A Walk to Remember

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, andincidents are the product of the author’s imagination or areused fictitiously. Any resemblance toactual events,locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental. Copyright © 1999 by Nicholas Sparks Enterprises, Inc. All rights reserved.Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017 Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com A Time Warner Company The “Warner Books” name and logo aretrademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

First eBook Edition: October 1999 ISBN: 978-0-7595-2026-4Book design by Giorgetta Bell McRee

ContentsAcknowledgmentsPrologueChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7

Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13

Also by Nicholas Sparks The Notebook Message in a Bottle

For my parents, with love and memories. Patrick Michael Sparks (1942–1996) Jill Emma Marie Sparks (1942–1989)And for my siblings, with all my heart and soul Micah Sparks Danielle Lewis

AcknowledgmentsAs always, I have to thank my wife, Cathy.I was joyous when she accepted myproposal, I’m even more joyous that afterten years, I still feel the same about her.Thank you for the best years of my life. I’m thankful for Miles and Ryan, mysons, who occupy a special place in myheart. I love you both. To them, I’m just“Dad.” Thanks also to Theresa Park, my agentat Sanford Greenburger Associates, myfriend and confidante. Words are neverenough to express how much you’ve done

for me. Jamie Raab, my editor at WarnerBooks, also deserves my heartfeltgratitude for the past four years. You’rethe best. Then there are others who’ve supportedme every step of the way: LarryKirshbaum, Maureen Egen, John Aherne,Dan Mandel, Howie Sanders, RichardGreen, Scott Schwimer, Lynn Harris,Mark Johnson, and Denise Di Novi—I’mtruly blessed to have been able to workwith you all.

PrologueWhen I was seventeen, my life changedforever. I know that there are people whowonder about me when I say this. Theylook at me strangely as if trying to fathomwhat could have happened back then,though I seldom bother to explain.Because I’ve lived here for most of mylife, I don’t feel that I have to unless it’son my terms, and that would take moretime than most people are willing to giveme. My story can’t be summed up in twoor three sentences; it can’t be packaged

into something neat and simple that peoplewould immediately understand. Despitethe passage of forty years, the people stillliving here who knew me that year acceptmy lack of explanation without question.My story in some ways is their storybecause it was something that all of uslived through. It was I, however, who was closest toit. I’m fifty-seven years old, but even nowI can remember everything from that year,down to the smallest details. I relive thatyear often in my mind, bringing it back tolife, and I realize that when I do, I alwaysfeel a strange combination of sadness andjoy. There are moments when I wish Icould roll back the clock and take all thesadness away, but I have the feeling that if

I did, the joy would be gone as well. So Itake the memories as they come, acceptingthem all, letting them guide me whenever Ican. This happens more often than I let on. It is April 12, in the last year before themillennium, and as I leave my house, Iglance around. The sky is overcast andgray, but as I move down the street, Inotice that the dog-woods and azaleas areblooming. I zip my jacket just a little. Thetemperature is cool, though I know it’sonly a matter of weeks before it will settlein to something comfortable and the grayskies give way to the kind of days thatmake North Carolina one of the mostbeautiful places in the world. With a sigh, I feel it all coming back tome. I close my eyes and the years begin tomove in reverse, slowly ticking

backward, like the hands of a clockrotating in the wrong direction. As ifthrough someone else’s eyes, I watchmyself grow younger; I see my hairchanging from gray to brown, I feel thewrinkles around my eyes begin to smooth,my arms and legs grow sinewy. LessonsI’ve learned with age grow dimmer, andmy innocence returns as that eventful yearapproaches. Then, like me, the world begins tochange: roads narrow and some becomegravel, suburban sprawl has beenreplaced with farmland, downtown streetsteem with people, looking in windows asthey pass Sweeney’s bakery and Palka’smeat shop. Men wear hats, women weardresses. At the courthouse up the street,the bell tower rings. . . .

I open my eyes and pause. I am standingoutside the Baptist church, and when Istare at the gable, I know exactly who Iam. My name is Landon Carter, and I’mseventeen years old. This is my story; I promise to leavenothing out. First you will smile, and then you willcry— don’t say you haven’t been warned.

