Nicholas Sparks - Message in a Bottle

My Dearest Catherine . . .

Oh, my God. He turned to the second page, a photocopy.

My Darling Catherine . . .

The next letter.

Dear Catherine . . .

“what is this,” he muttered, unable to believe what he was seeing. “It can’t be—” He looked over the pages again just to make sure.

But it was true. One was real, two were copies, but they were his letters, the letters he had written to Catherine. The letters he had written after his dreams, the letters he dropped from Happenstance and never expected to see again.

On impulse he began to read them, and with each word, each phrase, he felt his emotions rushing to the surface, coming at him all at once. The dreams, his memories, his loss, the anguish. He stopped.

His mouth went dry as he pressed his lips together. Instead of reading any more, he simply stared at them in shock. He barely heard the front door open and then close. Theresa called out, “garrett, i’m back.” she paused, and he could hear her walking through the apartment. Then, “Where are you?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t do anything but try to grasp how this had happened. How could she have them? They were his letters . . . his personal letters.

The letters to his wife .

Letters that were no one else’s business.

Theresa stepped into the room and looked at him. Though he didn’t know it, his face was pale, his knuckles white as they gripped the pages he held.

“Are you okay?” she asked, not realizing what was in his hands.

For a moment, it was as if he hadn’t heard her. Then, looking up slowly, he glared at her.

Startled, she almost spoke again. But she didn’t. Like a wave, everything hit her at the same time—the open drawer, the papers in his hand, the expression on his face—and she knew immediately what had happened.

“Garrett . . . I can explain,” she said quickly, quietly. He didn’t seem to hear her.

“My letters . . . ,” he whispered. He looked at her, a mixture of confusion and rage.

“I . . .”

“How did you get my letters?” he demanded, the sound of his voice making her flinch.

“I found one washed up at the beach and—”

He cut her off. “You found it?”

She nodded, trying to explain. “When I was at the Cape. I was jogging and I came across the bottle. . . .”

he glanced at the first page, the only original letter. It was the one he had written earlier that year. But the others . . .

“What about these?” he asked, holding up the copies. “Where did they come from?”

Theresa answered softly. “They were sent to me.”

“By whom?” Confused, he rose from the bed.

She took a step toward him, holding out her hand. “By other people who’d found them. One of the people read my column. . . .”

“You published my letter?” He sounded as if he’d just been hit in the stomach.

She didn’t answer for a moment. “I didn’t know . . . ,” she began.

“You didn’t know what?” he said loudly, the hurt evident in his tone. “That it was wrong to do that? That this wasn’t something that I wanted the world to see?”

“It was washed up on the beach—you had to know someone would find it,” she said quickly. “I didn’t use your names.”

“But you put it in the paper. . . .” He trailed off in disbelief.

“Garrett . . . I—”

“Don’t,” he said angrily. Again he glanced at the letters, then looked back at her, as if he were seeing her for the first time. “You lied to me,” he said, almost as if it were a revelation.

“I didn’t lie. . . .”

He wasn’t listening. “You lied to me,” he repeated, as if to himself. “And you came to find me. Why? So you could write another column. Is that what this is about?”

“No . . . it isn’t like that at all. . . .”

“Then what was it?”

“After reading your letters, I . . . I wanted to meet you.”

he didn’t understand what she was saying. He kept looking from the letters to her and back again. His expression was pained.

“You lied to me,” he said for the third time. “You used me.”

“I didn’t. . . .”

“Yes, you did!” he shouted, his voice echoing in the room. Remembering Catherine, he held the letters out in front of him, as if Theresa had never seen them before. “These were mine—my feelings, my thoughts, my way of dealing with the loss of my wife. Mine—not yours.”

“I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

He stared hard at her without saying anything. His jaw muscles tensed.

“This whole thing is a sham, isn’t it,” he said finally, not waiting for her to answer. “You took my feelings for Catherine and tried to manipulate them into something you wanted. You thought that because I loved Catherine, I would love you, too, didn’t you?”

Despite herself, she paled. She felt suddenly incapable of speech.

“You planned all this from the beginning, didn’t you?” He paused again, running his free hand through his hair. When he spoke, his voice began to crack. “The whole thing was set up—”

He seemed dazed for a moment, and she reached out to him.

“Garrett—yes, I admit I wanted to meet you. The letters were so beautiful—I wanted to see what kind of person writes like that. But I didn’t know where it would lead, I didn’t plan on anything after that.” She took his hand. “I love you, Garrett. You’ve got to believe me.”

when she finished speaking, he pulled his hand free and moved away.

“What kind of person are you?”

The comment stung, and she responded defensively, “It’s not what you think. . . .”

Garrett pressed on, oblivious of her response. “You got caught up in some weird fantasy. . . .”

That was too much. “Stop it, Garrett!” she cried angrily, hurt by his words. “You didn’t listen to anything I said!” As she shouted, she felt tears welling up in her eyes.

“Why should I listen? You’ve been lying to me ever since I’ve known you.”

“I didn’t lie! I just never told you about the letters!”

“Because you knew it was wrong!”

“No—because I knew you wouldn’t understand,” she said, trying to regain her composure.

“I understand all right. I understand what kind of person you are!”

Her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be like this.”

“Be like what? Mad? Hurt? I just found out this whole thing was a charade, and now you want me to stop?”

“Shut up!” she shouted back, her anger suddenly rising to the surface.

He seemed stunned by her words, and he stared at her without speaking. Finally, with breaking voice, he held out the letters again.

“You think you understand what Catherine and I had together, but you don’t. No matter how many letters you read—no matter how well you know me—you’ll never understand. What she and I had was real . It was real, and she was real. . . . ”

he paused, collecting his thoughts, regarding her as if she were a stranger. Then, stiffening, he said something that hurt her worse than anything he’d said so far.

“We’ve never even come close to what Catherine and I had.”

He didn’t wait for a response. Instead he walked past her, toward his suitcase. After throwing everything inside, he zipped it quickly. For a moment she thought to stop him, but his comment had left her reeling.

He stood, lifting his bag. “These,” he said, holding the letters, “are mine, and I’m taking them with me.”

Suddenly realizing what he intended to do, she asked, “Why are you leaving?”

He stared at her. “I don’t even know who you are.”

Without another word, he turned around and strode through the living room and out the door.