The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4)

by Richard Paul Evans

  The place was magical.

  Near the front door was a small display shelf with a sign that read robert’s favorites.

  Hanging from chains above the shelf was a hand-painted sign on stained, weathered wood.

  Live in the sunshine, swim the sea, drink the wild air.

  —Emerson

  My father’s “favorites” were about as eclectic a gathering of literature as might be found anywhere: East of Eden, Cannery Row, The Firm, The Color Purple, The Great Gatsby, Catch-22, The Brothers Karamazov, The Picture of Dorian Gray, Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, For Whom the Bell Tolls, and Brave New World.

  “Hello.”

  I turned to see Wendy, who had just emerged from the back. She was wearing a bright green sweater, bright crimson lipstick, and red leggings. She looked gorgeous, and still a little fragile. “It’s my elf outfit,” she said, anticipating my reaction. “Your father always embraced the holidays on the first of November. This is my homage.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates it.”

  “I’m sure he does too,” she said. “So did you come to check out your bookstore?”

  “When did you know he was leaving it to me?”

  “He told me a few months ago.” She put her hands on her hips. “How long has it been since you’ve been here?”

  “It’s been about sixteen years.”

  “That’s a chunk of time. It’s probably changed a little.”

  “It’s changed a lot,” I said. “Or maybe I forgot what it looked like.”

  “May I help you with anything?”

  “Actually, I came to help you.”

  Her eyebrows rose. “Yes?”

  “I figured as long as I’m here, I might as well work.”

  “You’re not headed back to New York?”

  “Not for a while. I’ll probably be staying until the New Year.”

  Wendy looked at me as if she were processing what that meant. I couldn’t tell if she was happy with the idea. “You want to work here through the holidays?”

  “If that’s okay with you.”

  “We could definitely use the help,” she said. “Besides, it’s your store…”

  “About that,” I said. “I may be the owner on paper. But you know how things run. I don’t want to get in your way. This is more your store than mine. You built it.”

  “Your father built it.”

  “With your help,” I said. “So, when I said I came to help, I meant it. You’re the boss. Put me to work.”

  She looked at me skeptically. “You’re saying I’m the boss?”

  “That’s the deal.”

  “All right. We’ll see how that goes.”

  “What can I get started on?”

  “I just got in a shipment of books, so if you wouldn’t mind watching the front, I can start unpacking.”

  “You want me to just stand here?”

  “Basically. If someone comes in, you can help them find something. As a side benefit, it keeps shoplifting down.”

  “Do we have a lot of theft?”

  “Not a lot. But we live on thin margins, and they usually try to return what they stole to us.”

  “That’s ironic.”

  “What’s ironic is the most stolen book is the Bible. And anything by Kurt Vonnegut.”

  “I don’t see the connection.”

  “There isn’t one.”

  “My father loved Vonnegut.”

  Wendy smiled as if I were telling her something she knew better than I did. “I know.”

  “So what do we do if someone tries to return something we think they stole?”

  She pointed to a small sign taped to the cash register. “No receipt, no returns.”

  “Won’t they just take it somewhere else?”

  “Yes. But at least we got them out of the store. And most thieves are lazy. They’d rather just take their loot back to where they got it. So, hopefully, they’ll go somewhere else next time.”

  I looked over at a young woman perusing a row of books in the self-help section. “She looks like a thief,” I said facetiously.

  “Only technically,” Wendy said. “She’s showrooming.”

  “What’s showrooming?”

  “It means she’s using our store as a showroom. She checks out the books she’s interested in, then after she leaves, she’ll buy them online, where she can get them for less. Sometimes they don’t even wait to leave the store.”

  “How can you tell?”

  “She keeps taking pictures of books.”

  I looked back over at the woman. She was holding her phone up to a book. She saw us looking at her and put her phone down. Wendy turned back to me. “So, in the unlikely event that her perusing turns to purchasing, do you know how to take payment?”

  “No.”

  “It’s not hard. I’ll show you this afternoon. In the meantime, you can come get me.”

  “Is there anything else you need me to do?”

  She looked around. “I need to change that table display of Halloween books to holiday books. Do you have any experience with displays?”

  “I’m sure I could figure it out.”

  She looked unconvinced. “Tell you what—just take the books off the table and stack them on the floor for now, then take the books out of those boxes and put them on the table. I’ll finish up later. If you have any questions, you know where to find me.” She walked to the back of the store.