Chapter 1In 1958, Beaufort, North Carolina, whichis located on the coast near MoreheadCity, was a place like many other smallsouthern towns. It was the kind of placewhere the humidity rose so high in thesummer that walking out to get the mailmade a person feel as if he needed ashower, and kids walked around barefootfrom April through October beneath oaktrees draped in Spanish moss. Peoplewaved from their cars whenever they sawsomeone on the street whether they knew

him or not, and the air smelled of pine,salt, and sea, a scent unique to theCarolinas. For many of the people there,fishing in the Pamlico Sound or crabbingin the Neuse River was a way of life, andboats were moored wherever you saw theIntracoastal Waterway. Only threechannels came in on the television, thoughtelevision was never important to those ofus who grew up there. Instead our liveswere centered around the churches, ofwhich there were eighteen within the townlimits alone. They went by names like theFellowship Hall Christian Church, theChurch of the Forgiven People, the Churchof Sunday Atonement, and then, of course,there were the Baptist churches. When Iwas growing up, it was far and away themost popular denomination around, and

there were Baptist churches on practicallyevery corner of town, though eachconsidered itself superior to the others.There were Baptist churches of every type— Freewill Baptists, Southern Baptists,Congregational Baptists, MissionaryBaptists, Independent Baptists . . . well,you get the picture. Back then, the big event of the year wassponsored by the Baptist churchdowntown— Southern, if you really wantto know—in conjunction with the localhigh school. Every year they put on theirChristmas pageant at the BeaufortPlayhouse, which was actually a play thathad been written by Hegbert Sullivan, aminister who’d been with the church sinceMoses parted the Red Sea. Okay, maybehe wasn’t that old, but he was old enough

that you could almost see through the guy’sskin. It was sort of clammy all the time,and translucent—kids would swear theyactually saw the blood flowing through hisveins—and his hair was as white as thosebunnies you see in pet stores aroundEaster. Anyway, he wrote this play called TheChristmas Angel, because he didn’t wantto keep on performing that old CharlesDickens classic A Christmas Carol. In hismind Scrooge was a heathen, who came tohis redemption only because he sawghosts, not angels—and who was to saywhether they’d been sent by God,anyway? And who was to say he wouldn’trevert to his sinful ways if they hadn’tbeen sent directly from heaven? The playdidn’t exactly tell you in the end—it sort

of plays into faith and all— but Hegbertdidn’t trust ghosts if they weren’t actuallysent by God, which wasn’t explained inplain language, and this was his bigproblem with it. A few years back he’dchanged the end of the play—sort offollowed it up with his own version,complete with old man Scrooge becominga preacher and all, heading off toJerusalem to find the place where Jesusonce taught the scribes. It didn’t fly toowell—not even to the congregation, whosat in the audience staring wideeyed at thespectacle—and the newspaper said thingslike “Though it was certainly interesting,it wasn’t exactly the play we’ve all cometo know and love. . . .” So Hegbert decided to try his hand atwriting his own play. He’d written his

own sermons his whole life, and some ofthem, we had to admit, were actuallyinteresting, especially when he talkedabout the “wrath of God coming down onthe fornicators” and all that good stuff.That really got his blood boiling, I’ll tellyou, when he talked about the fornicators.That was his real hot spot. When we wereyounger, my friends and I would hidebehind the trees and shout, “Hegbert is afornicator!” when we saw him walkingdown the street, and we’d giggle likeidiots, like we were the wittiest creaturesever to inhabit the planet. Old Hegbert, he’d stop dead in histracks and his ears would perk up—Iswear to God, they actually moved—andhe’d turn this bright shade of red, like he’djust drunk gasoline, and the big green

veins in his neck would start sticking outall over, like those maps of the AmazonRiver that you see in NationalGeographic. He’d peer from side to side,his eyes narrowing into slits as hesearched for us, and then, just as suddenly,he’d start to go pale again, back to thatfishy skin, right before our eyes. Boy, itwas something to watch, that’s for sure. So we’d be hiding behind a tree andHegbert (what kind of parents name theirkid Hegbert, anyway?) would stand therewaiting for us to give ourselves up, as ifhe thought we’d be that stupid. We’d putour hands over our mouths to keep fromlaughing out loud, but somehow he’dalways zero in on us. He’d be turning fromside to side, and then he’d stop, thosebeady eyes coming right at us, right

through the tree. “I know who you are,Landon Carter,” he’d say, “and the Lordknows, too.” He’d let that sink in for aminute or so, and then he’d finally headoff again, and during the sermon thatweekend he’d stare right at us and saysomething like “God is merciful tochildren, but the children must be worthyas well.” And we’d sort of lowerourselves in the seats, not fromembarrassment, but to hide a new round ofgiggles. Hegbert didn’t understand us atall, which was really sort of strange,being that he had a kid and all. But thenagain, she was a girl. More on that,though, later. Anyway, like I said, Hegbert wrote TheChristmas Angel one year and decided toput on that play instead. The play itself

