do. He attends church regularly and reads approximately 125 books a year. He contributes to a variety of local and national charities, and is a major contributor to the Creative Writing Program (MFA) at the University of Notre Dame, where he provides scholarships, internships, and a fellowship annually.
In his 14th book, bestselling author Nicholas Sparks tells the unforgettable story of a man whose brushes with death lead him to the love of his life. Is there really such thing as a lucky charm? The hero of Nicholas Sparks's new novel believes he's found one in the form of a photograph of a smiling woman he's never met, but who he comes to believe holds the key to his destiny. The chain of events that leads to him possessing the photograph and finding the woman pictured in it is the stuff of love stories only a master such as Sparks can write.
1 ........ Clayton and Thibault
Deputy Keith Clayton hadn't heard them approach, and up close, he didn't like the looks of them any more than he had the first time he'd seen them. The dog was part of it. He wasn't fond of German shepherds, and this one, though he was standing quietly, reminded him of Panther, the police dog that rode with Deputy Kenny Moore and was quick to bite suspects in the crotch at the slightest command. Most of the time he regarded Moore as an idiot, but he was still just about the closest thing to a friend that Clayton had in the department, and he had to admit that Moore had a way of telling those crotch-biting stories that made Clayton double over in laughter. And Moore would definitely have appreciated the little skinny-dipping party Clayton had just broken up, when he'd spied a couple of coeds sunning down by the creek in all their morning glory. He hadn't been there for more than a few minutes and had snapped only a couple of pictures on the digital camera when he saw a third girl pop up from behind a hydrangea bush. After quickly ditching the camera in the bushes behind him, he'd stepped out from behind the tree, and a moment later, he and the coed were face-to-face.
"Well, what have we got here?" he drawled, trying to put her on the defensive.
He hadn't liked the fact that he'd been caught, nor was he pleased with his insipid opening line. Usually he was smoother than that. A lot smoother. Thankfully, the girl was too embarrassed to notice much of anything, and she almost tripped while trying to back up. She stammered something like an answer as she tried to cover herself with her hands. It was like watching someone play a game of Twister by herself.
He made no effort to avert his gaze. Instead he smiled, pretending not to notice her body, as if he bumped into naked women in the woods all the time. He could already tell she knew nothing about the camera.
"Now calm down. What's going on?" he asked.
He knew full well what was going on. It happened a few times every summer, but especially in August: Coeds from Chapel Hill or NC State, heading to the beach for a long, last-chance weekend at Emerald Isle before the fall term began, often made a detour onto an old logging road that twisted and bumped for a mile or so into the national forest before reaching the point where Swan Creek made a sharp turn toward the South River. There was a rock-pebble beach there that had come to be known for nude sunbathing—how that happened, he had no idea—and Clayton often made it a point to swing by on the off chance he might get lucky. Two weeks ago, he'd seen six lovelies; today, however, there were three, and the two who'd been lying on their towels were already reaching for their shirts. Though one of them was a bit heavy, the other two—including the brunette standing in front of him—had the kind of figures that made frat boys go crazy. Deputies, too.
"We didn't know anyone was out here! We thought it would be okay!"
Her face held just enough innocence to make him think, Wouldn't Daddy be proud if he knew what his little girl was up to? It amused him to imagine what she might say to that, but since he was in uniform, he knew he had to say something official. Besides, he knew he was pressing his luck; if word got out that the sheriff's office was actually patrolling the area, there'd be no more coeds in the future, and that was something he didn't want to contemplate.
"Let's go talk to your friends."
He followed her back toward the beach, watching as she tried unsuccessfully to cover her backside, enjoying the little show. By the time they stepped from the trees into the clearing by the river, her friends had pulled on their shirts. The brunette jogged and jiggled toward the others and quickly reached for a towel, knocking over a couple of cans of beer in the process. Clayton motioned to a nearby tree.
"Didn't y'all see the sign?"
On cue, their eyes swung that way. People were sheep, waiting for the next order, he thought. The sign, small and partially hidden by the low-slung branches of an ancient live oak, had been posted by order of Judge Kendrick Clayton, who also happened to be his uncle. The idea for the signs had been Keith's; he knew that the public prohibition would only enhance the attraction of the place.
"We didn't see it!" the brunette cried, swiveling back to him. "We didn't know! We just heard about this place a couple of days ago!" She continued to protest while struggling with the towel; the others were too terrified to do much of anything except try to wiggle back into their bikini bottoms. "It's the first time we've ever been here!"
It came out like a whine, making her sound like a spoiled sorority sister. Which all of them probably were. They had that look.
"Did you know that public nudity is a misdemeanor in this county?"
He saw their young faces grow even more pale, knowing they were imagining this little transgression on their record. Fun to watch, but he reminded himself not to let it go too far.
"What's your name?"
"Amy." The brunette swallowed. "Amy White."
"Where are you from?"
"Chapel Hill. But I'm from Charlotte originally."
"I see some alcohol there. Are y'all twenty-one?"
For the first time, the others answered as well. "Yes, sir."
"Okay, Amy. I'll tell you what I'm going to do. I'm going to take you at your word that you didn't see the sign and that you're of legal age to drink, so I'm not going to make a big deal out of this. I'll pretend I wasn't even here. As long as you promise not to tell my boss that I let you three off the hook."
They weren't sure whether to believe him.
"Really?"
"Really," he said. "I was in college once, too." He hadn't been, but he knew it sounded good. "And you might want to put your clothes on. You never know—there might be people lurking around." He flashed a smile. "Make sure you clean up all the cans, okay?"
"Yes, sir."
"I appreciate it." He turned to leave.
"That's it?"
Turning around, he flashed his smile again. "That's it. Y'all take care now."
Clayton pushed through the underbrush, ducking beneath the occasional branch on the way back to his cruiser, thinking he'd handled that well. Very well indeed. Amy had actually smiled at him, and as he'd turned away, he'd toyed with the idea of doubling back and asking her for her phone number. No, he decided, it was probably better to simply leave good enough alone. More than likely they'd go back and tell their friends that even though they'd been caught by the sheriff, nothing had happened to them. Word would get around that the deputies around here were cool. Still, as he wove through the woods, he hoped the pictures came out. They would make a nice addition to his little collection.
All in all, it had been an excellent day. He was about to go back for the camera when he heard whistling. He followed the sound toward the logging road and saw the stranger with a dog, walking slowly up the road, looking like some kind of hippie from the sixties.
The stranger wasn't with the girls. Clayton was sure of it. The guy was too old to be a college student, for one thing; he had to be late twenties, at least. His long hair reminded Clayton of a rat's nest, and on the stranger's back, Clayton could see the outlines of a sleeping bag poking out from beneath a backpack. This was no day-tripper on the way to the beach; this guy had the appearance of someone who'd been hiking, maybe even camping out. No telling how long he'd been here or what he'd seen.
Like Clayton taking pictures?
No way. It wasn't possible. He'd been hidden from the main road, the underbrush was thick, and he would have heard someone tramping through the woods. Right? Still, it was an odd place to be hiking. They were in the middle of nowhere out here, and the last thing he wanted was a bunch of hippie losers ruining this spot for the coeds.
By then, the stranger had passed him. He was nearly to the cruiser and heading toward the Jeep that the girls had driven. Clayton stepped onto the road and cleared his throat. The stranger and the dog turned at the sound.
