The Choice

Copyright © 2007 by Nicholas SparksAll rights reserved. Except as permittedunder the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, nopart of this publication may be repro-duced, distributed, or transmitted in anyform or by any means, or stored in a data-base or retrieval system, without the priorwritten permission of the publisher.Grand Central PublishingHachette Book Group237 Park AvenueNew York, NY 10017

Visit our Web site 3/571www.HachetteBookGroup.com. atThe Grand Central Publishing name andlogo are trademarks of Hachette BookGroup, Inc.First eBook Edition: September 2007ISBN: 978-0-446-40131-9

Contents CopyrightAcknowledgments Prologue Part One One Two Three Four

5/571 Five Six Seven Eight Nine Ten Eleven Twelve ThirteenFourteenPart Two Fifteen SixteenSeventeen

6/571 Eighteen Nineteen TwentyTwenty-oneTwenty-two Epilogue

ALSO BY NICHOLAS SPARKS The Notebook Message in a Bottle A Walk to Remember The Rescue A Bend in the Road Nights in Rodanthe The Guardian The WeddingThree 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.

Acknowledgments Okay, I’ll be honest. It’s sometimeshard for me to write acknowledgments forthe simple reason that my life as an authorhas been blessed with a kind of professionalstability that strikes me as somewhat rare inthis day and age. When I think back to myearlier novels and reread the acknowledg-ments in, say, Message in a Bottle or TheRescue, I see names of people with whom Istill work today. Not only have I had thesame literary agent and editor since I beganwriting, but I’ve worked with the same

10/571publicists, film agent, entertainment attor-ney, cover designer, and salespeople, andone producer has been responsible for threeof the four film adaptations. While it’s won-derful, it also makes me feel like somethingof a broken record when it comes to thankingthese people. Nonetheless, each and everyone of them deserves my gratitude. Of course, I have to begin—as al-ways—with thanking Cat, my wife. We’vebeen married eighteen years and have sharedquite a life together: five children, eight dogs(at various times), six different residences inthree different states, three very sad funeralsof various members of my family, twelvenovels and another nonfiction work. It’sbeen a whirlwind since the beginning, and Ican’t imagine experiencing any of it withanyone else. My children—Miles, Ryan, Landon, Lex-ie, and Savannah—are growing up, slowly

11/571but surely, and while I love them dearly, I’mproud of each and every one of them. Theresa Park, my agent at Park LiteraryGroup, is not only one of my closest friends,but a fantastic one at that. Intelligent,charming, and kind, she’s one of the greatblessings of my life, and I’d like to thank herfor everything she’s done. Jamie Raab, my editor at Grand CentralPublishing, also deserves my gratitude for allshe does. She puts the pencil to themanuscript in hopes of making it the best itcan be, and I’m fortunate to have had accessto her intuitive wisdom when it comes tonovels. More than that, I’m lucky to call her afriend. Denise DiNovi, the fabulous producer ofA Walk to Remember, Message in a Bottle,and Nights in Rodanthe, is my best friend inHollywood, and I look forward to those timeson the film set, simply so we have a chance tovisit.

12/571 David Young, the new CEO of Grand Cen-tral Publishing (well, not exactly new any-more, I suppose), has not only become afriend, but one who deserves my heartfeltthanks, if only because I have the nasty tend-ency to deliver my manuscripts at the verylast possible moment. Sorry about that. Both Jennifer Romanello and Edna Far-ley are publicists and friends, and I’ve ad-ored working with them since The Notebookwas published in 1996. Thanks for all thatyou do! Harvey-Jane Kowal and Sona Vogel, whodo the copy-editing, always deserve mythanks for catching the “little errors” that in-evitably crop up in my novels. Howie Sanders and Keya Khayatian atUTA deserve my thanks for the good fortuneI’ve had in film adaptations. I appreciate allthat both of you do.

13/571 Scott Schwimer always watches out forme, and I’ve come to think of him as a friend.Thanks, Scott! Many thanks to Marty Bowen, the produ-cer responsible for Dear John. I can’t wait tosee how it all turns out. Thanks again to Flag for another wonder-ful cover. And finally, many thanks to ShannonO’Keefe, Abby Koons, Sharon Krassney,David Park, Lynn Harris, and Mark Johnson.

