“Are you okay?” the man asked.
I sniffed. “Yes.”
“Do you need help?” the woman asked.
“No. Thank you.” I wiped my eyes with my arm. “I’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” the man said. They walked away.
I walked the rest of the way back to the house. I don’t know if I had ever felt so alone in my life. Natasha was right—I was angry. But I had every right to be. I never thought I had a great life, actually the contrary, but in spite of it all, I at least thought I had built something good. Now it was all tumbling down. I was turning thirty-one in December. I was getting older but going backward.
CHAPTER six
Writers live twice.
—Natalie Goldberg
FRIDAY, OCTOBER 30
The next morning I didn’t want to get out of bed. Being jettisoned back into the job market wasn’t something I had remotely considered at this time in my life. I didn’t even have a résumé.
The reason I was fired wasn’t going to make job hunting easy. In spite of being a global enterprise, the New York publishing world is incredibly small. Before I was hired, there would be over-lunch discussions and off-the-record phone calls. There was a chance I would discreetly be blackballed.
Here I was, back to where I had started, beginning my life all over again. It’s like that board game when someone lands on you and sends you back to Start.
I made myself a cup of coffee and then sat down to escape in a book. It was somewhere around noon when the doorbell rang.
I put on a robe and walked to the front door, opening it just enough to look out. A paunchy, middle-aged man with an excessively receding hairline was on the porch.
He wore a polyester suit with an unfashionably wide tie that looked like a Father’s Day gift he felt obliged to wear. He carried a leather satchel tucked beneath his right arm. I noticed that his hand was tremoring.
I wondered what he was selling. Whatever it was, I didn’t want it.
“May I help you?” I asked curtly.
He looked at me, his eyes blinking rapidly. “Excuse me, but you are Noel Book?” His voice was a little hoarse.
“Noel Post,” I corrected. “What can I do for you?”
“I should have known that. Your father told me you’d kept your married name. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this, but I called the number I was given for you, but no one answered. My name is Christopher Smalls, I’m your father’s attorney.”
“My father passed away.”
“Yes, I know. That’s why I’m here.” He cleared his throat. “I’m very sorry for your loss. Your father was a fine man.”
“Thank you,” I said, wondering how well he actually knew him.
“Your father said you lived out of town and didn’t know how long you’d be in Salt Lake, so, per his instructions, I brought some legal documents that need to be signed. Your father didn’t want to waste time; you know how he was.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” I said.
The bluntness of my response changed his demeanor. “I know this must be a difficult time for you, so if you’d like me to come back later, I understand.”
“I’m okay,” I said. “Hold on a moment. Let me get some clothes on.” I shut the door on him, went to my room, pulled on my jeans and a long-sleeved blouse and sweater, then came back and opened the door. “All right, you can come in.”
“Thank you.” He stepped into the front room and I closed the door behind him.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“Uh, no thanks. I’m good. I’m trying to cut back on caffeine.”
“I’m going to get some for myself.” I motioned to the front room couch. “Have a seat.”
“It would probably be better if we sat at the table. I have a few documents that need to be signed.”
“Wherever you like.” I went into the kitchen and poured my coffee, then brought it to the table. The lawyer was already seated. He had opened his satchel and laid out his papers in a few orderly piles. He looked up at me as I sat.
“Your name is Christopher?”
“Yes, ma’am. Christopher Smalls.”
“How long have you been my father’s lawyer?”
“I’ve worked with your father for more than ten years, when he hired me to draft his first will, which we updated just a few weeks ago.” He lifted his pen. “So, in his will, your father left you everything he owned.” He handed me a few papers. “We’ll begin here. Your father didn’t have a lot of liquidity, but he maintained a life insurance policy worth a million dollars, for which he named you the sole beneficiary.”
“A million dollars? Why would he have that much coverage after my mother’s death?”
The lawyer glanced down at his papers. “He actually increased the benefit after your mother’s death.” He looked up at me. “He did it for you.”
The revelation surprised me.
“He also had a Roth IRA account with a little more than $115,000. I’ve got that account information right here, and these are the notarized transfer papers. He also owns the house outright, which he has left to you. We don’t have a recent appraisal, but this is a prime location for mid-priced homes. There’s a home on the street just behind you that went for four-thirty-five last month. We’ll need to visit the title company to transfer it correctly.”
“This is…” I looked up at him. “I didn’t expect he would leave me anything.”
“Small compensation for losing your father, of course. I’m sure you’re already aware that he left you the bookstore.”
I leaned back slightly. “Then he did leave it to me…”
“I’m sorry, I assumed you knew. Yes, he left the entire business to you, including its assets.”
“Not to be crass, but is it worth anything?”
“He lived off it for thirty years. I know that he worked his tail off to keep it going, but it’s profitable. And, from what he told me, as a whole, things are looking up for independent booksellers.”