From a distance, Clayton continued to evaluate them. The stranger seemed unfazed by Clayton's sudden appearance, as did the dog, and there was something in the stranger's gaze that unsettled him. Like he'd almost expected Clayton to show up. Same thing with the German shepherd. The dog's expression was aloof and wary at the same time—intelligent, almost—which was the same way Panther often appeared before Moore set him loose. His stomach did a quick flip-flop. He had to force himself not to cover his privates.
For a long minute, they continued to stare at each other. Clayton had learned a long time ago that his uniform intimidated most people. Everyone, even innocent people, got nervous around the law, and he figured this guy was no exception. It was one of the reasons he loved being a deputy.
"You got a leash for your dog?" he said, making it sound more like a command than a question.
"In my backpack."
Clayton could hear no accent at all. "Johnny Carson English," as his mother used to describe it. "Put it on."
"Don't worry. He won't move unless I tell him to."
"Put it on anyway."
The stranger lowered his backpack and fished around; Clayton craned his neck, hoping for a glimpse of anything that could be construed as drugs or weapons. A moment later, the leash was attached to the dog's collar and the stranger faced him with an expression that seemed to say, Now what?
"What are you doing out here?" Clayton asked.
"Hiking."
"That's quite a pack you've got for a hike."
The stranger said nothing.
"Or maybe you were sneaking around, trying to see the sights?"
"Is that what people do when they're here?"
Clayton didn't like his tone, or the implication. "I'd like to see some identification."
The stranger bent over his backpack again and fished out his passport. He held an open palm to the dog, making the dog stay, then took a step toward Clayton and handed it over.
"No driver's license?"
"I don't have one."
Clayton studied the name, his lips moving slightly. "Logan Thibault?"
The stranger nodded.
"Where you from?"
"Colorado."
"Long trip."
"You going anywhere in particular?"
"I'm on my way to Arden."
"What's in Arden?"
"I couldn't say. I haven't been there yet."
Clayton frowned at the answer. Too slick. Too . . . challenging? Too something. Whatever. All at once, he knew he didn't like this guy. "Wait here," he said. "You don't mind if I check this out, do you?"
"Help yourself."
As Clayton headed back to the car, he glanced over his shoulder and saw Thibault reach into his backpack and pull out a small bowl before proceeding to empty a bottle of water into it. Like he didn't have a care in the world.
We'll find out, won't we? In the cruiser, Clayton radioed in the name and spelling before being interrupted by the dispatcher.
"It's Thibault, like T-bow, not Thigh-bolt. It's French."
"Why should I care how it's pronounced?"
"I was just saying—"
"Whatever, Marge. Just check it out, will you?"
"Does he look French?"
"How the hell would I know what a Frenchman looks like?"
"I'm just curious. Don't get so huffy about it. I'm a little busy here."
Yeah, real busy, Clayton thought. Eating doughnuts, most likely. Marge scarfed down at least a dozen Krispy Kremes a day. She must have weighed at least three hundred pounds.
Through the window, he could see the stranger squatting beside the dog and whispering to it as it lapped up the water. He shook his head. Talking to animals. Freak. Like the dog could understand anything other than the most basic of commands. His ex-wife used to do that, too. That woman treated dogs like people, which should have warned him to stay away from her in the first place.
"I can't find anything," he heard Marge say. She sounded like she was chewing something. "No outstanding warrants that I can see."
"You sure?"
"Yeah, I'm sure. I do know how to do my job."
As though he'd been listening in on the conversation, the stranger retrieved the bowl and slipped it back into his backpack, then slung his backpack over his shoulder.
"Have there been any other unusual calls? People loitering around, things like that?"
"No. It's been quiet this morning. And where are you, by the way? Your dad's been trying to find you."
Clayton's dad was the county sheriff.
"Tell him I'll be back in a little while."
"He seems mad."
"Just tell him I've been on patrol, okay?"
So he'll know I've been working, he didn't bother to add.
"Will do."
That's better.
"I gotta go."
He put the radio handset back in place and sat without moving, feeling the slightest trace of disappointment. It would have been fun to see how the guy handled lockup, what with that girly hair and all. The Landry brothers would have had a field day with him. They were regulars in lockup on Saturday nights: drunk and disorderly, disturbing the peace, fighting, almost always with each other. Except when they were in lockup. Then they'd pick on someone else.
He fiddled with the handle of his car door. And what was his dad mad about this time? Dude got on his nerves. Do this. Do that. You serve those papers yet? Why are you late? Where've you been? Half the time he wanted to tell the old guy to mind his own damn business. Old guy still thought he ran things around here.
No matter. He supposed he'd find out sooner or later. Now it was time to get the hippie loser out of here, before the girls came out. Place was supposed to be private, right? Hippie freaks could ruin the place.
Clayton got out of the car, closing the door behind him. The dog cocked its head to the side as Clayton approached. He handed the passport back. "Sorry for the inconvenience, Mr. Thibault." This time, he mangled the pronunciation on purpose. "Just doing my job. Unless, of course, you've got some drugs or guns in your pack."
"I don't."
"You care to let me see for myself?"
"Not really. Fourth Amendment and all."
"I see your sleeping bag there. You been camping?"
"I was in Burke County last night."
Clayton studied the guy, thinking about the answer.
"There aren't any campgrounds around here."
The guy said nothing.
It was Clayton who looked away. "You might want to keep that dog on the leash."
"I didn't think there was a leash law in this county."
"There isn't. It's for your dog's safety. Lot of cars out by the main road."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"Okay, then." Clayton turned away before pausing once more. "If you don't mind my asking, how long have you been out here?"
"I just walked up. Why?"
Something in the way he answered made Clayton wonder, and he hesitated before reminding himself again that there was no way the guy could know what he'd been up to. "No reason."
"Can I go?"
"Yeah. Okay."
Clayton watched the stranger and his dog start up the logging road before veering onto a small trail that led into the woods. Once he vanished, Clayton went back to his original vantage point to search for the camera. He poked his arm into the bushes, kicked at the pine straw, and retraced his steps a couple of times to make sure he was in the right place. Eventually, he dropped to his knees, panic beginning to settle in. The camera belonged to the sheriff's department. He'd only borrowed it for these special outings, and there'd be a lot of questions from his dad if it turned out to be lost. Worse, discovered with a card full of nudie pictures. His dad was a stickler for protocol and responsibility.
By then, a few minutes had passed. In the distance, he heard the throaty roar of an engine fire up. He assumed the coeds were leaving; only briefly did he consider what they might be thinking when they noticed his cruiser was still there. He had other issues on his mind.
The camera was gone.
Not lost. Gone. And the damn thing sure as hell didn't walk off on its own. No way the girls had found it, either. Which meant Thigh-bolt had been playing him all along. Thigh-bolt. Playing. Him. Unbelievable. He knew the guy had been acting too slick, too I Know What You Did Last Summer.
No way was he getting away with that. No grimy, hippie, dogtalking freak was ever going to show up Keith Clayton. Not in this life, anyway.
He pushed through branches heading back to the road, figuring he'd catch up to Logan Thigh-bolt and have a little look-see. And that was just for starters. More than that would follow; that much was certain. Guy plays him? That just wasn't done. Not in this town, anyway. He didn't give a damn about the dog, either. Dog gets upset? Bye, bye, doggie. Simple as that. German shepherds were weapons—there wasn't a court in the land where that wouldn't stand up.
