Nicholas Sparks - A Bend in the Road

A Bend in the Road

A Bend in theRoad

Nicholas Sparks

As with all mynovels, Id be remiss if I didnt thank Cathy, my wonderful wife.

Twelve yearsand still going strong. I love you.

Id also like tothank my five childrenMiles, Ryan, Landon, Lexie, and Savannah. They keep megrounded, and more than that, theyre a lot of fun.

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

Richard Greenand 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 onlysuperb 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.

Youre thebest.

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

Id also liketo thank Jennifer Romanello, Emi Battaglia, and Edna Farley in publicity; Flag,who designs the covers of my novels; Courtenay Valenti and Lorenzo DiBonaventura of Warner Bros.; Hunt Lowry of Gaylord Films; Mark Johnson; andLynn Harris of New Line Cinema. I am where I am because of you all.

Prologue

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

My memories ofthis period are aided by a few things: a diary Ive kept since I was a boy, afolder of yellowed newspaper articles, my own investigation, and, of course,public records. Theres also the fact that Ive relived the events of thisparticular story hundreds of times in my mind; they are seared in my memory.But framed simply by those things, this story would be incomplete. There wereothers involved, and though I was a witness to some of the events, I was notpresent for all of them. I realize that its impossible to re-create everyfeeling or every thought in another persons life, but for better or for worse,thats what I will attempt to do.

This is, aboveall, a love story, and like so many love stories, the love story of Miles Ryanand Sarah Andrews is rooted in tragedy. At the same time, it is also a story offorgiveness, and when youre finished, I hope youll understand the challengesthat Miles Ryan and Sarah Andrews faced. I hope youll understand the decisionsthey made, both good and bad, just as I hope you will eventually understandmine.

But let me beclear: This isnt simply the story of Sarah Andrews and Miles Ryan. If there isa beginning to this story, it lies with Missy Ryan, high school sweetheart of adeputy sheriff in a small southern town. Missy Ryan, like her husband, Miles, grew up in New Bern. From allaccounts, she was both charming and kind, and Miles had loved her for all ofhis adult life. She had dark brown hairand even darker eyes, and Ive been told she spoke with an accent that made menfrom other parts of the country go weak in the knees. She laughed easily, listened with interest, and often touched thearm of whomever she was talking to, as if issuing an invitation to be part ofher world. And, like most southern women, her will was stronger than wasnoticeable at first. She, not Miles, ran the household; as a general rule,Miless friends were the husbands of Missys friends, and their life wascentered around their family.

In high school,Missy was a cheerleader. As a sophomore, she was both popular and lovely, andalthough she knew of Miles Ryan, he was a year older than she and they hadnthad any classes together. It didnt matter. Introduced by friends, they beganmeeting during lunch break and talking after football games, and eventuallymade arrangements to meet at a party during homecoming weekend. Soon they were inseparable, and by the timehe asked her to the prom a few months later, they were in love.

There arethose, I know, who scoff at the idea that real love can exist at such a youngage. For Miles and Missy, however, it did, and it was in some ways morepowerful than love experienced by older people, since it wasnt tempered by therealities of life. They dated throughout Miless junior and senior years, andwhen he went off to college at North Carolina State, they remained faithful toeach other while Missy moved toward her own graduation. She joined him at NCSUthe following year, and when he proposed over dinner three years later, shecried and said yes and spent the next hour on the phone calling her family andtelling them the good news, while Miles ate the rest of his meal alone. Milesstayed in Raleigh until Missy completed her degree, and their wedding in NewBern filled the church.

Missy took ajob as a loan officer at Wachovia Bank, and Miles began his training to becomea deputy sheriff. She was two months pregnant when Miles started working forCraven County, patrolling the streets that had always been their home. Likemany young couples, they bought their first home, and when their son, Jonah,was born in January 1981, Missy took one look at the bundled newborn and knewmotherhood was the best thing that had ever happened to her. Though Jonah didnt sleep through the nightuntil he was six months old and there were times she wanted to scream at himthe same way he was screaming at her, Missy loved him more than shed everimagined possible. She was a wonderfulmother. She quit her job to stay home with Jonah full-time, read him stories,played with him, and took him to play groups. She could spend hours simplywatching him. By the time he was five, Missy realized she wanted another baby,and she and Miles began trying again. The seven years they were married werethe happiest years of both their lives.

But in Augustof 1986, when she was twenty-nine years old, Missy Ryan was killed.

Her deathdimmed the light in Jonahs eyes; it haunted Miles for two years. It paved theway for all that was to come next.

So, as I said,this is Missys story, just as it is the story of Miles and Sarah. And it is mystory as well.

I, too, playeda role in all that happened.

On Thursdaynightone night until D-Day, as Miles had begun mentally referring to itMileslay in bed with Jonah, trading a book back and forth so each could read a page.They were propped against the pillows, the blankets pulled back. Jonahs hair was still wet from his bath,and Miles could smell the shampoo hed used. The odor was sweet and untainted,as if more than dirt had been washed away.

In the middle ofa page that Miles was reading, Jonah suddenly looked up at him.

Do you missMommy?

Miles set thebook down, then slipped an arm around Jonah. It had been a few months sincehed last mentioned Missy without being asked first. Yeah, he said. I do.

Jonah tugged onthe material of his pajamas, making two fire trucks crash into one another. Doyou think about her?