I had never once asked my father about the bookstore. Working with authors for a major publishing house, I knew too well the endangered-species status of most independent bookstores—suffering the same terminal fate as the record and video store.
“Along with the house, he left everything in it to you, including all his personal belongings, which includes his automobile, his Lladró and rare book collection.”
I was aware of the sculptures but not the books. “What books?”
“I don’t know exactly what they are, just that he has some valuable editions. He keeps them in a fire safe at the bookstore. There’s also a safe in the house where he’s stored some valuables. He put the combination to both safes in this envelope.” He handed it to me.
“Is there anything in it? The safe, I mean.”
“I don’t know what specifically, but he was adamant that I get this to you. He said that some of his most valuable possessions were in his home safe.”
“Do you know where the safe is?”
“I assume he wrote down the location with the combination. But even if he didn’t, it’s a small house. I’m sure you won’t have too much trouble finding it.” He rubbed his chin. “I know I just laid a lot on you, but have you considered your plans?”
“Things are a little fluid right now.” Fluid was an apt adjective, as I was pretty much drowning. “If you had asked me two days ago, I would have told you I was going to sell everything and get out of Dodge.”
Mr. Smalls looked up at me over his glasses. “You don’t like your father’s car? From my experience, a Dodge is a quality automobile.”
“I meant Dodge the old western town.” Nada. “I meant I was going to leave Salt Lake.”
“Of course.” He frowned. “As your attorney, I would suggest you give yourself a little time to think that over.”
Echoes of Natasha. “Are you my attorney?”
He hesitated. “That’s up to you, of course. But your father hired me to represent your interests
. So, if your plans are still to ‘get out of Dodge,’ I’d counsel you to postpone your asset liquidation and departure for at least a few months. Winter is never the best time to sell a house, and looking over the bookstore’s financials, I noticed that more than thirty percent of the store’s annual sales take place between Thanksgiving and Christmas. So, if I were giving you business advice, I’d suggest you at least ride it out until Christmas before selling it or shutting it down.
“Something else to consider, if you do decide to shut down, that would mean letting your father’s most loyal employees go just a few weeks before Christmas. Maybe that doesn’t matter to you, but it would to your father.”
“I wouldn’t do that,” I said. Considering that I’d just been fired, the idea of doing that to someone else didn’t appeal to me.
“So these are the documents you need to sign,” he said, pushing a small stack of papers toward me.
“Do you have a pen?” I asked.
“Right here.” He took one from his coat pocket. His hand tremored as he handed it to me. The pen was plastic and had his name on it. I went through the papers, signing each of them. After I finished, I handed him back his pen.
“You can keep the pen,” he said magnanimously.
“Thank you.”
He gathered one of the document piles into his satchel. “I’ll get these filed with the state on Monday.” He took the second pile and put it in a manila envelope and handed it to me. “These are for your records. I recommend you keep them someplace safe. Perhaps your new safe.”
“Thank you,” I said. “How do I get the insurance money?”
“I’ll take care of that. It usually takes thirty to sixty days. But I’ve already sent in the documentation, so I’d expect it around the first of December at the earliest. If you’d like a direct deposit, I’ll need your bank account and routing information. You can either email or text it to me.”
“A check will be fine.”
For the first time he smiled. “That will be an awfully big check,” he said. “I’d like to see the look on the bank teller’s face when you hand it to him.” He stood uneasily, then walked to the door, stopping before opening it. “You should know that your father was more than a client to me. He was a friend. A few years ago, I went through some really hard times. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s. On top of that, my wife left me. Your father was there for me. He gave me a book I’ll never forget—Man’s Search for Meaning.” He looked back at me. “Taking care of you is one way I can pay him back for all his kindnesses.” He handed me a business card. “I’m sure you’ll have some questions later. If there’s anything I can do for you, just call.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s my pleasure.” He walked out the door, grasped the handrail, and carefully stepped down from the porch onto the slushy walk. I shut the door behind him. Then I leaned back against it and breathed out heavily. Just days ago I had left New York with every intention of returning as soon as possible. Now there was literally no reason to go back.
For years, my father had tried to get me to move back to Utah. Now he’d created roots to keep me here. Roots or chains? Maybe there wasn’t a big difference between the two.
Whether that was my father’s intention or not, the lawyer and Natasha were right. It made no sense to rush things. For now, I would surrender to the universe and see where it took me.
CHAPTER seven
Outside of a dog, a book is a man’s best friend. Inside of a dog, it’s too dark to read.
—Groucho Marx
I wondered what was in the safe. The lawyer had said that my father considered its contents among his most valuable possessions. I got the envelope from the table with the safe’s combination. There were instructions to both safes along with their combinations.
House safe. Left side of bedroom closet. Bookstore, fire safe, office, South corner, Wendy.
I guess that meant Wendy knew where the office safe was. I went to his bedroom and opened the closet. His clothes—myriad shirts, slacks, and three suits—still hung inside. On the left side of the closet were banker boxes and a guitar case with my father’s Martin guitar. I pulled them away from the wall to reveal the safe, then set the paper with the instructions on the floor.