First things first, though. Find Thibault. Get the camera. Then figure out the next step.
It was only then, while approaching his cruiser, that he realized both his rear tires were flat.
"What did you say your name was?"
Thibault leaned across the front seat of the Jeep a few minutes later, talking over the roar of the wind. "Logan Thibault." He thumbed over his shoulder. "And this is Zeus."
Zeus was in the back of the Jeep, tongue out, nose lifted to the wind as the Jeep sped toward the highway.
"Beautiful dog. I'm Amy. And this is Jennifer and Lori."
Thibault glanced over his shoulder. "Hi."
"Hey."
They seemed distracted. Not surprising, Thibault thought, considering what they'd been through. "I appreciate the ride."
"No big deal. And you said you're going to Hampton?"
"If it's not too far."
"It's right on the way."
After leaving the logging road and taking care of a couple of things, Thibault had edged back to the road just as the girls were pulling out. He'd held out his thumb, thankful that Zeus was with him, and they'd pulled over almost immediately.
Sometimes things work out just like they're supposed to.
Though he pretended otherwise, he'd actually seen the three of them earlier that morning as they'd come in—he'd camped just over the ridge from the beach—but had given them the privacy they deserved as soon as they'd started to disrobe. To his mind, what they were doing fell into the "no harm, no foul" category; aside from him, they were completely alone out here, and he had no intention of hanging around to stare. Who cared if they took their clothes off or, for that matter, dressed up in chicken costumes? It wasn't any of his business, and he'd intended to keep it that way—until he saw the deputy driving up the road in a Hampton County Sheriff's Department car.
He got a good look at the deputy through the windshield, and there was something wrong about the guy's expression. Hard to say what it was, exactly, and he didn't pause to analyze it. He turned around, cutting through the forest, and arrived in time to see the deputy checking the disk in his camera before quietly shutting the door of his cruiser. He watched him slink off toward the ridge. Thibault knew full well that the deputy could have been working officially, but he looked the way Zeus did when he was waiting for a piece of beef jerky. A little too excited about the whole thing.
Thibault had Zeus stay where he was, kept enough distance so the deputy wouldn't hear him, and the rest of the plan had come together spontaneously after that. He knew that direct confrontation was out—the deputy would have claimed he was collecting evidence, and the strength of his word against a stranger's would have been unassailable. Anything physical was out of the question, mostly because it would have caused more problems than it was worth, though he would have loved to go toe-to-toe with the guy. Luckily—or unluckily, he supposed, depending on the perspective—the girl had appeared, the deputy had panicked, and Thibault had seen where the camera had landed. Once the deputy and the girl headed back toward her friends, Thibault retrieved the camera. He could have simply left at that point, but the guy needed to be taught a lesson. Not a big lesson, just a lesson that would keep the girls' honor intact, allow Thibault to be on his way, and ruin the deputy's day. Which was why he'd doubled back to flatten the deputy's tires.
"Oh, that reminds me," Thibault volunteered. "I found your camera in the woods."
"It's not mine. Lori or Jen—did either of you lose a camera?"
Both of them shook their heads.
"Keep it anyway," Thibault said, putting it on the seat, "and thanks for the ride. I've already got one."
"You sure? It's probably expensive."
"Positive."
"Thanks."
Thibault noted the shadows playing on her features, thinking she was attractive in a big-city kind of way, with sharp features, olive skin, and brown eyes flecked with hazel. He could imagine staring at her for hours.
"Hey . . . you doing anything this weekend?" Amy asked. "We're all going out to the beach."
"I appreciate the offer, but I can't."
"I'll bet you're going to see your girlfriend, aren't you."
"What makes you say that?"
"You have that way about you."
He forced himself to turn away. "Something like that."
Copyright © 2008 by Nicholas Sparks
"A tender and moving love story and a quick read, Sparks's latest does not disappoint." - Publishers Weekly
Seventeen year old Veronica "Ronnie" Miller's life was turned upside-down when her parents divorced and her father moved from New York City to Wilmington, North Carolina. Three years later, she remains angry and alienated from her parents, especially her father... until her mother decides it would be in everyone's best interest if she spent the summer in Wilmington with him. Ronnie's father, a former concert pianist and teacher, is living a quiet life in the beach town, immersed in creating a work of art that will become the centerpiece of a local church.
The tale that unfolds is an unforgettable story of love on many levels--first love, love between parents and children -- that demonstrates, as only a Nicholas Sparks novel can, the many ways that love can break our hearts...and heal them.
PROLOGUE Ronnie
Staring out the bedroom window, Ronnie wondered whether Pastor Harris was already at the church. She assumed that he was, and as she watched the waves breaking over the beach, she questioned whether he was still able to notice the play of light as it streamed through the stained glass window above him. Perhaps not – the window had been installed more than a month ago, after all, and he was probably too preoccupied to notice anymore. Still, she hoped that someone new in town had stumbled into the church this morning and experienced the same sense of wonder she had when she’d first seen the light flood the church on that cold day in November. And she hoped the visitor had taken some time to consider where the window had come from, and to admire its beauty.
She’d been awake for an hour, but she wasn’t ready to face the day. The holidays felt different this year. Yesterday, she’d taken her younger brother Jonah for a walk down the beach. Here and there, were Christmas trees on the decks of the houses they passed. At this time of year, they had the beach pretty much to themselves, but Jonah showed no interest in either the waves or the seagulls that had fascinated him only a few months earlier. Instead, he’d wanted to go to the workshop and she’d taken him there, although he’d stayed only a few minutes before leaving without saying a single word.
On the bed stand beside her lay a stack of framed photographs from the alcove of the small beach house, along with other items she’d collected that morning. In the silence, she studied them until she was interrupted by a knocking at the door. Her mom poked her head in.
“Do you want some breakfast? I found some cereal in the cupboard.”
“I’m not hungry, Mom.”
“You need to eat, sweetie.”
Ronnie continued to stare at the pile of photos, seeing nothing at all. “I was wrong, Mom. And I don’t know what to do now.”
“You mean about your dad?”
“About everything.”
“Do you want to talk about it?”
When Ronnie didn’t answer, her mom crossed the room and sat beside her. “Sometimes it helps if you talk. You’ve been so quiet these last couple of days.”
For an instant, Ronnie felt a crush of memories overwhelm her; the fire and subsequent rebuilding of the church, the stained glass window, the song she’d finally finished. She thought about Blaze and Scott and Marcus. She thought about Will. She was eighteen years old and remembering the summer she’d been betrayed, the summer she’d been arrested, the summer she’d fallen in love. It hadn’t been so long ago, and yet sometimes she felt that she’d been an altogether different person back then.
Ronnie sighed. “What about Jonah?”
“He’s not here. Brian took him to the shoe store. He’s like a puppy. His feet are growing faster than the rest of him.”
Ronnie smiled briefly, but it faded as quickly as it had come. In the silence that followed, she felt her mom gather her long hair and twist it into a loose ponytail on her back. Her mom had been doing that ever since Ronnie was a little girl. Strangely, she still found it comforting. Not that she’d ever admit it, of course.
“I’ll tell you what,” her mom went on. She stood up and went to the closet and put the suitcase on the bed. “Why don’t you talk while you pack?”
“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”
“How about at the beginning? Jonah mentioned something about turtles?”