Prologue February 2007 Stories are as unique as the peoplewho tell them, and the best stories are thosein which the ending is a surprise. At least,that’s what Travis Parker recalled his dadtelling him when he was a child. Travis re-membered the way his dad would sit on thebed beside him, his mouth curling into asmile as Travis begged for a story. “What kind of story do you want?” hisdad would ask.

15/571 “The best one ever,” Travis would answer. Usually, his dad would sit quietly for afew moments, and then his eyes would lightup. He’d put his arm around Travis and in apitch-perfect voice would launch into a storythat often kept Travis awake long after hisdad had turned out the lights. There was al-ways adventure and danger and excitementand journeys that took place in and aroundthe small coastal town of Beaufort, NorthCarolina, the place Travis Parker grew up inand still called home. Strangely, most ofthem included bears. Grizzly bears, brownbears, Kodiak bears . . . his dad wasn’t astickler for reality when it came to a bear’snatural habitat. He focused on hair-raisingchase scenes through the sandy lowlands,giving Travis nightmares about crazed polarbears on Shackleford Banks until he was wellinto middle school. Yet no matter howfrightened the stories had made him, he

16/571would inevitably ask, “What happenednext?” To Travis, those days seemed like the in-nocent vestiges of another era. He was forty-three now, and as he parked his car in theparking lot of Carteret General Hospital,where his wife had worked for the past tenyears, he thought again about the words he’dalways said to his father. After stepping out of the car, he reachedfor the flowers he’d brought. The last time heand his wife had spoken, they’d had an argu-ment, and more than anything he wanted totake back his words and make amends. Hewas under no illusions that the flowerswould make things better between them, buthe wasn’t sure what else to do. It wentwithout saying that he felt guilty about whathad happened, but married friends had as-sured him that guilt was the cornerstone ofany good marriage. It meant that a con-science was at work, values were held in high

17/571esteem, and reasons to feel guilty were bestavoided whenever possible. His friendssometimes admitted their failures in thisparticular area, and Travis figured that thesame could be said about any couple he’dever met. He supposed his friends had said itto make him feel better, to reassure him thatno one was perfect, that he shouldn’t be sohard on himself. “Everyone makes mistakes,”they’d said, and though he’d nodded as if hebelieved them, he knew they would never un-derstand what he was going through. Theycouldn’t. After all, their wives were stillsleeping beside them every night; none ofthem had ever been separated for threemonths, none of them wondered whethertheir marriage would ever return to what itonce had been. As he crossed the parking lot, he thoughtabout both of his daughters, his job, his wife.At the moment, none of them gave him muchcomfort. He felt as though he were failing in

18/571practically every area of his life. Lately, hap-piness seemed as distant and unattainable tohim as space travel. He hadn’t always feltthis way. There had been a long period oftime during which he remembered beingvery happy. But things change. Peoplechange. Change was one of the inevitablelaws of nature, exacting its toll on people’slives. Mistakes are made, regrets form, andall that was left were repercussions thatmade something as simple as rising from thebed seem almost laborious. Shaking his head, he approached thedoor of the hospital, picturing himself as thechild he had been, listening to his father’sstories. His own life had been the best storyever, he mused, the kind of story that shouldhave ended on a happy note. As he reachedfor the door, he felt the familiar rush ofmemory and regret.

19/571 Only later, after he let the memoriesovertake him once again, would he allowhimself to wonder what would happen next.

Part One

One May 1996 Tell me again why I agreed to helpyou with this.” Matt, red-faced and grunting,continued to push the spa toward the re-cently cut square at the far edge of the deck.His feet slipped, and he could feel sweatpouring from his forehead into the corners ofhis eyes, making them sting. It was hot, waytoo hot for early May. Too damn hot for this,that’s for sure. Even Travis’s dog, Moby, washiding in the shade and panting, his tonguehanging out.