wasn’t bad, actually, which surprisedeveryone the first year it was performed.It’s basically the story of a man who hadlost his wife a few years back. This guy,Tom Thornton, used to be real religious,but he had a crisis of faith after his wifedied during childbirth. He’s raising thislittle girl all on his own, but he hasn’tbeen the greatest father, and what the littlegirl really wants for Christmas is aspecial music box with an angel engravedon top, a picture of which she’d cut outfrom an old catalog. The guy searcheslong and hard to find the gift, but he can’tfind it anywhere. So it’s Christmas Eveand he’s still searching, and while he’sout looking through the stores, he comesacross a strange woman he’s never seenbefore, and she promises to help him find

the gift for his daughter. First, though, theyhelp this homeless person (back then theywere called bums, by the way), then theystop at an orphanage to see some kids,then visit a lonely old woman who justwanted some company on Christmas Eve.At this point the mysterious woman asksTom Thornton what he wants forChristmas, and he says that he wants hiswife back. She brings him to the cityfountain and tells him to look in the waterand he’ll find what he’s looking for. Whenhe looks in the water, he sees the face ofhis little girl, and he breaks down andcries right there. While he’s sobbing, themysterious lady runs off, and TomThornton searches but can’t find heranywhere. Eventually he heads home, thelessons from the evening playing in his

mind. He walks into his little girl’s room,and her sleeping figure makes him realizethat she’s all he has left of his wife, and hestarts to cry again because he knows hehasn’t been a good enough father to her.The next morning, magically, the musicbox is underneath the tree, and the angelthat’s engraved on it looks exactly like thewoman he’d seen the night before. So it wasn’t that bad, really. If truth betold, people cried buckets whenever theysaw it. The play sold out every year it wasperformed, and due to its popularity,Hegbert eventually had to move it from thechurch to the Beaufort Playhouse, whichhad a lot more seating. By the time I was asenior in high school, the performancesran twice to packed houses, which,considering who actually performed it,

was a story in and of itself. You see, Hegbert wanted young peopleto perform the play—seniors in highschool, not the theater group. I reckon hethought it would be a good learningexperience before the seniors headed offto college and came face-to-face with allthe fornicators. He was that kind of guy,you know, always wanting to save us fromtemptation. He wanted us to know thatGod is out there watching you, even whenyou’re away from home, and that if youput your trust in God, you’ll be all right inthe end. It was a lesson that I wouldeventually learn in time, though it wasn’tHegbert who taught me. As I said before, Beaufort was fairly

typical as far as southern towns went,though it did have an interesting history.Blackbeard the pirate once owned a housethere, and his ship, Queen Anne’sR e v e n g e , is supposedly buriedsomewhere in the sand just offshore.Recently some archaeologists oroceanographers or whoever looks for stufflike that said they found it, but no one’scertain just yet, being that it sank over 250years ago and you can’t exactly reach intothe glove compartment and check theregistration. Beaufort’s come a long waysince the 1950s, but it’s still not exactly amajor metropolis or anything. Beaufortwas, and always will be, on the smallishside, but when I was growing up, it barelywarranted a place on the map. To put itinto perspective, the congressional district

that included Beaufort covered the entireeastern part of the state—some twentythousand square miles—and there wasn’ta single town with more than twenty-fivethousand people. Even compared withthose towns, Beaufort was regarded asbeing on the small side. Everything east ofRaleigh and north of Wilmington, all theway to the Virginia border, was thedistrict my father represented. I suppose you’ve heard of him. He’ssort of a legend, even now. His name isWorth Carter, and he was a congressmanfor almost thirty years. His slogan everyother year during the election season was“Worth Carter represents ———,” andthe person was supposed to fill in the cityname where he or she lived. I canremember, driving on trips when me and