Ronnie crossed her arms, knowing the story hadn’t started there. “Not really,” she said. “Even though I wasn’t there when it happened, I think the summer really began with the fire.”
“What fire?"
Ronnie reached for the stack of photographs on the bed stand and gently removed a tattered newspaper article sandwiched between two framed photos. She handed the yellowing newsprint to her mother.
“This fire,” she said. “The one at the church.”
* * *
Illegal Fireworks Suspected in Church Blaze Pastor Injured Wrightsville Beach, NC – A fire destroyed historic First Baptist Church on New Year’s Eve, and investigators suspect illegal fireworks. Firefighters were summoned by an anonymous caller to the beachfront church just after midnight, and found flames and smoke pouring from the back of the structure, said Tim Ryan, chief of the Wrightsville Beach Fire Department. The remains of a bottle-rocket, an airborne firework, were found at the source of the blaze. Pastor Charlie Harris was inside the church when the fire started, and suffered second-degree burns to his arms and hands. He was transported to New Hanover Regional Medical Center and is currently in the intensive care unit. It was the second church fire in as many months in New Hanover County. In November, Good Hope Covenant church in Wilmington was completely destroyed. “Investigators are still treating it as suspicious, and as a potential arson at this point,” Ryan noted. Witnesses report that less than twenty minutes before the fire, bottle rockets were seen being launched on the beach behind the church, likely in celebration of the new year. “Bottle rockets are illegal in North Carolina, and are especially dangerous considering the recent drought conditions,” cautioned Ryan. “This fire shows the reason why. A man is in the hospital and the church is a total loss.”
Illegal Fireworks Suspected in Church Blaze Pastor Injured
Wrightsville Beach, NC – A fire destroyed historic First Baptist Church on New Year’s Eve, and investigators suspect illegal fireworks. Firefighters were summoned by an anonymous caller to the beachfront church just after midnight, and found flames and smoke pouring from the back of the structure, said Tim Ryan, chief of the Wrightsville Beach Fire Department. The remains of a bottle-rocket, an airborne firework, were found at the source of the blaze. Pastor Charlie Harris was inside the church when the fire started, and suffered second-degree burns to his arms and hands. He was transported to New Hanover Regional Medical Center and is currently in the intensive care unit. It was the second church fire in as many months in New Hanover County. In November, Good Hope Covenant church in Wilmington was completely destroyed. “Investigators are still treating it as suspicious, and as a potential arson at this point,” Ryan noted. Witnesses report that less than twenty minutes before the fire, bottle rockets were seen being launched on the beach behind the church, likely in celebration of the new year. “Bottle rockets are illegal in North Carolina, and are especially dangerous considering the recent drought conditions,” cautioned Ryan. “This fire shows the reason why. A man is in the hospital and the church is a total loss.”
When her mom finished reading, she looked up, meeting Ronnie’s eyes. Ronnie waited, and with a sigh, she began to tell a story that, even with the benefit of hindsight, still felt utterly senseless to her.
It would later be called one of the most violent storms in North Carolina history. Because it occurred in 1999, some of the most superstitious citizens considered it an omen, the first step toward the end of time. Others simply shook their heads and said that they knew something like that would happen sooner or later. In all, nine documented tornadoes would touch down that evening in the eastern part of the state, destroying nearly thirty homes in the process. Telephone lines lay strewn across roads, transformers blazed without anyone to stop them. Thousands of trees were felled, flash floods swept over banks of three major rivers, and lives changed forever with one fell swoop of Mother Nature.
It had begun in an instant. One minute it was cloudy and dark, but not unusually so; in the next, lightning, gale-force winds, and blinding rain exploded from the early summer sky. The system had blown in from the northwest and was crossing the state at nearly forty miles an hour. All at once, radio stations crackled with emergency warnings, documenting the storm's ferocity. People who could took cover inside, but people on the highway, like Denise Holton, had no place to go. Now that she was firmly in its midst, there was little she could do. Rain fell so hard in places that traffic slowed to five miles an hour and Denise held the wheel with white knuckles, her face a mask of concentration. At times it was impossible to see the road through the windshield, but stopping meant certain disaster because of the people on the highway behind her. They wouldn't be able to see her car with time enough to stop. Pulling the shoulder strap of the seat belt over her head, she leaned over the steering wheel, looking for the dotted lines in the road, catching a glimpse here and there. There were long stretches during which she felt as if she were driving on instinct alone, because nothing was visible at all. Like an ocean wave, rain poured across her windshield, obscuring nearly everything. Her headlights seemed absolutely useless, and she wanted to stop, but where? Where would it be safe? On the side of the highway? People were swerving all over the road, as blind as she was. She made an instant decision -- somehow, moving seemed safer. Her eyes darted from the road, to the taillights in front of her, to the rearview mirror; she hoped and prayed that everyone else on the road was doing the same thing. Looking for anything that would keep them safe. Anything at all.
Then, just as suddenly as it had started, the storm weakened and it was possible to see again. She suspected she'd reached the front edge of the system; everyone on the road apparently guessed the same thing. Despite the slick conditions, cars began to speed up, racing to stay ahead of the front. Denise sped up as well, staying with them. Ten minutes later, the rains still evident but slowing even more, she glanced at the gas gauge and felt a knot form in her stomach. She knew she had to stop soon. She didn't have enough gas to make it home.
Minutes went by.
The flow of traffic kept her vigilant. Thanks to a new moon, there was little light in the sky. She glanced at the dashboard again. The needle on the gas gauge was deep into the red shaded area. Despite her fears about staying ahead of the storm, she slowed the car, hoping to conserve what was left, hoping it would be enough. Hoping to stay ahead of the storm.
People began to race by, the spray against her windshield wreaking havoc with her wipers. She pressed onward.
From the world's most beloved chronicler of the heart comes this astonishing story of everlasting love. Here, endings bring new beginnings and tragedies lead to unexpected joy, as the tale begun in True Believer continues.
There are a few things Jeremy Marsh was sure he'd never do: He'd never leave New York City; never give his heart away after barely surviving one failed marriage; and never become a parent.Now Jeremy is living in the tiny town of Boone Creek, North Carolina, engaged to Lexie Darnell, the love of his life, and anticipating the start of their family. But just as everything seems to be settling into a blissful pattern, a mysterious e-mail sets off a chain of events that will test the strength of their commitment. Capturing all the heartbreak, tension, and romance of the newly wed, AT FIRST SIGHT explores the love between a man and a woman and between a parent and a child-and reveals an extraordinary truth: that the emotion that can break your heart is sometimes the very one that heals it"An ending that surprises."— New York Times Book Review"Nicholas Sparks is one of the best-known writers in America and overseas for good reason: He has written stories that reveal the yearning for our most prized possession: love." — Mobile Register"Highly recommended. Nicholas Sparks can take a simple plot and turn it into a masterwork of art...The author does an excellent job of making the characters appear so real…and will keep you guessing what is going to happen. Be prepared for a surprise ending."— BestsellersWorld.com"Sheds light on the quirks couples discover in each other, and the frustration that can ensue…AT FIRST SIGHT delves deeper still-into the more serious realities of life and love."— New Bern Sun-Journal (NC)"A tender, poignant tale…Never expect the expected when you pick up a Nicholas Sparks novel. You have no idea of the journey you are about to experience…Prepare to laugh, cry, and fall in love all over again!"— RoundTableReviews.com"Entertaining…sweet and natural." — Charlotte Observer"A continuing saga of extraordinary love."— BookPage"The book is character-driven, with the emotional impact that protagonists in The Notebook, Message in a Bottle, The Guardian, and The Wedding have left on readers…should join Sparks's earlier novels in stature." — BookReporter.comNicholas Sparks Website
At First Sight by Nicholas Sparks
One
Five Years Earlier New York City, 2000
See, it’s simple,” Alvin said. “First, you meet a nice girl, and then you date for a while to make sure you share the same values. See if you two are compatible in the big, ‘this is our life and we’re in it together’ decisions. You know, talk about which family you’re going to visit on the holidays, whether you want to live in a house or an apartment, whether to get a dog or a cat, who gets to use the shower first in the morning, while there’s still plenty of hot water. If you two are still pretty much in agreement, then you get married. Are you following me here?”
