The Choice
Copyright © 2007 by Nicholas Sparks
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: September 2007
ISBN: 978-0-446-40131-9
Contents
A
LSO BY
N
ICHOLAS
S
PARKS
The Notebook
Message in a Bottle
A Walk to Remember
The Rescue
A Bend in the Road
Nights in Rodanthe
The Guardian
The Wedding
Three Weeks with My Brother
(with Micah Sparks)
True Believer
At First Sight
Dear John
For the Lewis family:
Bob, Debbie, Cody, and Cole.
My family.
O
kay, I’ll be honest. It’s sometimes hard for me to write acknowledgments for the simple reason that my life as an author has been blessed with a kind of professional stability that strikes me as somewhat rare in this day and age. When I think back to my earlier novels and reread the acknowledgments in, say,
Message in a Bottle
or
The Rescue,
I see names of people with whom I still work today. Not only have I had the same literary agent and editor since I began writing, but I’ve worked with the same publicists, film agent, entertainment attorney, cover designer, and salespeople, and one producer has been responsible for three of the four film adaptations. While it’s wonderful, it also makes me feel like something of a broken record when it comes to thanking these people. Nonetheless, each and every one of them deserves my gratitude.
Of course, I have to begin—as always—with thanking Cat, my wife. We’ve been married eighteen years and have shared quite a life together: five children, eight dogs (at various times), six different residences in three different states, three very sad funerals of various members of my family, twelve novels and another nonfiction work. It’s been a whirlwind since the beginning, and I can’t imagine experiencing any of it with anyone else.
My children—Miles, Ryan, Landon, Lexie, and Savannah—are growing up, slowly but surely, and while I love them dearly, I’m proud of each and every one of them.
Theresa Park, my agent at Park Literary Group, is not only one of my closest friends, but a fantastic one at that. Intelligent, charming, and kind, she’s one of the great blessings of my life, and I’d like to thank her for everything she’s done.
Jamie Raab, my editor at Grand Central Publishing, also deserves my gratitude for all she does. She puts the pencil to the manuscript in hopes of making it the best it can be, and I’m fortunate to have had access to her intuitive wisdom when it comes to novels. More than that, I’m lucky to call her a friend.
Denise DiNovi, the fabulous producer of
A Walk to Remember, Message in a Bottle,
and
Nights in Rodanthe,
is my best friend in Hollywood, and I look forward to those times on the film set, simply so we have a chance to visit.
David Young, the new CEO of Grand Central Publishing (well, not exactly new anymore, I suppose), has not only become a friend, but one who deserves my heartfelt thanks, if only because I have the nasty tendency to deliver my manuscripts at the very last possible moment. Sorry about that.
Both Jennifer Romanello and Edna Farley are publicists and friends, and I’ve adored working with them since
The Notebook
was published in 1996. Thanks for all that you do!
Harvey-Jane Kowal and Sona Vogel, who do the copy-editing, always deserve my thanks for catching the “little errors” that inevitably crop up in my novels.
Howie Sanders and Keya Khayatian at UTA deserve my thanks for the good fortune I’ve had in film adaptations. I appreciate all that both of you do.
Scott Schwimer always watches out for me, and I’ve come to think of him as a friend. Thanks, Scott!
Many thanks to Marty Bowen, the producer responsible for
Dear John
. I can’t wait to see how it all turns out.
Thanks again to Flag for another wonderful cover.
And finally, many thanks to Shannon O’Keefe, Abby Koons, Sharon Krassney, David Park, Lynn Harris, and Mark Johnson.
February 2007
S
tories are as unique as the people who tell them, and the best stories are those in which the ending is a surprise. At least, that’s what Travis Parker recalled his dad telling him when he was a child. Travis remembered the way his dad would sit on the bed beside him, his mouth curling into a smile as Travis begged for a story.
“What kind of story do you want?” his dad would ask.
“The best one ever,” Travis would answer.
Usually, his dad would sit quietly for a few moments, and then his eyes would light up. He’d put his arm around Travis and in a pitch-perfect voice would launch into a story that often kept Travis awake long after his dad had turned out the lights. There was always adventure and danger and excitement and journeys that took place in and around the small coastal town of Beaufort, North Carolina, the place Travis Parker grew up in and still called home. Strangely, most of them included bears. Grizzly bears, brown bears, Kodiak bears . . . his dad wasn’t a stickler for reality when it came to a bear’s natural habitat. He focused on hair-raising chase scenes through the sandy lowlands, giving Travis nightmares about crazed polar bears on Shackleford Banks until he was well into middle school. Yet no matter how frightened the stories had made him, he would inevitably ask, “What happened next?”