Mom had to make our appearances toshow the people he was a true family man,that we’d see those bumper stickers,stenciled in with names like Otway andChocawinity and Seven Springs.Nowadays stuff like that wouldn’t fly, butback then that was fairly sophisticatedpublicity. I imagine if he tried to do thatnow, people opposing him would insertall sorts of foul language in the blankspace, but we never saw it once. Okay,maybe once. A farmer from Duplin Countyonce wrote the word s hi t in the blankspace, and when my mom saw it, shecovered my eyes and said a prayer askingfor forgiveness for the poor ignorantbastard. She didn’t say exactly thosewords, but I got the gist of it. So my father, Mr. Congressman, was a

big-wig, and everyone but everyone knewit, including old man Hegbert. Now, thetwo of them didn’t get along, not at all,despite the fact that my father went toHegbert’s church whenever he was intown, which to be frank wasn’t all thatoften. Hegbert, in addition to his beliefthat fornicators were destined to clean theurinals in hell, also believed thatcommunism was “a sickness that doomedmankind to heathenhood.” Even thoughheathenhood wasn’t a word—I can’t findit in any dictionary—the congregationknew what he meant. They also knew thathe was directing his words specifically tomy father, who would sit with his eyesclosed and pretend not to listen. My fatherwas on one of the House committees thatoversaw the “Red influence” supposedly

infiltrating every aspect of the country,including national defense, highereducation, and even tobacco farming. Youhave to remember that this was during thecold war; tensions were running high, andwe North Carolinians needed something tobring it down to a more personal level.My father had consistently looked forfacts, which were irrelevant to people likeHegbert. Afterward, when my father would comehome after the service, he’d say somethinglike “Reverend Sullivan was in rare formtoday. I hope you heard that part about theScripture where Jesus was talking aboutthe poor. . . .” Yeah, sure, Dad.... My father tried to defuse situationswhenever possible. I think that’s why he

stayed in Congress for so long. The guycould kiss the ugliest babies known tomankind and still come up with somethingnice to say. “He’s such a gentle child,”he’d say when a baby had a giant head, or,“I’ll bet she’s the sweetest girl in theworld,” if she had a birthmark over herentire face. One time a lady showed upwith a kid in a wheelchair. My father tookone look at him and said, “I’ll bet you tento one that you’re smartest kid in yourclass.” And he was! Yeah, my father wasgreat at stuff like that. He could fling itwith the best of ’em, that’s for sure. Andhe wasn’t such a bad guy, not really,especially if you consider the fact that hedidn’t beat me or anything. But he wasn’t there for me growing up.I hate to say that because nowadays

people claim that sort of stuff even if theirparent w a s around and use it to excusetheir behavior. My dad . . . he didn’t loveme . . . that’s why I became a stripperand performed on The Jerry SpringerShow. . . . I’m not using it to excuse theperson I’ve become, I’m simply saying itas a fact. My father was gone nine monthsof the year, living out of town in aWashington, D.C., apartment threehundred miles away. My mother didn’t gowith him because both of them wanted meto grow up “the same way they had.” Of course, my father’s father took himhunting and fishing, taught him to playball, showed up for birthday parties, allthat small stuff that adds up to quite a bitbefore adulthood. My father, on the otherhand, was a stranger, someone I barely

knew at all. For the first five years of mylife I thought all fathers lived somewhereelse. It wasn’t until my best friend, EricHunter, asked me in kindergarten who thatguy was who showed up at my house thenight before that I realized somethingwasn’t quite right about the situation. “He’s my father,” I said proudly. “Oh,” Eric said as he rifled through mylunchbox, looking for my Milky Way, “Ididn’t know you had a father.” Talk about something whacking youstraight in the face. So, I grew up under the care of mymother. Now she was a nice lady, sweetand gentle, the kind of mother most peopledream about. But she wasn’t, nor couldshe ever be, a manly influence in my life,and that fact, coupled with my growing

disillusionment with my father, made mebecome something of a rebel, even at ayoung age. Not a bad one, mind you. Meand my friends might sneak out late andsoap up car windows now and then or eatboiled peanuts in the graveyard behind thechurch, but in the fifties that was the kindof thing that made other parents shake theirheads and whisper to their children, “Youdon’t want to be like that Carter boy. He’son the fast track to prison.” Me. A bad boy. For eating boiledpeanuts in the graveyard. Go figure. Anyway, my father and Hegbert didn’tget along, but it wasn’t only because ofpolitics. No, it seems that my father andHegbert knew each other from way backwhen. Hegbert was about twenty yearsolder than my father, and back before he

was a minister, he used to work for myfather’s father. My grandfather— eventhough he spent lots of time with my father—was a true bastard if there ever wasone. He was the one, by the way, whomade the family fortune, but I don’t wantyou to imagine him as the sort of man whoslaved over his business, workingdiligently and watching it grow,prospering slowly over time. Mygrandfather was much shrewder than that.The way he made his money was simple—he started as a bootlegger, accumulatingwealth throughout Prohibition by runningrum up from Cuba. Then he began buyingland and hiring sharecroppers to work it.He took ninety percent of the money thesharecroppers made on their tobaccocrop, then loaned them money whenever