“I’m following you,” Jeremy said.
Jeremy Marsh and Alvin Bernstein were standing in Jeremy’s Upper West Side apartment on a cool Saturday afternoon in February. They’d been packing for hours, and boxes were strewn everywhere. Some of the boxes were already filled and had been stacked near the door, ready for the moving van; others were in various stages of completion. All in all, it looked as if a Tasmanian devil had burst through the door, had himself a party, then left once there was nothing else to be destroyed. Jeremy couldn’t believe how much junk he’d accumulated over the years, a fact that his fiancée, Lexie Darnell, had been pointing out all morning. Twenty minutes ago, after throwing up her hands in frustration, Lexie had gone to have lunch with Jeremy’s mother, leaving Jeremy and Alvin alone for the first time.
“So what on earth do you think you’re doing?” Alvin prodded.
“Just what you said.”
“No, you’re not. You’re messing up the order. You’re going straight to the big ‘I do’ before you even figured out whether you two are right for each other. You barely know Lexie.”
Jeremy shoved another drawer’s worth of clothing into a box, wishing Alvin would change the subject. “I know her.”
Alvin began shuffling through a few papers on Jeremy’s desk, then shoved the stack into the same box Jeremy was loading. As Jeremy’s best friend, he felt free to speak his mind.
“I’m just trying to be honest here, and you should know that I’m saying what everyone else in your family has been thinking in the past few weeks. The point is, you don’t know her well enough to move down there, let alone marry her. You only spent a week with her. This isn’t like you and Maria,” he added, referring to Jeremy’s ex. “Remember, I knew Maria, too, a whole lot better than you know Lexie, but I still never felt as if I knew her well enough to marry her.”
Jeremy removed the pages and put them back on his desk, recalling that Alvin had known Maria even before he had and still remained friends with her. “So?”
“So? What if I was doing this? What if I came to you and said I met this great lady, so I’m giving up my career, abandoning my friends and family, and moving down south so I can marry her? Like that gal . . . what’s her name . . . Rachel?”
Rachel worked at Lexie’s grandmother’s restaurant, and Alvin had hit on her during his short visit to Boone Creek, going so far as to invite her to New York.
“I’d say that I was happy for you.”
“Puh-lease. Don’t you remember what you said when I was thinking about marrying Eva?”
“I remember. But this is different.”
“Oh yeah, I get it. Because you’re more mature than me.”
“That and the fact that Eva wasn’t exactly the marrying type.”
This was true, Alvin admitted. While Lexie was a small-town librarian in the rural South, someone hoping to settle down, Eva was a tattoo artist in Jersey City. She was the woman who’d done most of the tattoos on Alvin’s arms, in addition to most of the piercings in Alvin’s ears, making Alvin look as if he’d just been released from prison. None of which had bothered Alvin; it was the live-in boyfriend that she’d neglected to tell him about that finally doomed their relationship.
“Even Maria thinks this is crazy.”
“You told her?”
“Of course I told her. We talk about everything.”
“I’m glad you’re so close to my ex-wife. But it’s none of her business. Or yours.”
“I’m just trying to talk some sense into you. This is happening too fast. You don’t know Lexie.”
“Why do you keep saying that?”
“I’m going to keep saying it until you finally admit that you two are basically strangers.”
Alvin, like Jeremy’s five older brothers, had never learned how to drop a subject. The man was like a dog with a bone, Jeremy decided.
“She’s not a stranger.”
“No? Then what’s her middle name?”
“What?”
“You heard me. Tell me Lexie’s middle name.”
Jeremy blinked. “What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing. But if you’re going to marry her, don’t you think you should be able to answer the question?”
Jeremy opened his mouth to answer, then realized he didn’t know. Lexie had never told him, nor had he ever asked. Alvin, as if sensing that he was finally getting through to his delusional friend, pressed on.
“Okay, how about these basics? What was her major in college? Who were her friends in college? What’s her favorite color? Does she like white or whole-wheat bread? What’s her favorite movie or television show? Who’s her favorite author? Do you even know how old she is?”
“She’s in her thirties,” Jeremy offered.
“In her thirties? I could have told you that.”
“I’m pretty sure she’s thirty-one.”
“You’re ‘pretty sure’? Can you even hear how ridiculous you sound? You can’t marry someone if you don’t even know how old she is.”
Jeremy opened another drawer and emptied it into another box, knowing that Alvin had a point but not wanting to admit it. Instead, he drew a long breath.
“I thought you were happy I finally found someone,” he said.
“I am happy for you. But I didn’t think you were actually going to move from New York and decide to marry her. I thought you were kidding about that. You know I think she’s a great lady. She really is, and if you’re still this serious about her in a year or two, I’ll drag you down the aisle myself. You’re just rushing things, and there’s no reason to.”
Jeremy turned toward the window; beyond the glass he saw gray, soot-covered bricks framing the functional, rectangular windows of a neighboring building. Shadowed images swept past: a lady talking on the phone; a man wrapped in a towel headed for the bathroom; another woman ironing as she watched television. In all the time he’d lived here, he’d never said so much as hello to any of them.
“She’s pregnant,” he finally said.
For a moment, Alvin thought he hadn’t heard correctly. It was only when he saw the expression on his friend’s face that he realized Jeremy wasn’t kidding.
“She’s pregnant?”
“It’s a girl.”
Alvin plopped down on the bed as if his legs had suddenly given out. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
Jeremy shrugged. “She asked me not to tell anyone yet. So keep it a secret, will you?”
“Yeah,” Alvin said, sounding dazed. “Sure.”
“And one more thing.”
Alvin looked up.
Jeremy reached for his shoulder. “I’d like you to be my best man.”
How had it happened?
Strolling with Lexie as she explored FAO Schwarz the next day, he still had trouble answering that question. Not the pregnancy part; that was a night he’d probably remember forever. Despite the brave front he’d put on for Alvin, it sometimes felt as if he were about to play a part in a crowd-pleasing romantic comedy, one in which anything was possible and nothing was certain until the final credits rolled.
What happened to him, after all, didn’t usually happen. In fact, it almost never happened. Who travels to a small town to write an article for Scientific American, meets a small-town librarian, and falls head over heels in just a few days? Who decides to leave behind a chance at morning television and life in New York City to move to Boone Creek, North Carolina, a town that was nothing more than a hiccup on the map?
So many questions these days.