22/571 Travis Parker, who was pushing themassive box alongside him, managed toshrug. “Because you thought it would befun,” he said. He lowered his shoulder andshoved; the spa—which must have weighedfour hundred pounds—moved anothercouple of inches. At this rate, the spa shouldbe in place, oh . . . sometime next week. “This is ridiculous,” Matt said, heavinghis weight into the box, thinking that whatthey really needed was a team of mules. Hisback was killing him. For a moment, he visu-alized his ears blowing off the sides of hishead from the strain, shooting in both direc-tions like the bottle rockets he and Travisused 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 andpointed to the lettering on the box. “See? It

23/571says right here, ‘Easy to Install.’” From hisspot beneath the shady tree, Moby—apurebred boxer—barked as if in agreement,and Travis smiled, looking way too pleasedwith himself. Matt scowled, trying to catch his breath.He hated that look. Well, not always. Most ofthe time he enjoyed his friend’s boundlessenthusiasm. But not today. Definitely nottoday. Matt reached for the bandanna in his rearpocket. It was soaked with sweat, which hadof course done wonders for the seat of hispants. He wiped his face and wrung thebandanna with a quick twist. Sweat dribbledfrom it like a leaky faucet onto the top of hisshoe. He stared at it almost hypnotically, be-fore feeling it soak through the light meshfabric, giving his toes a nice, slimy feel. Oh,that was just dandy, wasn’t it? “As I recall, you said Joe and Laird wouldbe here to help us with your ‘little project’

24/571and that Megan and Allison would cooksome burgers and we’d have beer, andthat—oh yeah, installing this thing shouldonly 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.” “Of course I called them. And they’rebringing the kids, too. I promise.” “When?” “Soon.” “Uh-huh,” Matt answered. He stuffed thebandanna back in his pocket. “And by theway—assuming they don’t arrive soon, justhow on earth do you think the two of us willbe able to lower this thing into place?” Travis dismissed the problem with a waveas he turned toward the box again. “We’ll fig-ure it out. Just think how well we’ve done sofar. We’re almost halfway there.”

25/571 Matt scowled again. It wasSaturday—Saturday! His day of recreationand relaxation, his chance to escape from thegrindstone, the break he earned after fivedays at the bank, the kind of day he needed.He was a loan officer, for God’s sake! He wassupposed to push paper, not hot tubs! Hecould have been watching the Braves playthe Dodgers! He could have been golfing! Hecould have gone to the beach! He could haveslept in with Liz before heading to her par-ents’ house like they did almost everySaturday, instead of waking at the crack ofdawn and performing manual labor for eightstraight hours beneath a scalding southernsun. . . . He paused. Who was he kidding? Had henot been here, he would have definitely spentthe day with Liz’s parents, which was, in allhonesty, the main reason he’d agreed toTravis’s request in the first place. But that

26/571wasn’t the point. The point was, he didn’tneed this. He really didn’t. “I don’t need this,” he said. “I reallydon’t.” Travis didn’t seem to hear him. His handswere already on the box, and he was gettinginto position. “You ready?” Matt lowered his shoulder, feeling bitter.His legs were shaking. Shaking! He alreadyknew he’d be in serious, double-dose-of-Ad-vil pain in the morning. Unlike Travis, hedidn’t make it into the gym four days a weekor play racquetball or go running or go scubadiving in Aruba or surfing in Bali or skiing inVail or anything else the guy did. “This isn’tfun, you know?” Travis winked. “You said that already,remember?”“Wow!” Joe commented, lifting an eyebrowas he walked the perimeter of the hot tub. Bythen, the sun was beginning its descent,

27/571streams of gold reflecting off the bay. In thedistance, a heron broke from the trees andgracefully skimmed the surface, dispersingthe light. Joe and Megan, along with Lairdand Allison, had arrived a few minutes be-fore with kids in tow, and Travis was show-ing them around. “This looks great! You twodid all of this today?” Travis nodded, holding his beer. “Itwasn’t so bad,” he said. “I think Matt evenenjoyed it.” Joe glanced at Matt, who lay flattened ina lawn chair off to the side of the deck, a coldrag over his head. Even his belly—Matt hadalways been on the pudgy side—seemed tosag. “I can see that.” “Was it heavy?” “Like an Egyptian sarcophagus!” Mattcroaked. “One of those gold ones that onlycranes can move!” Joe laughed. “Can the kids get in?”

