The Last Song
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 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 2009
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ISBN 978-0-446-55815-0
Contents
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
The Choice
The Lucky One
For Theresa Park and Greg Irikura
My friends
As always, I have to start by thanking Cathy, my wife and my dream. It’s been an amazing twenty years and when I wake in the
morning, my first thought is how lucky I am for having spent these years with you.
My children—Miles, Ryan, Landon, Lexie, and Savannah—are sources of endless joy in my life. I love you all.
Jamie Raab, my editor at Grand Central Publishers, always deserves my thanks, not only for her brilliant editing, but for
the kindness she always shows me. Thank you.
Denise DiNovi, the producer of
Message in a Bottle, A Walk to Remember, Nights in Rodanthe,
and
The Lucky One
is not only a genius, but one of the friendliest people I know. Thanks for everything.
David Young, the CEO of Hachette Book Group, has earned my respect and gratitude in the years we’ve been working together.
Thanks, David.
Jennifer Romanello and Edna Farley, my publicists, are not only good friends, but wonderful people. Thanks for all.
Harvey-Jane Kowal and Sona Vogel, as usual, deserve my thanks, if only because I’m always late with my manuscripts, thus making
their jobs a whole lot harder.
Howie Sanders and Keya Khayatian, my agents at UTA, are fantastic. Thanks for everything, guys!
Scott Schwimer, my attorney, is quite simply the best at what he does. Thanks, Scott!
Thanks also go to Marty Bowen (the producer of
Dear John
), as well as Lynn Harris and Mark Johnson.
Amanda Cardinale, Abby Koons, Emily Sweet, and Sharon Krassney also deserve my thanks. I appreciate all that you do.
The Cyrus family deserves my thanks not only for welcoming me into their home, but for all they’ve done with the film. And
a special thanks goes to Miley, who chose Ronnie’s name. As soon as I heard it, I knew it was perfect!
And finally, thanks to Jason Reed, Jennifer Gipgot, and Adam Shankman for their work on the film version of
The Last Song.
R
onnie
S
taring 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’d 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 bedstand 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 knock on the door. Her mom poked
her head in.
“Do you want 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, 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, but her smile 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 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 bedstand 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 case of 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 hesitated; then, with a sigh, she began to tell
a story that still felt utterly senseless to her, even with the benefit of hindsight.