Not that he was second-guessing himself about what he was about to do. In fact, as he watched Lexie sorting through stacks of GI Joes and Barbies—she wanted to surprise his many nieces and nephews with gifts in the hope of making a good impression—he felt more certain than ever about his decision. He smiled, already visualizing the kind of life he was about to settle into. Quiet dinners, romantic walks, giggling and cuddling in front of the television. Good stuff, stuff that made life worthwhile. He wasn’t naive enough to believe they’d never have an argument or struggle, but he had no doubt they would navigate those rough waters successfully, realizing in the end that they were perfectly matched. In the big picture, life would be wonderful.
But as Lexie nudged past him, lost in concentration, Jeremy found himself staring at another couple standing by a pile of stuffed animals. Actually, the couple was impossible not to notice. They were in their early thirties and sharply dressed; he had the air of an investment banker or an attorney, while his wife came across like someone who spent every afternoon at Bloomingdale’s. They were loaded with half a dozen bags from half a dozen different stores. The diamond on her finger was the size of a marble—far larger than the engagement ring he’d just purchased for Lexie. As Jeremy watched, he had no doubt that they usually brought along a nanny on an outing like this, simply because they seemed completely bewildered as to what they were supposed to do.
The baby in the stroller was screaming, the kind of piercing wail that peeled wallpaper and made others in the store stop in their tracks. At exactly the same time, her older brother—maybe four or so—was screaming even more loudly and suddenly threw himself down on the floor. The parents wore the panicked, shell-shocked expressions of soldiers under fire, and it was impossible not to notice the bags under their eyes and the translucent pallor of their faces. Despite the impeccable facade, they were plainly at the end of their rope. The mother finally worked the baby free from the stroller and held the infant against her as the husband leaned toward her, patting the baby’s back.
“Don’t you think I’m trying to quiet her down?” she barked. “Deal with Elliot!”
Chastised, the man bent down toward his son, who was kicking and pounding the floor, throwing the mother of all temper tantrums.
“Stop that screaming right now!” the husband said sternly, shaking his finger.
Oh yeah, Jeremy thought. Like that’s going to do it.
Elliot, meanwhile, was turning purple as he writhed on the floor.
By that point, even Lexie had stopped browsing and turned her attention to the couple. It was, Jeremy thought, sort of like staring at a woman who mowed her lawn in her bikini, the kind of spectacle impossible to ignore. The baby screamed, Elliot screamed, the wife screamed at the father to do something, the father screamed back that he was trying.
A crowd had gathered, ringing the happy family. The women seemed to be watching them with a mixture of thankfulness and pity: thankful that it wasn’t happening to them, but knowing—most likely from experience—exactly what the young couple was going through. The men, on the other hand, seemed to want nothing more than to get as far away from the noise as possible.
Elliot banged his head on the floor and began to scream even louder.
“Let’s just go!” the mother finally snapped.
“Don’t you think that’s what I’m trying to do?” the father barked.
“Pick him up.”
“I’m trying!” he shouted in exasperation.
Elliot wanted no part of his father. As his father finally grabbed him, Elliot wiggled like an angry snake. His head flailed from side to side, and his legs never stopped moving. Beads of sweat began to form on his father’s forehead, and he was grimacing with the effort. Elliot, on the other hand, seemed to be getting larger, a mini Hulk expanding with rage.
Somehow the parents were able to get moving, weighed down with shopping bags, pushing the stroller, and managing to keep hold of both children. The crowd parted as if Moses were approaching the Red Sea, and the family finally vanished from sight, the slowly fading wails the only evidence they’d ever been there.
The crowd began to disperse. Jeremy and Lexie, however, stood frozen in place.
“Those poor people,” said Jeremy, suddenly wondering if this was what his life would be like in a couple of years.
“You’re telling me,” Lexie agreed, as if fearful of the same thing.
Jeremy continued to stare, listening as the wailing finally ceased. The family must have left the store.
“Our child will never throw a tantrum like that,” Jeremy announced.
“Never.” Consciously or subconsciously, Lexie had placed her hand on her belly. “That definitely wasn’t normal.”
“And the parents didn’t seem to have any idea what they were doing,” Jeremy said. “Did you see him trying to talk to his son? Like he was in the boardroom?”
“Ridiculous.” Lexie nodded. “And the way they were snapping at each other? Kids can sense the tension. No wonder the parents couldn’t control them.”
“It’s like they had no idea what to do.”
“I don’t think they did.”
“How could they not?”
“Maybe they’re just too caught up in their own lives to take enough time with their children.”
Jeremy, still frozen in place, watched the last of the crowd vanish. “It definitely wasn’t normal,” he offered again.
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
Okay, so they were deluding themselves. Deep down, Jeremy knew it, Lexie knew it, but it was easier to pretend that they would never be confronted with a situation like the one they’d just witnessed. Because they were going to be more prepared. More dedicated. Kinder and more patient. More loving.
And the child . . . well, she would thrive in the environment he and Lexie would create. There was no doubt about that. As an infant, she’d sleep through the night; as a toddler, she would delight with her early vocabulary and above average motor skills. She would maneuver the minefields of adolescence with aplomb, stay away from drugs, and frown on R-rated movies. By the time she left home, she would be polite and well mannered, she would have received high enough grades to be accepted to Harvard, become an all-American in swimming, and still would have found enough time during the summers to volunteer for Habitat for Humanity.
Jeremy clung to the fantasy until his shoulders slumped. Despite having zero experience in the parenting department, he knew it couldn’t be that easy. Besides, he was getting way ahead of himself.
An hour later, they were sitting in the back of a cab, stuck in traffic, on the way to Queens. Lexie was thumbing through a recently purchased copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting as Jeremy watched the world beyond the windows. It was their last night in New York—he’d brought Lexie up to meet his family—and his parents were planning a small get-together at their home in Queens. Small, of course, was a relative term; with five brothers and their wives and nineteen nieces and nephews, the house would be packed, as it often was. Even though Jeremy was looking forward to it, he couldn’t quite get his mind off the couple they’d just seen. They’d seemed so . . . normal. Aside from the exhaustion, that is. He wondered whether he and Lexie would end up that way or whether they’d somehow be spared.
Maybe Alvin had been right. Partially, anyway. Though he adored Lexie—and he was sure he did, or he wouldn’t have proposed—he couldn’t claim to really know her. They simply hadn’t had time for that, and the more he thought about it, the more he believed that it would have been nice for him and Lexie to have had a chance to be a regular couple for a while. He’d been married before, and he knew it took time to learn how to live with another person. To get used to the quirks, so to speak. Everyone had them, but until you really knew someone, they tended to be hidden. He wondered what Lexie’s were. For instance, what if she slept with one of those green masks that were supposed to keep wrinkles at bay? Would he really be happy waking up and seeing that every morning?
“What are you thinking about?” Lexie asked.
“Huh?”
“I asked what you’re thinking about. You have a funny expression on your face.”
“It’s nothing.”
She stared at him. “Big nothing, or nothing-nothing?”
He turned to face her, frowning. “What’s your middle name?”
Over the next few minutes, Jeremy went through the series of questions Alvin had proposed and learned the following: Her middle name was Marin; she had majored in English; her best friend in college was named Susan; purple was her favorite color; she preferred whole wheat; she liked watching Trading Spaces; she thought Jane Austen was fabulous; and she would, in fact, turn thirty-two on September 13.
So there.