28/571 “Not yet. I just filled it, and the water willtake a little while to heat up. The sun willhelp, though.” “The sun will heat it within minutes!”Matt moaned. “Within seconds!” Joe grinned. Laird and the three of themhad gone to school together sincekindergarten. “Tough day, Matt?” Matt removed the rag and scowled at Joe.“You have no idea. And thanks for showingup on time.” “Travis said to be here at five. If I hadknown you needed help, I would have comeearlier.” Matt slowly shifted his gaze to Travis. Hereally hated his friend sometimes. “How’s Tina doing?” Travis said, chan-ging the subject. “Is Megan getting anysleep?” Megan was chatting with Allison at thetable on the far end of the deck, and Joe

29/571glanced briefly in her direction. “Some.Tina’s cough is gone and she’s been able tosleep through the night again, but sometimesI just think that Megan isn’t wired to sleep.At least, not since she became a mom. Shegets up even if Tina hasn’t made a peep. It’slike the quiet wakes her up.” “She’s a good mom,” Travis said. “She al-ways has been.” Joe turned to Matt. “Where’s Liz?” heasked. “She should be here any minute,” Mattanswered, his voice floating up as if from thedead. “She spent the day with her parents.” “Lovely,” Joe commented. “Be nice. They’re good people.” “I seem to recall you saying that if youhad to sit through one more of your father-in-law’s stories about his prostate cancer orlisten to your mother-in-law fret aboutHenry getting fired again—even though it

30/571wasn’t his fault—you were going to stick yourhead in the oven.” Matt struggled to sit up. “I never saidthat!” “Yes, you did.” Joe winked as Matt’s wife,Liz, rounded the corner of the house withBen toddling just in front of her. “But don’tworry. I won’t say a word.” Matt’s eyes darted nervously from Liz toJoe and back again, checking to see if she’dheard. “Hey, y’all!” Liz called out with a friendlywave, leading little Ben by the hand. Shemade a beeline for Megan and Allison. Benbroke away and toddled toward the otherkids in the yard. Joe saw Matt sigh in relief. He grinnedand lowered his voice. “So . . . Matt’s in-laws.Is that how you conned him into cominghere?” “I might have mentioned it,” Travissmirked.

31/571 Joe laughed. “What are you guys saying?” Matt calledout suspiciously. “Nothing,” they said in unison.Later, with the sun down and the food eaten,Moby curled up at Travis’s feet. As helistened to the sound of the kids splashingaway in the spa, Travis felt a wave of satisfac-tion wash over him. This was his favoritekind of evening, whiled away to the sound ofshared laughter and familiar banter. Oneminute Allison was talking to Joe; the nextminute she was chatting with Liz and thenLaird or Matt; and so on for everyone seatedaround the outdoor table. No pretenses, noattempts to impress, no one trying to showanyone up. His life, he sometimes thought,resembled a beer commercial, and for themost part, he was content simply to ride thecurrent of good feeling.

32/571 Every now and then, one of the wiveswould get up to check on the kids. Laird, Joe,and Matt, on the other hand, reserved theirchild-rearing duties at times like these toperiodically raising their voices in hopes ofcalming down the kids or preventing themfrom teasing or accidentally hurting one an-other. Sure, one of the kids would throw atantrum now and then, but most problemswere solved with a quick kiss on a scrapedknee or a hug that was as tender to watchfrom a distance as it must have been for thekid to receive. Travis looked around the table, pleasedthat his childhood friends not only had be-come good husbands and fathers, but werestill a part of his life. It didn’t always turn outthat way. At thirty-two, he knew that life wassometimes a gamble, and he’d survived morethan his share of accidents and falls, some ofwhich should have inflicted far more seriousbodily injury than they had. But it wasn’t just

33/571that. Life was unpredictable. Others he’dknown growing up had already died in caraccidents, been married and divorced, foundthemselves addicted to drugs or booze, orsimply moved away from this tiny town,their faces already blurring in his memory.What were the odds that the four ofthem—who’d known one another sincekindergarten—would find themselves in theirearly thirties still spending weekends togeth-er? Pretty small, he thought. But somehow,after hanging together through all the ad-olescent acne and girl troubles and pressurefrom their parents, then heading off to fourdifferent colleges with differing career goals,they had each, one by one, moved back hereto Beaufort. They were more like family thanfriends, right down to coded expressions andshared experiences that no outsiders couldever fully understand. And miraculously, the wives got along,too. They’d come from different backgrounds

