The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4)

by Richard Paul Evans

  He just stood there looking at me hopefully.

  “Thanks, Teddy. I don’t know if we’re hiring yet. Check with me next week.”

  “Okay. Thanks. Peace out. Merry Christmas.” He walked out of the store.

  I walked over and turned off the Christmas music and the front window lights. The light outside had already diminished, and the snow was falling hard, coating the world in a silent blue-white batting.

  In the silence and stillness of the moment, I looked around the store. For the first time I saw it. My father was all around me. In the books, the shelves, the million details he had created over the decades of care. The bookstore was sacred ground, not just to him, but to the people who loved him. It was my father’s temple, the consolidation of his wisdom, wit, and spirit—the totality of his ponderings in a world that the rest of us were trying to make sense of.

  Inexplicably, my father had made sense of it all. Somehow, through the tragedy and loss and pain, he never wavered from his optimism. With all the world’s cruelty and hypocrisy, he never gave up hope in humanity. Not even in his daughter. No, especially not in his daughter. In the face of my anger and bitterness, his love never quit.

  No wonder so many people loved him. And the bookstore was his gathering place for those he loved—a keep and a bulwark against the storms and waves of despair and ignorance. It’s no wonder Wendy had fought to keep the bookstore alive. She was keeping him alive.

  I took the money out of the register and put it in the safe. Then I locked up the store and walked out alone.

  CHAPTER fifty–three

  I am irritated by my own writing. I am like a violinist whose ear is true but whose fingers refuse to reproduce precisely the sound he hears within.

  —Gustave Flaubert

  For nearly half an hour I sat in my car with tears streaming down my cheeks. I was grateful for the snow falling, blanketing me, further insulating me from the world I feared. Everything Wendy had said about me was true. I was pathetic. I deserved to be alone. And, like she said, I would someday die alone. I had blamed the world for my unhappiness, but there was no one to blame but myself. Dylan had reached out in love, and I had used that love to punish him for daring to care.

  For the first time in my life, I wanted to be held accountable. The only one I could think would do it was Grace.

  * * *

  I made my way downtown through deserted streets back to her home. The same man was at the security booth from the night before. I could see that the counter inside the booth was covered with fruit baskets and presents, likely given to the man by residents coming back from work or parties.

  To my surprise, the man remembered me. “Merry Christmas, young lady. Is it Miss Post or Miss Book today?”

  “You pick this time.”

  He laughed. “Let’s go with Miss Book. You’re here for Ms. Kingsbury again?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Just a moment.” He lifted his phone. “Ms. Kingsbury, Miss Book is here to see you again. Thank you. I’ll send her through. And a Merry Christmas to you too.”

  He turned to me. “There’re a lot of visitors tonight, so you can park along the street if you have to. You won’t be towed. It’s the one night of the year we allow that.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Have a Merry Christmas.”

  “You too. And a happy New Year.”

  I drove around the corner to Grace’s house. The visitor parking spots were all taken, so I parked along the curb and got out.

  Grace opened the door before I could ring the bell. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she was dressed beautifully, in a deep maroon dress with gold piping and a large holly-shaped brooch of emeralds and rubies.

  “You look nice,” I said. “You must have a party.”

  “I’m a little early, but I have Midnight Mass,” she said. She looked at me kindly. “What can I do for you, dear?”

  As I looked at her, my eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I have no place to go. I have no one.”

  She stepped forward and put her arms around me. “You have me,” she said. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  CHAPTER fifty–four

  Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.

  —E. L. Doctorow

  The last time I’d been to Grace’s house I hadn’t gotten past the front door—let alone my emotions—so I hadn’t really seen her home. It was exquisitely designed, with cream-and-gold fabric paneling and marble floors with plush, gold-fringed rugs. There was art everywhere, beautiful quality pieces like I had seen in the galleries in New York.

  “Come in here,” she said. She led me to a spacious front room. The ceiling was high, at least twelve feet, with coffered ceilings framing a large crystal chandelier. In the corner was a Christmas tree that almost reached the ceiling, intricately decorated with twinkling lights and small, feathered birds, satin ribbons, and clear amber and purple glass baubles the size of grapefruits.

  “Please have a seat.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “You have a beautiful home.”

  She smiled. “Thank you.”

  “You don’t have visitors tonight?”

  She looked at me gently. “No. I don’t have any family.”

  “My mother took your family away.”

  “That was a long time ago, Noel. We’ll let the spirit of Christmas Past tend to her own. Agreed?”

  I nodded.

  “I hope you’re hungry. You’re just in time for dinner.”

  “I didn’t come for…”

  “It’s okay, dear. As you can see, I’ve already set the table for two.” She motioned to an adjacent dining room. Candles glowed from a holiday centerpiece.

  “How did you know I was coming?”

  “I didn’t. The place was set for your father. We spent every Christmas Eve together. I’m a creature of habit, and it was my way of inviting him back. Or denying that I lost my best friend.” She looked at me sadly. “Then again, maybe he sent you.”

