A one-of-a-kind novel that grapples with the supernatural mysteries of life, death, and human connection--an unprecedented collaboration between the globally bestselling author of love stories like When New York architect Tate Donovan arrives in Cape Cod to design his best friend’s summer home, he is hoping to make a fresh start. Recently discharged from an upscale psychiatric facility where he was treated for acute depression, he is still wrestling with the pain of losing his beloved sister. Sylvia’s deathbed revelation--that she can see spirits who are still tethered to the living world, a gift that runs in their family--sits uneasily with Tate, who struggles to believe in more than what reason can explain. But when he takes up residence at a historic bed-and-breakfast on the Cape, he encounters a beautiful young woman named Wren who will challenge every assumption he has about his logical and controlled world. Tate and Wren find themselves forging an immediate connection, one that neither has ever experienced before. But Tate gradually discovers that below the surface of Wren’s idyllic small-town life, hatred, jealousy, and greed are festering, threatening their fragile relationship just as it begins to blossom. Tate realizes that in order to free Wren from an increasingly desperate fate, he will need to unearth the truth about her past before time runs out . . . a quest that will make him doubt whether we can ever believe the stories we tell about ourselves, and the laws that govern our existence. Love--while transformative--can sometimes be frightening. A story about the power of transcendent emotion, <Remain< asks us all: Can love set us free not only from our greatest sorrows, but even from the boundaries of life and death?

Autorentext

Nicholas Sparks with M. Night Shyamalan

Leseprobe
Chapter 1

Cape Cod in May stirs hope in the hearts of previously frozen New Yorkers, its verdant lawns and ocean breezes holding the promise of summer days just around the corner. As I rolled down the window of my car, breathing in the scent of growing things, I marveled at how distant the chilly gray skies and rain-­flooded gutters of city life felt. Here, at least, winter had long since retreated and the dream of slower, sun-­drenched days felt close enough to touch.

I had visited the Cape a few times before, but never this particular town. A quieter, smaller cousin to the nearby magnet of Provincetown, Heatherington seemed to revel in its classic 1950s vibe. Cruising down its main thoroughfare, Pleasant Street, I took note of the quaint, upscale stores selling antiques, gourmet ice cream, wooden toys, and brick oven pizza, as well as the parents pushing expensive strollers on brick-­paved sidewalks. Day-­trippers ducked in and out of shops, while beneath a large old-­fashioned clock, a pair of older gentlemen in baseball caps conferred on a wooden bench. Idling at an intersection to allow some musicians with guitars strapped to their backs to cross, I spotted a retro-­style pharmacy and soda shop on the corner; inside, a group of teenagers sat at a counter, sipping shakes out of long straws.

I smiled, thinking the scene was almost too perfect to be real, but upon reflection it made sense that my best friend, Oscar, the offspring of immigrant parents who’d run a deli in Boston, would seek out a slice of the mythic American ideal. As traffic began to move again, I caught glimpses of neatly kept Colonials and clapboard homes with white picket fences on the side streets to my left and right. Heatherington was picturesque, I had to admit, and as if on cue, the clouds overhead suddenly cleared, giving way to a blue sky so intense that it made me squint.

It was Monday, the typical beginning of a new workweek, and I was in town to help Oscar and his wife, Lorena, design and build their vacation home, although until now I’d only seen photographs of the plot of land they’d bought. I was looking forward to hearing what they had in mind, as today would be our first real conversation about the project. Following the directions they’d given me and keeping an eye on my GPS, I turned off Pleasant Street, heading for the house’s future site, where we planned to meet. On the outskirts of town, I passed a sprawling fairground with performance stages in various states of construction. Dusty pickup trucks filled the gravel parking lot while workers toiled in the distance. It was a hive of activity, frantic preparations under way for the upcoming Mask and Music Festival on Memorial Day weekend at the end of the month. I’d heard about the festival while trying and failing to find a place to stay; in the end, I’d had to enlist Oscar’s help to find accommodations. Apparently forty or fifty bands would be descending on the town for the long weekend, and as many as twenty thousand people were expected to attend. When I asked about the kind of music being showcased, Oscar had merely snorted. “How would I know? It’s probably weird Gen Z music.”

A few minutes later, I turned off the road onto a grassy track that climbed to what I assumed was a bluff overlooking the ocean. I drove slowly, following the tread marks of previous vehicles, my Aston Martin bouncing and shimmying as the grass gave way to dirt. On either side, arching birch and elm and maple trees formed a canopy overhead until I emerged into a clearing at the top.

It was a flat and grassy plateau, ringed with majestic oak trees and a panoramic view of an ocean the color of dark sapphires. Butterflies floated above a small patch of dandelions, and the air was briny, conjuring my own memories of summers at the beach. Over the sound of the engine, I could hear vibrant birdcalls drifting from the trees, and when I looked up, I glimpsed a Cooper’s hawk circling. I marveled that this lot had somehow escaped development.

Soon a substantial wooden structure came into sight: a city-­size playset that looked as if it had been dropped from the sky, complete with swings, hanging bars, sandbox, multiple slides, and a fort crowned with a multicolor awning. All five of Oscar’s kids swarmed over the structure while he and Lorena watched from a nearby picnic table. As usual, Oscar was wearing a throwback football jersey from the early 1960s, this one from the Cleveland Browns.

Not long after graduating from NYU, Oscar had secured funding to purchase franchise rights from the NFL, NBA, NHL, and MLB for the purpose of manufacturing and selling apparel. His concept was to put current players’ names and numbers on vintage-­style jerseys. He was meticulous about design and quality, making sure each garment felt ultrasoft and appeared appropriately distressed. He was also extremely savvy when it came to promoting and marketing on social media, and while the jerseys were popular from the start, sales exploded when a prominent rapper began wearing them at concerts and trendy influencers began posting regularly about them. Eventually, private equity firms started sniffing around and Oscar sold the company for nearly a billion dollars. It was the ultimate success story. His parents, whom I regarded almost as foster parents of my own, could barely contain their pride and wore matching jerseys whenever they went out, bragging to their many relatives in the U.S. and back in India about their son’s success. Oscar humored his parents, but the money hadn’t fundamentally changed him or Lorena.

I parked next to their matching Cadillac Escalades, which made my car look like a toy, and Oscar approached with his arms opened wide for a hug. Like the rest of his family, he was a hugger, and I’m pretty sure he hugged everyone, including grocery store clerks, the guy who cleaned his pool, even IRS auditors. I’d long given up any WASP-­…