The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4)

by Richard Paul Evans

  The casualness with which she shared this angered me. “If you knew all along, why didn’t you tell me?”

  “It wasn’t my place to tell you. Your father was reaching out to you the only way he could get you to listen.” She cocked her head to one side. “How did you not know they were from him? He wrote beautifully.”

  The revelation angered me. “Every time you talk about him, you sound like you were in love.”

  Wendy looked at me with amazement. “How can someone so smart be so dumb?” she said. “Of course I was in love with him. I always will be.”

  Her confession stunned me. I had meant the comment as a slight. I didn’t really believe it was true. “Did he know how you felt?”

  “Of course he did. We talked about it all the time. I wanted to marry him.”

  My thoughts spun more wildly. “What did he say to that?”

  I could see anger rise in her eyes. “He said he couldn’t take a wife that was his daughter’s age. I told him that it didn’t matter, but he said it would to you.” Her eyes narrowed. “I said, ‘Why do you care what she thinks? She doesn’t care what you think. All she cares about is herself.’ He didn’t even dispute it. He just walked out. I had to call him and apologize.” She shook her head. “And then he got sick.”

  Her eyes welled, and she wiped away a tear. “I was with your father almost every day since I was fifteen. I was with him every day since he got sick. I held him as he lay dying. And do you know what he worried the most about during his last hours? You. It was always you. And you don’t even give a—” She stopped herself, her lip quivering. “His love to you was like giving pearls to swine. I think you’re pathetic.”

  My face turned hot. All I could think to say was “You’re fired.”

  An amused smirk crossed her face. “Listen, honey, I was only staying because your father asked me to.”

  She took her key ring from her pocket, unhooked her store keys, and set them on the counter. “Good luck tomorrow,” she said facetiously. She walked to the front door, then suddenly stopped and looked around, likely for the last time.

  It was only then that I fully realized what I had done. I had just banished her from her home. She turned back to me, her eyes wet and angry. “I stayed here to keep you from killing the thing he loved. But you kill everything you touch. I’m not surprised you lost your husband, your job, and now your boyfriend. You’re so consumed with yourself that you spread pain everywhere you go. My only consolation is that you’ll die alone.” Then she turned, unlocked the front door, and walked out into the falling snow.

  Her words stung. I walked to the door and opened it, then ran around the side to where she was unlocking her car. I wanted to say something cruel, something to rebut all she had said, but, pathetically, all that came out was “I don’t know how to set the alarm.”

  She just shook her head as she got into her car and drove away.

  CHAPTER forty–nine

  Words can be like X-rays if you use them properly—they’ll go through anything.

  —Aldous Huxley

  Wendy’s departure had left me breathless. Even as angry as I was, I knew I had done something horrible. I locked the front door then walked over to the alarm. I studied it for a few minutes before deciding I was more likely to set it off than set it, so I decided to just leave it alone and hope no one robbed us.

  I looked down at the envelope I was still holding. There are things that need to be said, my father had said before I came back to Utah. I guess he had found a way to say them after all. It seemed obvious now that the letters were from my father. He used to call himself a pocket philosopher. But Grace? Why would she have involved herself in this. And why hadn’t she let on?

  I remembered that I had a sample of Grace’s writing in the front desk—the note she’d left for the book she had purchased that I still hadn’t gotten around to entering. I took the note out from the drawer and set it on the counter.

  I opened the letter I’d just received to compare the writing, but found that it was scrawled in different handwriting from the others. It was a little difficult to read, as the writing appeared frail and shaky. I glanced down at the bottom of the letter. This time, my father had signed his name. My guess was that he had written the letter from his deathbed.

  October 28

  My dearest Noel,

  The December when you were almost five years old you asked me why Santa came down the chimney instead of using the front door. You were always delightfully inquisitive. I told you it was because not everyone believed in him, so if he didn’t sneak in, they might miss the gifts he brought for them.

  In writing these letters anonymously, I suppose I too have come down the chimney in hopes that your lack of belief in me might not get in the way of what I wished to share. Please forgive my dear friend Grace for following my wishes. I seek your forgiveness, not just for the subterfuge of these letters but for every way I have failed you. I ask this not for my sake but for yours. The weight of a parent’s failures is much too heavy a burden for any child to carry. The ship must release the anchor for its own journey. My journey is over; yours has only begun.

  Mark Twain wrote, “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” In this we share a day. The day you were born was the day I discovered why I was born. How grateful I am that you came into my life.

  In the end, and, if this is, indeed, my end, remember this: Christmas is the story of a Father reaching out to His children. Nothing more. Nothing less.

  This is me reaching out to you just one last time, my beloved daughter. It is my deepest hope that my words may help you in your journey ahead. I ask just one kindness in return, one small gift from you: Believe that you are loved by me and always were.