He leaned back in his seat, satisfied, as Lexie continued to thumb through the book. She wasn’t actually reading it, he figured, just skimming passages here and there in hopes of getting some sort of head start. He wondered if she had done something similar whenever she had to study in college.
As Alvin had implied, there really was a lot about her that he didn’t know. But at the same time, there was a great deal he did know. An only child, she’d been raised in Boone Creek, North Carolina. Her parents had been killed in an automobile accident when she was young, and she had been raised by her maternal grandparents, Doris and . . . and . . . He decided he’d have to ask about that. Anyway, she’d gone to college at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, been in love with a guy named Avery, and had actually lived in New York City for a year, where she’d interned at the NYU library. Avery ended up cheating on her, and she went back home and became the head librarian in Boone Creek, as her mother had been before she’d passed away. Some time later, she’d fallen for someone she referred to vaguely as Mr. Renaissance, but he’d left town without looking back. Since then she’d led a quiet life, dating the local deputy sheriff now and then, until Jeremy came along. And oh yeah: Doris—who owned a restaurant in Boone Creek—also claimed to have psychic powers, including the ability to predict the sex of babies, which was how Lexie knew their baby would be a girl.
All of which, he admitted, everyone in Boone Creek also knew. But did they also know that she tucked her hair behind her ears whenever she got nervous? Or that she was a wonderful cook? Or that when she needed a break, she liked to retreat to a cottage near the Cape Hatteras Lighthouse, where her parents had been married? Or that in addition to being both intelligent and beautiful, with violet eyes, a slightly exotic, oval face, and dark hair, she had seen right through his ham-fisted attempts to charm her into the bedroom? He liked the fact that Lexie didn’t let him get away with anything, spoke her mind, and stood up to him when she thought he was in error. Somehow, she was able to do those things while still projecting a charm and femininity that was underscored by a sultry southern accent. Add in the fact that she was downright stunning in tight jeans, and Jeremy had fallen head over heels.
And as for him? What could she say she knew about Jeremy? Most of the basics, he thought. That he’d grown up in Queens as the youngest of six in an Irish-Italian family and that he’d once intended to become a professor of mathematics but realized he had a knack for writing and ended up becoming a columnist for Scientific American, where he often debunked the allegedly supernatural. That he’d been married years earlier to a woman named Maria, who eventually left him after they’d made numerous trips to a fertility clinic and were finally told by a doctor that Jeremy was medically unable to father a child. That he’d spent too many years afterward trolling the bars and dating countless women, trying to avoid serious relationships, as if subconsciously knowing he couldn’t be a good husband. That at the age of thirty-seven, he’d gone to Boone Creek to investigate the regular appearance of ghostly lights in the town cemetery in the hope of landing a guest commentator gig on Good Morning America but found that he spent most of his time thinking about Lexie. They’d spent four enchanting days together followed by a heated argument, and though he’d headed back to New York, he’d realized that he couldn’t imagine a life without her and had returned to prove it to her. In exchange, she had placed his hand on her belly, and he finally became a true believer—at least when it came to the miracle of pregnancy and a chance at fatherhood, something he’d never considered possible.
He smiled, thinking it was a pretty good story. Maybe even good enough for a novel.
The point was, as much as she’d tried to resist his charms, she’d fallen for him, too. Glancing over at her, he wondered why. Not that he considered himself repulsive, but what was it that drew two people together? In the past, he’d written numerous columns about the principle of attraction and could discuss the role of pheromones, dopamine, and biological instincts, but none of this came close to explaining the way he felt about Lexie. Or presumably the way she felt about him. Nor could he explain it. All he knew was that they fit somehow and that he felt as if he’d spent most of his life traveling a path that led inexorably to her.
It was a romantic vision, even poetic, and Jeremy had never been prone to poetic thoughts. Maybe that was another reason he knew she was the one. Because she’d opened his heart and mind to new feelings and ideas. But whatever the reason, as he rode in the car with his lovely bride-to-be, he was content with whatever might happen to them in the future.
He reached for her hand.
Did it really matter, after all, that he was abandoning his home in New York City and putting his future career plans on hold to move to the middle of nowhere? Or that he was about to embark on a year in which he had to plan a wedding, set up their household, and prepare for a baby?
How hard could it be?
Copyright © 2005 by Nicholas Sparks
Every April, when the wind blows in from the sea and mingles with the scent of lilacs, Landon Carter remembers his last year at Beaufort High.
It was 1958, and Landon had already dated a girl or two. He even swore that he had once been in love. Certainly the last person in town he thought he'd fall for was Jamie Sullivan, the daughter of the town's Baptist minister.
A quiet girl who always carried a Bible with her schoolbooks, Jamie seemed content living in a world apart from the other teens. She took care of her widowed father, rescued hurt animals, and helped out at the local orphanage. No boy had ever asked her out.
Landon would never have dreamed of it. Then a twist of fate made Jamie his partner for the homecoming dance, and Landon Carter's life would never be the same. Being with Jamie would show him the depths of the human heart and lead him to a decision so stunning it would send him irrevocably on the road to manhood . . .
No other author today touches our emotions more deeply than Nicholas Sparks. Illuminating both the strength and the gossamer fragility of our deepest emotions, his two New York Times bestsellers, The Notebook and Message in a Bottle, have established him as the leading author of today's most cherished love stories. Now, in A WALK TO REMEMBER, he tells a truly unforgettable story, one that glimmers with all of his magic, holding us spell-bound -- and reminding us that in life each of us may find one great love, the kind that changes everything . . .
Back then, the big event of the year was sponsored by the Baptist church downtown -- Southern, if you really want to know -- in conjunction with the local high school. Every year they put on their Christmas pageant at the Beaufort Playhouse, which was actually a play that had been written by Hegbert Sullivan, a minister who'd been with the church since Moses parted the Red Sea. Okay, maybe he wasn't that old, but he was old enough that you could almost see through the guy's skin. It was sort of clammy all the time, and translucent -- kids would swear they actually saw the blood flowing through his veins -- and his hair was as white as those bunnies you see in pet stores around Easter.
Anyway, he wrote this play called The Christmas Angel, because he didn't want to keep on performing that old Charles Dickens classic A Christmas Carol. In his mind Scrooge was a heathen, who came to his redemption only because he saw ghosts, not angels -- and who was to say whether they'd been sent by God, anyway? And who was to say he wouldn't revert to his sinful ways if they hadn't been sent directly from heaven? The play didn't exactly tell you in the end -- it sort of plays into faith and all -- but Hegbert didn't trust ghosts if they weren't actually sent by God, which wasn't explained in plain language, and this was his big problem with it. A few years back he'd changed the end of the play -- sort of followed it up with his own version, complete with old man Scrooge becoming a preacher and all, heading off to Jerusalem to find the place where Jesus once taught the scribes. It didn't fly too well -- not even to the congregation, who sat in the audience staring wide-eyed at the spectacle -- and the newspaper said things like "Though it was certainly interesting, it wasn't exactly the play we've all come to know and love...."
So Hegbert decided to try his hand at writing his own play.
The smoke from Miles's cigarette swirled upward and he could feel the humidity rising, thickening the air. In time, the birds began their morning songs, the trill whistles filling the air. A small bass boat passed by, the fisherman waved, and Miles acknowledged the gesture with a slight nod. It was all the energy he could summon.
