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. There's also the fact that I've
relived the events of
thi...

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