Message in a Bottle by Nicholas Sparks

from as far away as Los Angeles. Six men claimed they had written the letter themselves, and four of them wanted royalties for it—one even threatened legal action. But when she examined their handwriting, none of them even remotely resembled the letter’s.
    At noon she went to lunch at her favorite Japanese restaurant, and a couple of people who were dining at other tables mentioned that they had read the column as well. “My wife taped it to the refrigerator door,” one man said, which made Theresa laugh out loud.
    By the end of the day she had worked through most of the stack, and she was tired. She hadn’t worked on her next column at all, and she felt the pressure building behind her neck, as it usually did when her deadline approached. At five-thirty she started working on a column about Kevin being away and what that was like for her. It was going better than she expected and she was almost finished when her phone rang.
    It was the newspaper’s receptionist.
    “Hey, Theresa, I know you asked me to hold your calls, and I have been,” she started. “It wasn’t easy, by the way—you got about sixty calls today. The phone has been ringing off the hook.”
    “So what’s up?”
    “This woman keeps calling me. This is the fifth time she’s called today, and she called twice last week. She won’t give her name, but I recognize the voice by now. She says she’s got to talk to you.”
    “Can’t you just take a message?”
    “I’ve tried that, but she’s persistent. She keeps asking to be put on hold until you have a minute. She says she’s calling long distance, but that she has to talk to you.”
    Theresa thought for a moment as she stared at the screen in front of her. Her column was almost done—just another couple of paragraphs to go.
    “Can’t you ask for a phone number where I can reach her?”
    “No, she won’t give me that, either. She’s very evasive.”
    “Do you know what she wants?”
    “I don’t have any idea. But she sounds coherent—not like a lot of people who’ve been calling today. One guy asked me to marry him.”
    Theresa laughed. “Okay, tell her to hold on. I’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”
    “Will do.”
    “What line is she on?”
    “Five.”
    “Thanks.”
    Theresa finished the column quickly. She would go over it again as soon as she got off the phone. She picked up the receiver and pressed line five.
    “Hello.”
    The line was silent for a moment. Then, in a soft, melodic voice, the caller asked, “Is this Theresa Osborne?”
    “Yes, it is.” Theresa leaned back in her chair and started twirling her hair.
    “Are you the one that wrote the column about the message in a bottle?”
    “Yes. How can I help you?”
    The caller paused again. Theresa could hear her breathing, as if she were thinking about what to say next. After a moment, the caller asked:
    “Can you tell me the names that were in the letter?”
    Theresa closed her eyes and stopped twirling. Just another curiosity seeker, she thought. Her eyes went back to the screen and she began to look over the column.
    “No, I’m sorry, I can’t. I don’t want that information made public.”
    The caller was silent again, and Theresa began to grow impatient. She started reading the first paragraph on the screen. Then the caller surprised her.
    “Please,” she said, “I’ve got to know.”
    Theresa looked up from the screen. She could hear an absolute earnestness in the caller’s voice. There was something else there, too, but she couldn’t put her finger on it.
    “I’m sorry,” Theresa said finally, “I really can’t.”
    “Then can you answer a question?”
    “Maybe.”
    “Was the letter addressed to Catherine and signed by a man named Garrett?”
    The caller had Theresa’s full attention and she sat up higher in her seat.
    “Who is this?” she asked with sudden urgency, and by the time the words were out, she knew the caller would know the truth.
    “It is, isn’t it?”
    “Who is