He needed a cup of coffee. A little java and he'd feel ready enough to face the day -- getting Jonah off to school, keeping rein on the locals who flouted the law, posting eviction notices throughout the county, as well as handling whatever else inevitably cropped up, like meeting with Jonah's teacher later in the afternoon. And that was just for starters. The evenings, if anything, seemed even busier. There was always so much to do, simply to keep the household running smoothly: paying the bills, shopping, cleaning, repairing things around the house. Even in those rare moments when Miles found himself with a little free time on his hands, he felt as if he had to take advantage of it right away or he'd lose the opportunity. Quick, find something to read. Hurry up, there's only a few minutes to relax. Close your eyes, in a little while there won't be any time. It was enough to wear anyone down for a while, but what could he do about it?
He really needed the coffee. The nicotine wasn't cutting it anymore, and he thought about throwing the cigarettes out, but then it didn't matter whether he did or not. In his mind, he didn't really smoke. Sure, he had a few cigarettes during the course of the day, but that wasn't real smoking. It wasn't as though he burned through a pack a day, and it wasn't as if he'd been doing it his whole life, either; he'd started after Missy had died, and he could stop anytime he wanted. But why bother? Hell, his lungs were in good shape -- just last week, he'd had to run after a shoplifter and had no trouble catching the kid. A smoker couldn't do that.
Then again, it hadn't been as easy as it was when he'd been twenty-two. But that was ten years ago, and even if thirty-two didn't mean it was time to start looking into nursing homes, he was getting older. And he could feel it, too -- there was a time during college when he and his friends would start their evenings at eleven o'clock and proceed to stay out the rest of the night. In the last few years, except for those times he was working, eleven o'clock was late, and if he had trouble falling asleep, he went to bed anyway. He couldn't imagine any reason strong enough to make him want to stay up. Exhaustion had become a permanent fixture in his life. Even on those nights when Jonah didn't have his nightmares -- he'd been having them on and off since Missy died -- Miles still awoke feeling... tired. Unfocused. Sluggish, as if he were moving around underwater. Most of the time, he attributed this to the hectic life he lived; but sometimes he wondered if there wasn't something more seriously wrong with him. He'd read once that one of the symptoms of clinical depression was "undue lethargy, without reason or cause." Of course, he did have cause...
An angry rebel, John dropped out of school and enlisted in the Army, not knowing what else to do with his life--until he meets Savannah, the girl of his dreams. Their mutual attraction quickly grows into the kind of love that leaves Savannah waiting for John to finish his tour of duty, and John wanting to settle down with the woman who has captured his heart. But 9/11 changes everything. John feels it is his duty to re-enlist. And sadly, the long separation finds Savannah falling in love with someone else. "Dear John,"ť the letter read...and with those two words, a heart was broken and two lives were changed forever. Returning home, John must come to grips with the fact that Savannah, now married, is still his true love--and face the hardest decision of his life.
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In the tradition of A Walk to Remember, this is a story of a teenage girl and her first encounter with heartbreak - and love.
Seventeen year old Veronica "Ronnie" Miller's life was turned upside–down when her parents divorced and her father moved from New York City to Wilmington, North Carolina. Three years later, she remains angry and alientated from her parents, especially her father...until her mother decides it would be in everyone's best interest if she spent the summer in Wilmington with him. Ronnie's father, a former concert pianist and teacher, is living a quiet life in the beach town, immersed in creating a work of art that will become the centerpiece of a local church.
The tale that unfolds is an unforgettable story of love on many levels––first love, love between parents and children –– that demonstrates, as only a Nicholas Sparks novel can, the many ways that love can break our hearts...and heal them.
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Like that of all bottles left to the whim of the oceans, its course was unpredictable. Winds and currents play large roles in any bottle's direction; storms and debris may shift its course as well. Occasionally a fishing net will snag a bottle and carry it a dozen miles in the opposite direction in which it was headed. The result is that two bottles dropped simultaneously into the ocean might end up a continent apart, or even on opposite sides of the globe. There is no way to predict where a bottle might travel, and that is part of its mystery.
This mystery has intrigued people for as long as there have been bottles, and a few people have tried to learn more about it. In 1929 a crew of German scientists set out to track the journey of one particular bottle. It was set to sea in the South Indian Ocean with a note inside asking the finder to record the location where it washed up and to throw it back into the sea. By 1935 it had rounded the world and traveled approximately sixteen thousand miles, the longest distance officially recorded.
Messages in bottles have been chronicled for centuries and include some of the most famous names in history. Ben Franklin, for instance, used message-carrying bottles to compile a basic knowledge of East Coast currents in the mid-1700s -- information that is still in use to this day. Even now the U.S. Navy uses bottles to compile information on tides and currents, and they are frequently used to track the direction of oil spills.
The most celebrated message ever sent concerned a young sailor in 1784, Chunosuke Matsuyama, who was stranded on a coral reef, devoid of food and water after his boat was shipwrecked. Before his death, he carved the account of what had happened on a piece of wood, then sealed the message in a bottle. In 1935, 150 years after it had been set afloat, it washed up in the small seaside village in Japan where Matsuyama had been born.
The bottle that had been dropped on a warm summer evening, however, did not contain a message about a shipwreck, nor was it being used to chart the seas. But it did contain a message that would change two people forever, two people who would otherwise never have met, and for this reason it could be called a fated message. For six days it slowly floated in a northeasterly direction, driven by winds from a high-pressure system hovering above the Gulf of Mexico. On the seventh day the winds died, and the bottle steered itself directly eastward, eventually finding its way to the Gulf Stream, where it then picked up speed, traveling north at almost seventy miles per day.
Two and a half weeks after its launch, the bottle still followed the Gulf Stream. On the seventeenth day, however, another storm -- this time over the mid-Atlantic -- brought easterly winds strong enough to drive the bottle from the current, and the bottle began to drift toward New England.
When Savannah Lynn Curtis comes into his life, John Tyree knows he is ready to turn over a new leaf. An angry rebel, he had enlisted in the army after high school, not knowing what else to do. Then, during a furlough, he meets the girl of his dreams. Savannah Lynn Curtis is attending college in North Carolina, working for Habitat for Humanity, and totally unprepared for the passionate attraction she feels for John Tyree. The attraction is mutual and quickly grows into the kind of love that leaves Savannah vowing to wait for John while he finishes his tour of duty, and John realizing that he's ready to settle down with the young woman who has captured his heart. Neither can foresee that 9/11 is about to change the world and will force John to risk every hope and dream that he's ever had. Like so many proud men and women, John must choose between love and country. And like all those left behind, Savannah must decide to wait or move on. How do we choose wisely? How can we face loss-without giving up on love? Now, when he finally returns to North Carolina, John will discover that loving Savannah will force him to make the hardest decision of his life.
At 29, Julie Barenson is too young to give up on love. Four years after her husband's tragic death, she is finally ready to risk giving her heart again. But to whom? Will it be to the handsome and sophisticated Richard Bonham, a rich engineer who treats her like a queen, or to the less debonair Mike Harris, a humble mechanic who is Julie's best friend in the world? In a decision that should have brought her more happiness than she's had in years, Julie's life is suddenly turned into a living nightmare when she innocently chooses between the two men and sets off a terrifying chain of events. Now, Julie's life, and everything she holds dear, is suddenly in grave danger — as one man's jealousy spins into a deadly obsession.