To Travis, those days seemed like the innocent vestiges of another era. He was forty-three now, and as he parked his car in the parking lot of Carteret General Hospital, where his wife had worked for the past ten years, he thought again about the words he’d always said to his father.
After stepping out of the car, he reached for the flowers he’d brought. The last time he and his wife had spoken, they’d had an argument, and more than anything he wanted to take back his words and make amends. He was under no illusions that the flowers would make things better between them, but he wasn’t sure what else to do. It went without saying that he felt guilty about what had happened, but married friends had assured him that guilt was the cornerstone of any good marriage. It meant that a conscience was at work, values were held in high esteem, and reasons to feel guilty were best avoided whenever possible. His friends sometimes admitted their failures in this particular area, and Travis figured that the same could be said about any couple he’d ever met. He supposed his friends had said it to make him feel better, to reassure him that no one was perfect, that he shouldn’t be so hard on himself. “Everyone makes mistakes,” they’d said, and though he’d nodded as if he believed them, he knew they would never understand what he was going through. They couldn’t. After all, their wives were still sleeping beside them every night; none of them had ever been separated for three months, none of them wondered whether their marriage would ever return to what it once had been.
As he crossed the parking lot, he thought about both of his daughters, his job, his wife. At the moment, none of them gave him much comfort. He felt as though he were failing in practically every area of his life. Lately, happiness seemed as distant and unattainable to him as space travel. He hadn’t always felt this way. There had been a long period of time during which he remembered being very happy. But things change. People change. Change was one of the inevitable laws of nature, exacting its toll on people’s lives. Mistakes are made, regrets form, and all that was left were repercussions that made something as simple as rising from the bed seem almost laborious.
Shaking his head, he approached the door of the hospital, picturing himself as the child he had been, listening to his father’s stories. His own life had been the best story ever, he mused, the kind of story that should have ended on a happy note. As he reached for the door, he felt the familiar rush of memory and regret.
Only later, after he let the memories overtake him once again, would he allow himself to wonder what would happen next.
May 1996
T
ell me again why I agreed to help you with this.” Matt, red-faced and grunting, continued to push the spa toward the recently cut square at the far edge of the deck. His feet slipped, and he could feel sweat pouring from his forehead into the corners of his eyes, making them sting. It was hot, way too hot for early May. Too damn hot for this, that’s for sure. Even Travis’s dog, Moby, was hiding in the shade and panting, his tongue hanging out.
Travis Parker, who was pushing the massive box alongside him, managed to shrug. “Because you thought it would be fun,” he said. He lowered his shoulder and shoved; the spa—which must have weighed four hundred pounds—moved another couple of inches. At this rate, the spa should be in place, oh . . . sometime next week.
“This is ridiculous,” Matt said, heaving his weight into the box, thinking that what they really needed was a team of mules. His back was killing him. For a moment, he visualized his ears blowing off the sides of his head from the strain, shooting in both directions like the bottle rockets he and Travis used to launch as kids.
“You’ve already said that.”
“And it isn’t fun,” Matt grunted.
“You said that, too.”
“And it isn’t going to be easy to install.”
“Sure it is,” Travis said. He stood and pointed to the lettering on the box. “See? It says right here, ‘Easy to Install.’” From his spot beneath the shady tree, Moby—a purebred boxer—barked as if in agreement, and Travis smiled, looking way too pleased with himself.
Matt scowled, trying to catch his breath. He hated that look. Well, not always. Most of the time he enjoyed his friend’s boundless enthusiasm. But not today. Definitely not today.
Matt reached for the bandanna in his rear pocket. It was soaked with sweat, which had of course done wonders for the seat of his pants. He wiped his face and wrung the bandanna with a quick twist. Sweat dribbled from it like a leaky faucet onto the top of his shoe. He stared at it almost hypnotically, before feeling it soak through the light mesh fabric, giving his toes a nice, slimy feel. Oh, that was just dandy, wasn’t it?
“As I recall, you said Joe and Laird would be here to help us with your ‘little project’ and that Megan and Allison would cook some burgers and we’d have beer, and that—oh yeah, installing this thing should only take a couple of hours at the most.”
“They’re coming,” Travis said.
“You said that four hours ago.”
“They must be running a little late.”
“Maybe you never called them at all.”