A Bend in the Road
by Nicholas Sparks


The Notebook
Message in a Bottle
A Walk to Remember
The Rescue
This novel is dedicated to Theresa Park and Jamie Raab.
They know why.
Acknowledgments


As with all my novels, I�d be remiss if I didn�t thank
Cathy, my wonderful wife.
Twelve years and still going strong. I love you.


I�d also like to thank my five children�Miles, Ryan,
Landon, Lexie, and
Savannah. They keep me grounded, and more than that,
they�re a lot of fun.


Larry Kirshbaum and Maureen Egen have been both wonderful
and supportive
throughout my career. Thank you both. (P.S. Look for your
names in this novel!)


Richard Green and Howie Sanders, my Hollywood agents, are
the best at what they
do. Thanks, guys!


Denise Di Novi, the producer of bothMessage in a Bottle
andA Walk to Remember ,
is not only superb at what she does, but has become a
great friend as well.


Scott Schwimer, my attorney, deserves my thanks and
gratitude, and here it is.
You�re the best.


Micah and Christine, my brother and his wife. I love you
both.


I�d also like to thank Jennifer Romanello, Emi Battaglia,



and Edna Farley in
publicity; Flag, who designs the covers of my novels;
Courtenay Valenti and
Lorenzo Di Bonaventura of Warner Bros.; Hunt Lowry of
Gaylord Films; Mark
Johnson; and Lynn Harris of New Line Cinema. I am where I
am because of you all.


Prologue


Where does a story truly begin? In life, there are seldom
clear-cut beginnings,
those moments when we can, in looking back, say that
everything started. Yet
there are moments when fate intersects with our daily
lives, setting in motion a
sequence of events whose outcome we could never have
foreseen.
It�s nearly twoA.M., and I�m wide awake. Earlier, after
crawling into bed, I
tossed and turned for almost an hour before I finally gave
up. Now I�m sitting
at my desk, pen in hand, wondering about my own
intersection with fate. This is
not unusual for me. Lately, it seems it�s all I can think
about.
Aside from the steady ticking of a clock that sits on the
bookshelf, it�s quiet
in the house. My wife is asleep upstairs, and as I stare
at the lines on the
yellow legal pad before me, I realize that I don�t know
where to start. Not
because I�m unsure of my story, but because I�m not sure
why I feel compelled to
tell it in the first place. What can be achieved by
unearthing the past? After
all, the events I�m about to describe happened thirteen
years ago, and I suppose
a case can be made that they really began two long years
before that. But as I
sit, I know I must try to tell it, if for no other reason
than to finally put



this all behind me.
My memories of this period are aided by a few things: a
diary I�ve kept since I
was a boy, a folder of yellowed newspaper articles, my own
investigation, and,
of course, public records....

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