Home Safe
23 R – 32 L – 51 R
My first attempt at opening it wasn’t successful, which didn’t surprise me. In my experience, safes were hard to get into even with the combination. My ex-husband had a safe and not once had I gotten into it, though I’ve since considered that he had purposely given me the wrong combination. He had secrets.
I spun the dial around a few times to clear it, then tried again without success. I tried a third and fourth time, each time more carefully moving the dial, before finally giving up and deciding to try again later.
CHAPTER eight
A writer’s job is to give us moments that last a lifetime.
—Robert McKee
SATURDAY, OCTOBER 31
A funeral isn’t a whole lot different from a book signing—except there are no books, no signing, and not a lot of author interaction. It didn’t surprise me that my father had planned his own funeral. It would have been a surprise if he hadn’t. My father was an event planner extraordinaire. It came naturally to him. One of the quotes he dropped on me from time to time was “Those who fail to plan are planning to fail.”
I remember a book signing my father had held with a new author named James Redfield. Redfield had just released a book called The Celestine Prophecy. My father had an instinct about books, and he had scheduled the signing months before the book became a blockbuster bestseller. By the time the book signing came around, The Celestine Prophecy was the bestselling book in the country, maybe even the world.
More than three thousand people turned out for a book signing at our little bookstore that barely held fifty people. Even the local press showed up. I remember watching the cameramen walk up and down the line interviewing excited attendees.
My father was prepared with extra staff, streamlined book purchasing beneath tents outside the store, and stanchioned-off lines to control the crowds. The event came off flawlessly, and my mother reported that even Redfield claimed to be impressed.
My father had planned his funeral as meticulously as that book signing, though I’m pretty sure he was unhappy about having to pass it off to someone else for execution. That someone was Wendy.
I left the house a few minutes before nine, walking less than a block to the church where his funeral was being held. There was a sleek black hearse backed up to a side door, with the mortuary’s name emblazoned on the side.
To my surprise, there was a line of cars on the street waiting to turn into the church parking lot. My first thought was that the church was simultaneously hosting two events. My father, as I remembered him, had always been a quiet man and a bit of a homebody, less happy in a crowd than reclined in his easy chair with a book. I had no idea my father even knew this many people.
I stomped the snow off my feet then walked into the church. There was already a line of mourners that stretched the length of the main church corridor before disappearing around a corner. I walked up to the door where the line fed into the room with my father’s casket. Standing by the door was an older, silver-haired man wearing a black suit with a gold badge that read BEARD MORTUARY. The man put out his arm to stop me from entering.
“Excuse me, ma’am, the line for the viewing starts around that corner,” he said. “Some of these people have been waiting for several hours.”
I looked at him incredulously. “I’m his daughter.”
“You’re whose daughter?”
“Robert Book’s,” I said. “The deceased.”
The man flushed. “I’m so sorry. Please, go right in.”
I shook my head. Just another reminder that I was an outsider. I pressed my way into the crowded room.
Most of the mourners were my father’s age, but not all. The people gathered
were as eclectic as the books he sold. With the exception of somber whispers of consolation, the room was quiet. It was a far cry from the last funeral I’d been to. Three years earlier I had gone to a wake for my ex’s uncle. The service was held at a country club with an open bar. The noise level grew so loud with laughter and chatting that it was hard to talk without shouting. At one point a fight broke out. It seemed to me that the casket and its occupant were little more than a conversation piece at a frat party. I said something about it to Marc, but he just said, “You know Stan. He would have wanted it that way.”
The line to my father’s casket followed the perimeter of the room. Against the walls were tables set up with an array of photographs, books, and other knickknacks from my father’s life.
There were pictures of my father as a young man. It struck me how handsome he was, something a child rarely thinks about a parent. There were pictures from Vietnam, none of which I had ever seen. In one he was shirtless and holding a machine gun with ribbons of bullets crossing his chest. It was as ironic a portrayal of him as I could imagine.
There were myraid pictures of him and my mother—at least six from their wedding day. They looked like children. They practically were, as they married in their early twenties, almost ten years younger than I was.
There were pictures of our family, the three of us. Those were halcyon days. In one picture I was maybe four or five, walking between my parents, each of them holding a hand. There was a picture of me and my dad at my mom’s funeral. I don’t know who took the picture. I don’t know why they took the picture.
In addition to the photographs there were books. Many of my father’s favorites were on display, as if he were still trying to recommend them after his death. I walked over to the table to look through them. Most significant to me was Cervantes’s Don Quixote. It was the perfect book to represent my father. He was always tilting at windmills.
I assumed the displays had been put together by Wendy. I looked around for her. She wasn’t hard to find. She was standing next to the casket, her eyes red, talking to someone I didn’t know. Actually, besides her, I didn’t know anyone.
The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 4