they needed it at ridiculous interest rates.Of course, he never intended to collect themoney—instead he would foreclose onany land or equipment they happened toown. Then, in what he called “his momentof inspiration,” he started a bank calledCarter Banking and Loan. The only otherbank in a two-county radius hadmysteriously burned down, and with theonset of the Depression, it neverreopened. Though everyone knew whathad really happened, not a word was everspoken for fear of retribution, and theirfear was well placed. The bank wasn’t theonly building that had mysteriously burneddown. His interest rates were outrageous, andlittle by little he began amassing moreland and property as people defaulted on

their loans. When the Depression hithardest, he fore-closed on dozens ofbusinesses throughout the county whileretaining the original owners to continueto work on salary, paying them just enoughto keep them where they were, becausethey had nowhere else to go. He told themthat when the economy improved, he’dsell their business back to them, andpeople always believed him. Never once, however, did he keep hispromise. In the end he controlled a vastportion of the county’s economy, and heabused his clout in every way imaginable. I’d like to tell you he eventually went toa terrible death, but he didn’t. He died at aripe-old age while sleeping with hismistress on his yacht off the CaymanIslands. He’d outlived both his wives and

his only son. Some end for a guy like that,huh? Life, I’ve learned, is never fair. Ifpeople teach anything in school, thatshould be it. But back to the story. . . . Hegbert, oncehe realized what a bastard my grandfatherreally was, quit working for him and wentinto the ministry, then came back toBeaufort and started ministering in thesame church we attended. He spent hisfirst few years perfecting his fire-and-brimstone act with monthly sermons on theevils of the greedy, and this left him scanttime for anything else. He was forty-threebefore he ever got married; he was fifty-five when his daughter, Jamie Sullivan,was born. His wife, a wispy little thingtwenty years younger than he, wentthrough six miscarriages before Jamie was

born, and in the end she died in childbirth,making Hegbert a widower who had toraise a daughter on his own. Hence, of course, the story behind theplay. People knew the story even before theplay was first performed. It was one ofthose stories that made its roundswhenever Hegbert had to baptize a babyor attend a funeral. Everyone knew aboutit, and that’s why, I think, so many peoplegot emotional whenever they saw theChristmas play. They knew it was basedon something that happened in real life,which gave it special meaning. Jamie Sullivan was a senior in highschool, just like me, and she’d alreadybeen chosen to play the angel, not thatanyone else even had a chance. This, of

course, made the play extra special thatyear. It was going to be a big deal, maybethe biggest ever—at least in MissGarber’s mind. She was the dramateacher, and she was already glowingabout the possibilities the first time I mether in class. Now, I hadn’t really planned on takingdrama that year. I really hadn’t, but it waseither that or chemistry II. The thing was, Ithought it would be a blow-off class,especially when compared with my otheroption. No papers, no tests, no tableswhere I’d have to memorize protons andneutrons and combine elements in theirproper formulas . . . what could possiblybe better for a high school senior? Itseemed like a sure thing, and when Isigned up for it, I thought I’d just be able

to sleep through most every class, which,considering my late night peanut eating,was fairly important at the time. On the first day of class I was one ofthe last to arrive, coming in just a fewseconds before the bell rang, and I took aseat in the back of the room. Miss Garberhad her back turned to the class, and shewas busy writing her name in big cursiveletters, as if we didn’t know who she was.Everyone knew her—it was impossiblenot to. She was big, at least six feet two,with flaming red hair and pale skin thatshowed her freckles well into her forties.She was also overweight—I’d sayhonestly she pushed two fifty—and shehad a fondness for wearing flower-patterned muumuus. She had thick, dark,hornrimmed glasses, and she greeted

every one with, “Helloooooo,” sort ofsinging the last syllable. Miss Garber wasone of a kind, that’s for sure, and she wassingle, which made it even worse. A guy,no matter how old, couldn’t help but feelsorry for a gal like her. Beneath her name she wrote the goalsshe wanted to accomplish that year. “Self-confidence” was number one, followed by“Self-awareness” and, third, “Self-fulfillment.” Miss Garber was big into the“self” stuff, which put her really ahead ofthe curve as far as psychotherapy isconcerned, though she probably didn’trealize it at the time. Miss Garber was apioneer in that field. Maybe it hadsomething to do with the way she looked;maybe she was just trying to feel betterabout herself.