34/571and different parts of the state, but marriage,motherhood, and the endless gossip ofsmall-town America were more than enoughto keep them chatting regularly on the phoneand bonding like long-lost sisters. Laird hadbeen the first to marry—he and Allison hadtied the knot the summer after they gradu-ated from Wake Forest; Joe and Meganwalked the aisle a year later, after falling inlove during their senior year at North Caro-lina. Matt, who’d gone to Duke, met Liz herein Beaufort, and they were married a yearafter that. Travis had been the best man inall three weddings. Some things had changed in the past fewyears, of course, largely because of the newadditions to the families. Laird wasn’t alwaysavailable to go mountain biking, Joe couldn’tjoin Travis on the spur of the moment to goskiing in Colorado as he used to, and Matthad all but given up trying to keep up withhim on most things. But that was okay. They

35/571were all still available enough, and amongthe three of them—and with enough plan-ning—he was still able to make the most ofhis weekends. Lost in thought, Travis hadn’t realizedthat the conversation had lapsed. “Did I miss something?” “I asked if you’d talked to Monica lately,”Megan said, her tone letting Travis know hewas in trouble. All six of them, he thought,took a bit too much interest in his love life.The trouble with married people was thatthey seemed to believe that everyone theyknew should get married. Every womanTravis dated was thus subjected to subtle,though unyielding, evaluation, especially byMegan. She was usually the ringleader atmoments like these, always trying to figureout what made Travis tick when it came towomen. And Travis, of course, loved nothingmore than to push her buttons in return. “Not recently,” he said.

36/571 “Why not? She’s nice.” She’s also more than a little neurotic,Travis thought. But that was beside thepoint. “She broke up with me, remember?” “So? It doesn’t mean she doesn’t wantyou to call.” “I thought that’s exactly what it meant.” Megan, along with Allison and Liz, staredat him as if he were just plain dense. Theguys, as usual, seemed to be enjoying this. Itwas a regular feature of their evenings. “But you were fighting, right?” “So?” “Did you ever think she might havesimply broken up with you because she wasangry?” “I was angry, too.” “Why?’ “She wanted me to see a therapist.” “And let me guess—you said you didn’tneed to see one.”

37/571 “The day I need to see a therapist is theday you see me hike up my skirt and crochetsome mittens.” Joe and Laird laughed, but Megan’s eye-brows shot up. Megan, they all knew,watched Oprah nearly every day. “You don’t think men need therapy?” “I know I don’t.” “But generally speaking?” “Since I’m not a general, I really couldn’tsay.” Megan leaned back in her chair. “I thinkMonica might be on to something. If you askme, I think you have commitment issues.” “Then I’ll make sure not to ask you.” Megan leaned forward. “What’s thelongest you’ve ever dated someone? Twomonths? Four months?” Travis pondered the question. “I datedOlivia for almost a year.” “I don’t think she’s talking about highschool,” Laird cracked. Occasionally, his

38/571friends enjoyed throwing him under the bus,so to speak. “Thanks, Laird,” Travis said. “What are friends for?” “You’re changing the subject,” Megan re-minded him. Travis drummed his fingers on his leg. “Iguess I’d have to say . . . I can’t remember.” “In other words, not long enough toremember?” “What can I say? I’ve yet to meet any wo-man who could measure up to any of you.” Despite the growing darkness, he couldtell she was pleased by his words. He’dlearned long ago that flattery was his best de-fense at moments like these, especially sinceit was usually sincere. Megan, Liz, and Allis-on were terrific. All heart and loyalty andgenerous common sense. “Well, just so you know, I like her,” shesaid. “Yeah, but you like everyone I date.”

39/571 “No, I don’t. I didn’t like Leslie.” None of the wives had liked Leslie. Matt,Laird, and Joe, on the other hand, hadn’tminded her company at all, especially whenshe wore her bikini. She was definitely abeauty, and while she wasn’t the type he’dever marry, they’d had a lot of fun while itlasted. “I’m just saying that I think you shouldgive her a call,” she persisted. “I’ll think about it,” he said, knowing hewouldn’t. He rose from the table, angling foran escape. “Anyone need another beer?” Joe and Laird lifted their bottles in uni-son; the others shook their heads. Travisstarted for the cooler before hesitating nearthe sliding glass door of his house. He dartedinside and changed the CD, listening to thestrains of new music filtering out over theyard as he brought the beers back to thetable. By then, Megan, Allison, and Liz werealready chatting about Gwen, the woman