  “My father came here on Christmas Eve?”

  “Every Christmas Eve.” Her face lit with a fond smile. “Such beautiful times we had. The stories your father would tell over a hot buttered rum.”

  “My father didn’t drink.”

  “He did on occasion. He did on Christmas Eve. With me.” She smiled. “I guess that’s not all true. We’d also toast the New Year with a Dom Perignon. Sometimes a Möet & Chandon. For a man who didn’t drink he had a surprisingly sophisticated palate.”

  “You spent the holidays with my father?”

  “Always.”

  “Did Wendy know?”

  Grace laughed; it was a sweet, full expulsion. “So you know about Wendy?”

  “She told me.”

  “She’s a very beautiful young woman. She was quite smitten with your father. Of course, so was I. Two women in love with the same man. What’s a woman to do?” Her brows rose. “What’s a man to do?”

  “He was lucky,” I said.

  “We were the lucky ones.”

  “I fired Wendy yesterday.”

  Grace looked at me in surprise. “Oh my. What on earth drove you to that?”

  I looked at her and said, “I’m an idiot.”

  Grace burst out laughing. “Oh good, you’re finally being honest. It makes life so much easier. Pretense is such a burden. The day I accepted that beneath my pristine, polished surface I was a broken hot mess was the day my life became manageable.” She leaned forward. “Your father saw through my veneer like it was glass. He showed me that what was behind it was a lot more interesting.”

  “Did he spend every Christmas Eve with you?”

  “For the last fifteen years. After he closed up his shop, he’d spend a little time with Wendy, then he’d come on up.”

  “Wendy told me that. At least, about her. I’m surprised you knew.”

  “Your father was terribly honest. I don’t think I e
ver caught him in a lie.” She suddenly smiled. “Unless it was a kind lie. So, after his little visit with Wendy, he’d come here and I’d make him a very special dinner. I’m quite the cook, you know, though not as good as your father made me out to be. The way he spoke, you’d think I was a Michelin-rated chef.

  “We’d have his personal favorite, Beef Wellington with Parma ham and puff pastry, candied carrots, Potatoes Dauphinoise, asparagus with hollandaise sauce. He would bring the wine and cheesecake. The cheesecake he ordered from New York. I don’t remember the name, but it was Zagat-rated number one.”

  “S&S,” I said.

  “Yes, that’s it. Your father had remarkable taste in books and food and wine.”

  “And people,” I said.

  She smiled. “In everything. Probably why we got along so well.” She sighed. “I miss him.”

  “I miss him too,” I said. It was the first time I’d said that out loud since I left Utah. I think Grace understood that, and she let my confession fall into silence.

  “We would dine for hours. Then, after we ate, we’d go to Midnight Mass together.” She looked at me for a moment, then said, “Would you like to go with me to mass tonight?”

  “I’ve never been.” I looked down at my clothes. “I’m not really dressed for it.”

  “You look fine. I always overdress. It’s just me.”

  “I’d like to,” I said.

  She smiled. “I thought I would be going alone this year for the first time. What a pleasant turn of events.”

  * * *

  The dinner was as exquisite as my father had once voiced. So was my host. I never sensed that I was intruding on Grace’s evening; rather, she treated me as a long-awaited guest—one she had been looking forward to entertaining.

  A little after eleven we took her car, a candy-apple-red Cadillac, and drove to mass at the Cathedral of the Madeleine on South Temple Street. It was only a few miles from her home.

  We were early for the service and in no great hurry. I was handed a program by a robed child near the entrance, and Grace and I took a seat near the center of the cathedral.

  I had never been religious-minded, but the smell of incense, the glowing candles, and the pageantry filled me with peace. As I looked over the program Grace said, “Don’t worry about a thing. There’s a lot of singing and kneeling. Just follow my lead. No one’s watching to see if you do it right.” She smiled. “Or wrong.”

  “Will there be some kind of communion?”

  “Yes. But you’re not Catholic, so you don’t need to participate.”

  “Are you Catholic?”

  “Twice a year,” she said with a wry smile.

  The choir-led music was beautiful and familiar, and I found myself recklessly joining in it all. There was a gospel reading, followed by the homily. Fittingly, the priest spoke of God’s great love as an analogy for a father’s love. The service ended with a presentation by bell ringers playing “I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day.”

  We filed out of the cathedral past a short receiving line, and then we walked back to the car. As we drove back to Grace’s home, she said, “Thank you for coming with me, Noel. What a beautiful evening this has turned out to be.”

  “It’s been nice,” I said. “Not at all what I planned on.”

  “Call me a romantic, but I really believe your father sent me a replacement. He must be so pleased.”

  When we got back, there was a different security guard in the booth. “Merry Christmas, Michael,” Grace said, stopping her car.

  “Merry Christmas, Mrs. Kingsbury,” he returned.

  “I have something for you.” She reached into her purse and handed him a fifty-dollar bill. “Merry Christmas. Don’t stay up too late.”

  He laughed. “Too late for that. Thank you, Mrs. Kingsbury.”