  Your loving father,

  Robert

  My mind reeled. Stop pretending that you loved me! You killed my mother and sent me away. Why are you tormenting me? I wiped tears from my eyes, only to find them quickly replaced. After all this time, why was I suddenly unsure? And why was I holding so tightly to my pain?

  CHAPTER fifty

  Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.

  —Sylvia Plath

  I still had several of the week’s letters in my purse. I took the note that Grace had written to the back office, set it down on the desk, and then laid down next to it the last letter I’d received from Tabula Rasa. Grace’s penmanship was highly stylistic. There was no doubt the handwriting was hers.

  I looked up Grace’s address in our customer records. I wrote it down, then went out in the storm to my car. My emotions felt as wild as the weather. I had no idea what I’d say, but I was going to confront her.

  Grace lived in the Capitol Hill area, a wealthier section of Salt Lake City just north of the Salt Lake business district. I had suspected she was wealthy, and her neighborhood confirmed it. She lived in a gated community with well-spaced, stately homes.

  I pulled my car up to the community’s entrance, which required passing through security—a stucco-and-rock guard booth that had been decorated with Christmas lights and a large green wreath that framed a stop sign. The yellow-and-black-striped security gate that blocked the entrance was wrapped with silver tinsel garland and a sign reading Happy Holidays.

  Inside the booth was a uniformed, badged security guard—a broad, muscular man with graying hair. I rolled down my window, and in spite of the booth’s overhanging roof, snowflakes fell inside my car. The security guard slid open his window, which was streaked on the inside from condensation. I could hear Christmas music coming from the booth. “May I help you?”

  “I’m here to see Grace Kingsbury.”

  He glanced down at a clipboard, then back at me. “Is Ms. Kingsbury expecting you?”

  “No. She doesn’t know I’m coming. My name is Noel Post. I mean, Book. Noel Book.”

  The man looked at me doubtfully. “You sure?”

  “Sorry. I’m not crazy.
I just went through a divorce. I don’t know what my last name is anymore.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincere. “I understand.” He lifted a brown phone receiver to his ear and dialed a number. I could hear him speaking. “This is Rich from security. There is a Miss Noel Book here to see you. Thank you. I’ll let her in.”

  He set down the receiver and turned to me. “Do you know where Ms. Kingsbury lives?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Take this street down to the corner and turn right. She’s in the second home from the corner, number 227. There’s covered visitor parking across the street from her place.”

  “Thank you.”

  The security gate rose, and I quickly pulled forward to get past it before it fell again. Following the guard’s instructions, I parked across from her house.

  Grace’s home was an elegant French chateau–inspired mansion. It was probably four or five times larger than my father’s home, with four chimneys and seven gables. It was covered with roughly textured French provincial brick and the large-paned windows on the ground floor were flanked by olive-green shutters that matched the oxidized, vacant copper planters beneath the higher windows. Even draped in snow, I could tell that the yard had been elaborately landscaped with the frosted outline of pruned shrubs and lines of columnar trees that were tied up in burlap sheets between occasional statuary. The heated cobblestone driveway was not only clear but dry.

  Near the front of the home was a fountain that was covered for the winter. Directly behind the fountain was a glass-and-wrought-iron entryway surrounded by thick stone pillars and nestled beneath a second-story balcony. It looked like a home for nobility.

  I walked up the cleared path to the door, unsure of what I would say, but my emotions were still growing in intensity. I rang the bell.

  After the call from the guard, Grace was expecting me and almost immediately answered the door. She was dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater that fell past her knees.

  “Noel. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” She looked down at the envelope in my hands. “I see you figured it out.”

  “How dare you?” I said.

  “I dare a good many things,” she said calmly. “To what are you specifically referring?”

  “You wrote these letters.”

  “No, I transcribed them. Or penned them, if you prefer. But it was your father who wrote them.”

  “I don’t care what you call it,” I said. “You lied to me.”

  “I did no such thing.”

  “You withheld information.”

  “I withheld information,” she repeated, shaking her head. “When did I do that?”

  “When you didn’t tell me.”

  “You never asked, dear. And I never offered. That doesn’t make me a liar any more than it makes you an accomplice. More important, it’s what your father desired.”

  “My father desired,” I repeated angrily. “You’re all such sycophants.”

  She smiled at the accusation. “I suppose we are. It’s because we love him. My question is, why don’t you? He certainly loved you.”

  “If you think that, you didn’t know him.”

  “I think I knew your father better than you did.”

  I went straight for the jugular. “Then you knew he was abusive?”

  To my surprise, Grace seemed more amused than shocked. “You’re claiming that your father abused you?”

  “Not me. My mother.”

  She still looked unimpressed. “Tell me about this abuse. Was it physical?”

  I suddenly felt like I was on trial. “I was young. I don’t remember.”

  “You must have some memory. At least enough to keep you bitter for all these years.”

  “The night my mother died he was holding her down. She was screaming at him to let her go.”