40/571who did their hair. Gwen always had goodstories, many of which concerned the illicitpredilections of the town’s citizens. Travis nursed his beer silently, lookingout over the water. “What are you thinking about?” Lairdasked. “It’s not important.” “What is it?” Travis turned toward him. “Did you evernotice how some colors are used for people’snames but others aren’t?” “What are you talking about?” “White and Black. Like Mr. White, theguy who owns the tire store. And Mr. Black,our third-grade teacher. Or even Mr. Greenfrom the game Clue. But you never hear ofsomeone named Mr. Orange or Mr. Yellow.It’s like some colors make good names, butother colors just sound stupid. You knowwhat I mean?” “I can’t say I’ve ever thought about it.”

41/571 “Me neither. Not until just a minute ago,I mean. But it’s kind of strange, isn’t it?” “Sure,” Laird finally agreed. Both men were quiet for a moment. “Itold you it wasn’t important.” “Yes, you did.” “Was I right?” “Yep.”When little Josie had her second temper tan-trum in a fifteen-minute span—it was a littlebefore nine—Allison scooped her into herarms and gave Laird the look, the one thatsaid it was time to go so they could get thekids in bed. Laird didn’t bother arguing, andwhen he stood up from the table, Meganglanced at Joe, Liz nodded at Matt, andTravis knew the evening was at an end. Par-ents might believe themselves to be thebosses, but in the end it was the kids whomade the rules.

42/571 He supposed he could have tried to talkone of his friends into staying, and mighteven have gotten one to agree, but he hadlong since grown accustomed to the fact thathis friends lived their lives by a differentschedule from his. Besides, he had a sneak-ing suspicion that Stephanie, his younger sis-ter, might swing by later. She was coming infrom Chapel Hill, where she was working to-ward a master’s degree in biochemistry.Though she would stay at their parents’place, she was usually wired after the driveand in the mood to talk, and their parentswould already be in bed. Megan, Joe, and Lizrose and started to clean up the table, butTravis waved them off. “I’ll get it in a while. No big deal.” A few minutes later, two SUVs and aminivan were being loaded with children.Travis stood on the front porch and waved asthey pulled out of the driveway.

43/571 When they were gone, Travis wanderedback to the stereo, sorted through the CDsagain, and chose Tattoo You by the RollingStones, then cranked up the volume. Hepulled at another beer on his way back to hischair, threw his feet up on the table, andleaned back. Moby sat beside him. “Just you and me for a while,” he said.“What time do you think Stephanie will berolling in?” Moby turned away. Unless Travis said thewords walk or ball or go for a ride or comeget a bone, Moby wasn’t much interested inanything he had to say. “Do you think I should call her to see ifshe’s on her way yet?” Moby continued to stare. “Yeah, that’s what I thought. She’ll gethere when she gets here.” He sat drinking his beer and stared outover the water. Behind him, Moby whined.

44/571“You want to go get your ball?” he finallysaid. Moby stood so quickly, he almostknocked over the chair.It was the music, she thought, that proved tobe the clincher in what had already been oneof the most miserable weeks of her life. Loudmusic. Okay, nine o’clock on a Saturdaynight wasn’t so bad, especially since he obvi-ously had company, and ten o’clock wasn’tall that unreasonable, either. But eleveno’clock? When he was alone and playingfetch with his dog? From her back deck, she could see himjust sitting there in the same shorts he’dworn all day, feet on the table, tossing theball and staring at the river. What on earthcould he be thinking? Maybe she shouldn’t be so hard on him;she should simply ignore him. It was hishouse, right? King of the castle and all that.