  As we pulled into her garage, she said, “I know it’s late, but please come in for just a few minutes. I think there are still a few things to be said.”

  I followed her inside. She took off her coat and scarf and folded them over the back of a sofa. “Can I send any food home with you?”

  “I’m okay,” I said.

  “Please, have a seat.”

  I sat back down on the sofa. Grace came over and sat next to me.

  “Now that you know the truth, how do you feel?”

  Suddenly my eyes welled up. “I hurt. My father loved me, and I repaid him with hate.”

  “You didn’t hate your father, Noel. You were a child. Your mother died and it didn’t make sense to you, and you were looking for a place to put all that pain. Something to blame. Or someone. I understand that. I went through it myself, and I was an adult. Some people choose to blame God. You chose to blame the man you loved most. Your father understood that. I know because we talked about it.”

  “But where do I go with that? I can’t tell him I’m sorry.”

  She took my hand. “It’s not as difficult as you think.” She looked softly into my eyes. “Your father believed this day would come. I have no doubt that he’s smiling down on you right now. He was never looking for an apology, Noel. He was just hoping you would come home, even if just in your heart. And here you are.”

  “But it’s too late.”

  “No,” she said. “It’s never too late. And there is still something you can do for him.”

  “I’ll do anything.”

  “Answer me this. What is it that your father desired most?”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

  “Yes, you do, Noel. Don’t be afraid to say it. What did your father want most of all? In all his actions toward you, what’s the one common thread that ran through everything?”

  I suddenly understood. “He wanted me to be happy.”

  A broad smiled crossed her face. “Exactly. So does your unhappiness serve his desire?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly.” She looked into my eyes. “If you wish to honor him, give him what he wanted most. Be happy. Not for your sake, but for his.”

  My eyes filled with tears. Grace put her arms around me and held me. After a minute she said, “Oh, there’s one more thing—one more wish he had. I’ll be right back.” She left the room, returning a moment later carrying a cardboard box. She set it on the table.

  “You know, your father followed your writing religiously. He commented on your editing and the effect you had on your authors. He was brilliant that way. He read every book you edited. He knew every one of your authors and read their books.”

  “Even Jerica Bradley?”

  She grinned. “Not exactly high art, but even Jerica Bradley.” She rubbed her hand down my arm. “You once asked me what book I put in his casket. I didn’t answer you, because you weren’t ready. But you are now. The book was called The Silent Heart.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.”

  “That’s because it was never published. Your father wrote it. It was one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. It wasn’t just beautifully written, but it was beautiful in its depth and message. I believe it could have been a candidate for the National Book Award. Of course, your father didn’t care about such trivial things. He was a true artist. He used to say, ‘The purest work must be created for the eyes of God alone.’ And, fortunately, my eyes. I was the only one who read his book. It was a tremendous honor. He only printed one copy, then erased the manuscript. He wanted it buried with him.”

  “It’s gone?”

  “Like him,” she said. “I know, I probably shouldn’t have done it, but it was a promise he made me make. Trust me, I’ve doubted what I did since they closed the casket, but it’s done now.” She looked deeply into my eyes. “Your father’s secret hope was that he would someday be able to write a book with you.”

  Her words brought more pain. “Just another way I’ve failed him.”

  She smiled. “No, you haven’t.” She gestured to the box on the table. “That’s why I brought this in. Your father left two books for you to finish. If you re
ally want to know your father, finish his books. He lives in them.”

  I walked over to the table. “May I see them?”

  “Of course,” she said. “They’re yours.”

  I lifted the cover off the box. The first page I saw had the words ‘Title to Come.’ I read the first page of the manuscript. “This is really good.”

  “Finish it, Noel. It was his fondest hope.”

  I put the page back and closed the box. “I don’t know if I’m up to it.”

  “He thought you were,” she said. “And I’m certain he’ll collaborate with you. Every writer has a muse.”

  “Thank you.” We embraced. “Thank you for everything.”

  “It’s been my pleasure. And I do hope we have a standing date for next Christmas Eve. I hate to think of spending it alone for the rest of my life.”

  “It’s a date,” I said.

  I lifted the box, and she watched as I carried it out to my snow-covered car. When I was halfway down the walk she suddenly shouted, “Oh, Noel.”

  I turned back. “Yes?”

  “For God’s sake, give Wendy her job back.”

  I laughed. “I’m on it.”

  CHAPTER fifty–five

  Long lay the world in sin and error pining,

  Till He appeared and the soul felt its worth.

  A thrill of hope, the weary world rejoices,

  For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn.

  Fall on your knees!

  O hear the angel voices!

  O night divine,

  O night when Christ was born

  It was my birthday. I woke with a song from the mass playing in my head: “O Holy Night.” When I was young my father would replace that last refrain with my name. Maybe it’s sacrilegious, but he’d celebrate my birthday by singing, “O night when Noel was born.”

  I had incredibly painful memories of Christmases without my mother, especially the year I lost her, but I had let them eclipse the many, many fond ones we’d shared.