  “That’s all you remember?”

  “It’s enough,” I said. “It was traumatic.”

  Grace breathed out deeply, her eyelids falling slightly. “What else do you remember about that night?”

  “More than I care to.”

  “Do you know how your mother died?”

  “Of course I do. She died in a car accident.”

  “Do you know who was at fault in the accident?”

  “My father.”

  For the first time Grace looked angry. “Your father wasn’t in the car.”

  “I don’t know. Probably my mother. She was upset. She was sobbing when she left the house.”

  Grace looked at me for a moment, then said, “How much do you really know about your mother?”

  The way she framed the question angered me more. “Not as much as I’d like to. She was taken from me.”

  “And I’m guessing you’d like to keep it that way.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that you don’t really want to know the truth about your mother.”

  My temper flared. “My mother was a good woman. There’s nothing you or my father’s calumny can do to change that.”

  “Calumny,” she repeated softly. “You inherited your father’s love of words.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Nevertheless, I have nothing more to share with you. So go on believing whatever you wish. Merry Christmas.” She started to close the door.

  I reached out to stop her. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “What do you think I’m doing to you?”

  “You’re tormenting me.”

  “No, dear, that’s entirely your doing. I’ve done nothing but advocate for one of the finest men I will ever know. But, unlike your father, I don’t suffer fools. And life has taught me that there are none so deaf as those who will not hear.”

  “What could you tell me that would change what happened?”

  “Not a blessed thing. Nothing will change what happened. It will only change what you believe happened.”

  “Then tell me.”

  Grace hesitated as if she were deciding whether or not I was worthy of her time. “All right. Let’s see how you do with truth. You’re right, dear—your mother was a good woman. That is, when she wasn’t drinking.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your mother was an alcoholic. It was a torment and a battle that your father fought with her. The night of the accident your mother had been drinking heavily, and, in spite of your father’s efforts, she went out. That’s why he was holding her down. That’s why he blamed himself for not stopping her. She only made it a few miles before she crossed over the yellow line and hit an oncoming car head-on. That’s how she died.”

  My head spun at the revelation. “If that’s true, why didn’t my father tell me?”

  “Because you were young. Because he loved you,” she said, the words falling carefully from her tongue. “He thought he was protecting you, even if it was at his expense.”

  “You’re saying that he loved me so much he lied to me?”

  “However you wish to frame it,” she said. “He didn’t want you to think of yourself as the daughter of an alcoholic. Or a murderer.”

  The word shook me. “My mother wasn’t a murderer.”

  “Then a manslaughterer, if you find that more palatable.” Her eyes darkened. “More than just your mother died that night. There were others. There were a man and his son in the other car, coming home from a high school basketball game. One the boy had just played in.”

  The explanation was more than I expected. “Is that the story my father told you?”

  “I didn’t need him to tell me.” Suddenly her eyes welled up. It was the first time since my father’s funeral that I had seen emotion on her face. “I wish I didn’t know so much about it. God knows, I wish I didn’t.” Her eyes welled up. “Your father and I both lost our families that day.”

  It took me a moment to understand what she was saying. “Your husband and son were in the other car?”

  She didn’t need to answer.

  “I’m sorry.” It took me a moment to s
peak. “How did you become friends with my father?”

  “I got to know him through the experience. He was as broken as I was. And he was so very sorrowful—not just for his own loss but mine as well. He blamed himself that he didn’t stop her.” She looked at me. “I came to his store every week to see him. And to be with him. Through time I came to care about him.”

  “If my mother was so bad, why didn’t he just leave her?”

  “It’s not that simple, dear. Love’s never that simple.”

  “But it probably would have been for the best.”

  “You’re not the only one who thought that. Your father lost some of his closest friends over that very thing. Some even claimed he was the problem. They called him an enabler.

  “The truth was, he just loved her too much, and he was a hopeless optimist. He believed his love could save her.” She looked down a moment, then said, “Maybe he just loved her too much to see the truth.”

  “What truth?”

  “She had to love herself, too.”

  CHAPTER fifty–one

  Words are a lens to focus one’s mind.

  —Ayn Rand

  There was nothing more to be said. As the silence stretched into further discomfort, Grace said, “I’m sorry I had to be the one to share this. But it’s time you knew the truth. It’s good to know the truth.”

  “Thank you,” I said softly.

  “If you need anything, you know where I live. Merry Christmas, Noel.”

  I drove home in silence, the only sound coming from the blowing of the car heater and the flapping of the windshield wipers. I had the letter from my father on the seat next to me. My mind reeled through a labyrinth of emotions. I reimagined the scene I’d played out in my mind ten thousand times, of my father holding down my screaming mother, but now with new understanding. He was trying to save her life.

  My neighborhood was quiet, the homes glowing with the festive colors of Christmas in contrast to my house, which was dark inside and out.