45/571He could do what he wanted. But that wasn’tthe problem. The problem was that he hadneighbors, including her, and she had acastle, too, and neighbors were supposed tobe considerate. And truth be told, he’dcrossed the line. Not just because of the mu-sic. In all honesty, she liked the music he waslistening to and usually didn’t really carehow loud or how long he played it. The prob-lem was with his dog, Nobby, or whatever hecalled him. More specifically, what his doghad done to her dog. Molly, she was certain, was pregnant. Molly, her beautiful, sweet, purebred col-lie of prize-winning lineage—the first thingshe’d bought herself after finishing her phys-ician assistant rotations at the Eastern Vir-ginia School of Medicine and the kind of dogshe’d always wanted—had noticeably gainedweight during the last couple of weeks. Evenmore alarming, she noticed that Molly’snipples seemed to be growing. She could feel

46/571them now whenever Molly rolled over tohave her tummy scratched. And she wasmoving more slowly, too. Add it up, andMolly was definitely on her way to birthing alitter of puppies that no one on earth wasever going to want. A boxer and a collie? Un-consciously she squinched up her face as shetried to imagine how the puppies would lookbefore finally forcing the thought away. It had to be that man’s dog. When Mollywas in heat, that dog had practically stakedout her house like a private detective, and hewas the only dog she’d seen wanderingaround the neighborhood in weeks. Butwould her neighbor even consider fencinghis yard? Or keeping the dog inside? Or set-ting up a dog run? No. His motto seemed tobe “My dog shall be free!” It didn’t surpriseher. He seemed to live his own life by thesame irresponsible motto. On her way towork, she saw him running, and when shegot back, he was out biking or kayaking or

47/571in-line skating or shooting baskets in hisfront drive with a group of neighborhoodkids. A month ago, he’d put his boat in thewater, and now he was wakeboarding as well.As if the man weren’t active enough already.God forbid the man should work a minute ofovertime, and she knew that he didn’t workat all on Fridays. And what kind of job letyou head off every day wearing jeans and T-shirts? She had no idea, but she suspec-ted—with a grim sort of satisfaction—that itmore than likely required an apron andname tag. Okay, maybe she wasn’t being entirelyfair. He was probably a nice guy. Hisfriends—who appeared normal enough andhad kids to boot—seemed to enjoy his com-pany and were over there all the time. Sherealized she’d even seen a couple of them atthe office before, when their kids had comein with the sniffles or an ear infection. Butwhat about Molly? Molly was sitting near the

48/571back door, her tail thumping, and Gabby feltanxious at the thought of the future. Mollywould be okay, but what about the puppies?What was going to happen to them? What ifno one wanted them? She couldn’t imaginetaking them to the pound or the SPCA orwhatever it was they called it here, to be putto sleep. She couldn’t do that. She wouldn’tdo that. She wasn’t going to have themmurdered. But what, then, was she going to do withthe puppies? It was all his fault, and he was just sittingthere on his deck with his feet propped up,acting as if he didn’t have a care in the world. This wasn’t what she’d dreamed aboutwhen she’d first seen the house earlier thisyear. Even though it wasn’t in MoreheadCity, where her boyfriend, Kevin, lived, itwas just minutes across the bridge. It wassmall and almost half a century old and adefinite fixer-upper by Beaufort standards,

49/571but the view along the creek was spectacular,the yard was big enough for Molly to run,and best of all, she could afford it. Justbarely, what with all the loans she’d takenout for PA school, but loan officers werepretty understanding when it came to mak-ing loans to people like her. Professional,educated people. Not like Mr. My Dog Shall Be Free and IDon’t Work Fridays. She drew a deep breath, reminding her-self again that the man might be a nice guy.He always waved to her whenever he saw herpulling in from work, and she vaguely re-membered that he’d dropped off a basket ofcheese and wine to welcome her to theneighborhood when she’d moved in a coupleof months back. She hadn’t been home, buthe’d left it on the porch, and she’d promisedherself that she’d send a thank-you note, onethat she never quite got around to writing.

50/571 Her face squinched unconsciously again.So much for moral superiority. Okay, shewasn’t perfect, either, but this wasn’t about aforgotten thank-you note. This was aboutMolly and that man’s wandering dog and un-wanted puppies, and now was as good a timeas any for them to discuss the situation. Hewas obviously awake. She stepped off the back deck and startedtoward the tall row of hedges that separatedhis house from hers. Part of her wished Kev-in were with her, but that wasn’t going tohappen. Not after their spat this morning,which started after she’d casually mentionedthat her cousin was getting married. Kevin,buried in the sports section of the newspa-per, hadn’t said a word in response, prefer-ring to act as if he hadn’t heard her.Anything about marriage made the man getas quiet as a stone, especially lately. She sup-posed she shouldn’t have been sur-prised—they’d been dating almost four years