But I digress. It wasn’t until the class started that Inoticed something unusual. ThoughBeaufort High School wasn’t large, Iknew for a fact that it was pretty muchsplit fifty-fifty between males andfemales, which was why I was surprisedwhen I saw that this class was at leastninety percent female. There was only oneother male in the class, which to mythinking was a good thing, and for amoment I felt flush with a “look out world,here I come” kind of feeling. Girls, girls,girls . . . I couldn’t help but think. Girlsand girls and no tests in sight. Okay, so I wasn’t the most forward-thinking guy on the block. So Miss Garber brings up the Christmasplay and tells everyone that Jamie

Sullivan is going to be the angel that year.Miss Garber started clapping right away—she was a member of the church, too—and there were a lot of people whothought she was gunning for Hegbert in aromantic sort of way. The first time Iheard it, I remember thinking that it was agood thing they were too old to havechildren, if they ever did get together.Imagine—translucent with freckles? Thevery thought gave everyone shudders, butof course, no one ever said anything aboutit, at least within hearing distance of MissGarber and Hegbert. Gossip is one thing,hurtful gossip is completely another, andeven in high school we weren’t that mean. Miss Garber kept on clapping, all alonefor a while, until all of us finally joinedin, because it was obvious that was what

she wanted. “Stand up, Jamie,” she said.So Jamie stood up and turned around, andMiss Garber started clapping even faster,as if she were standing in the presence ofa bona fide movie star. Now Jamie Sullivan was a nice girl.She really was. Beaufort was smallenough that it had only one elementaryschool, so we’d been in the same classesour entire lives, and I’d be lying if I said Inever talked to her. Once, in secondgrade, she’d sat in the seat right next to mefor the whole year, and we’d even had afew conversations, but it didn’t mean that Ispent a lot of time hanging out with her inmy spare time, even back then. Who I sawin school was one thing; who I saw afterschool was something completelydifferent, and Jamie had never been on my

social calendar. It’s not that Jamie was unattractive—don’t get me wrong. She wasn’t hideousor anything like that. Fortunately she’dtaken after her mother, who, based on thepictures I’d seen, wasn’t half-bad,especially considering who she ended upmarrying. But Jamie wasn’t exactly what Iconsidered attractive, either. Despite thefact that she was thin, with honey blondhair and soft blue eyes, most of the timeshe looked sort of . . . plain, and that waswhen you noticed her at all. Jamie didn’tcare much about outward appearances,because she was always looking for thingslike “inner beauty,” and I suppose that’spart of the reason she looked the way shedid. For as long as I’d known her—andthis was going way back, remember—

she’d always worn her hair in a tight bun,almost like a spinster, without a stitch ofmakeup on her face. Coupled with herusual brown cardigan and plaid skirt, shealways looked as though she were on herway to interview for a job at the library.We used to think it was just a phase andthat she’d eventually grow out of it, butshe never had. Even through our first threeyears of high school, she hadn’t changed atall. The only thing that had changed wasthe size of her clothes. But it wasn’t just the way Jamie lookedthat made her different; it was also theway she acted. Jamie didn’t spend anytime hanging out at Cecil’s Diner or goingto slumber parties with other girls, and Iknew for a fact that she’d never had aboyfriend her entire life. Old Hegbert

would probably have had a heart attack ifshe had. But even if by some odd turn ofevents Hegbert had allowed it, it stillwouldn’t have mattered. Jamie carried herBible wherever she went, and if her looksand Hegbert didn’t keep the boys away,the Bible sure as heck did. Now, I likedthe Bible as much as the next teenage boy,but Jamie seemed to enjoy it in a way thatwas completely foreign to me. Not onlydid she go to vacation Bible school everyAugust, but she would read the Bibleduring lunch break at school. In my mindthat just wasn’t normal, even if she wasthe minister’s daughter. No matter howyou sliced it, reading Paul’s letters to theEphesians wasn’t nearly as much fun asflirting, if you know what I mean. But Jamie didn’t stop there. Because of

all her Bible reading, or maybe because ofHegbert’s influence, Jamie believed itwas important to help others, and helpingothers is exactly what she did. I knew shevolunteered at the orphanage in MoreheadCity, but for her that simply wasn’tenough. She was always in charge of onefund-raiser or another, helping everyonefrom the Boy Scouts to the IndianPrincesses, and I know that when she wasfourteen, she spent part of her summerpainting the outside of an elderlyneighbor’s house. Jamie was the kind ofgirl who would pull weeds in someone’sgarden without being asked or stop trafficto help little kids cross the road. She’dsave her allowance to buy a newbasketball for the orphans, or she’d turnaround and drop the money into the church