  I began taking the books off the table. There were four boxes marked christmas books. They were mostly classic Christmas tales.

  We had more than a dozen customers over the next three hours, more than I expected. A little after noon I found Wendy in the back. “What do you do for lunch?”

  She lifted a brown paper sack from her desk. “My lunch plans are right here. I thought I was working alone this morning, so I brown bagged it.”

  “I think I’ll walk over to that bread place and get something.”

  “Is there anyone up front?”

  “There are currently two customers.”

  “Okay. I’ll come out.”

  “I’ll see you in a half hour.” I stopped at her door. “Maybe we could go to lunch sometime.”

  She looked a little surprised at the invitation. “That would be nice. Thank you.”

  The bread store was crowded. I ate my lunch with a stranger (we shared the last open table), then walked back to the bookstore.

  In the short time I was gone, Wendy had arranged the Christmas book display I’d begun and was now hanging a string of lights in the front window. There was an artificial Christmas tree lying in sections on the floor next to the front desk, along with two bins filled with Christmas decorations.

  “You’ve been busy,” I said.

  “ ’Tis the season.”

  “Did you eat lunch?”

  “Almost.”

  There were three customers in the store. A man was looking through the history shelves, while a woman perused our New York Times bestsellers shelf. She was holding one of Jerica Bradley’s books, one I had edited. I was considering telling her that I had worked on the book when she put it back.

  I recognized the third customer. She was the elegant woman who had spoken at my father’s funeral. Grace, I reminded myself. I wasn’t absolutely positive it was her, as she was wearing glasses and a hat and was dressed much more casually than before, though she was still dressed up by my standards. Over her shoulder was a debossed cream-colored Louis Vuitton tote.

  I walked up to her. “May I help you?”

  She looked at me and smiled. “Hi, Noel.”

  I was surprised that she knew my name. “You spoke at my father’s funeral.”

  She extended her hand. I took it.

  “My name is Grace Kingsbury. Your father was a dear friend of mine. I’m sorry we didn’t speak on Saturday. I wanted to share my deepest condolences.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I should have introduced myself. I wasn’t feeling very social. B
ut I thought your eulogy was beautiful.”

  “That’s kind of you. I deeply admired your father. He was a remarkable man.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “Circumstance,” she said. “You probably don’t remember, but you and I have met before.” She smiled slightly. “I still remember the circumstance. You were a teenager and upset because your father wouldn’t let you go to a party where they were serving alcohol. It was right here at the store. You were a bit agitated. You probably didn’t even see me standing next to him.”

  “I can’t believe you remember that.”

  “I have a good memory,” she said. “I’ve been a regular at the bookstore for eighteen years. You’re living in New York now?”

  “Yes.”

  “Which borough?”

  “Brooklyn. For the time being.”

  “For the time being. Are you planning on moving?”

  “Not by choice. My roommate is kicking me out,” I said. “She’s getting back together with her husband.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain. “It’s fairly recent, so I don’t know where I’ll end up. For now I’ve decided to stay in Utah.”

  “Probably not a bad plan,” she said. “If your publisher can give you the time off.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said. I didn’t ask how she knew I worked for a publisher.

  “I love Manhattan in December. Except for all the tourists.”

  She spoke like a resident. “You’ve lived there?”

  “I studied dance at Juilliard,” she said. “When I was young, of course.”

  “How did you end up in Utah?”

  “My husband. We came west with his job. Before that we were living in Hartford. I’ve been all over Europe, but moving here was my first time west of the Mississippi.”

  “That must have been a culture shock.”

  “It wasn’t bad. People are people, no matter where they live. And I was pleasantly surprised to find the people here were a bit softer.”

  “Softer?”

  “Not as hardened by life as they were in New York.”

  “I can see that,” I said. “Did you keep dancing?”

  “A little. But I finally had to let it go.”

  “Why is that?”

  “The thing that dooms every professional athlete, dear. Age. And, in my case, a child.”

  “I used to dance,” I said. “When I was little.”

  “I know. It made your father very happy. He had a special place in his heart for dancers.” She looked at me as if she were gauging my response. “Will you be working at the bookstore now?”

  “I plan to. As long as Wendy doesn’t throw me out.”

  “Wendy is a tad possessive,” she said. “And quite particular. Though, I suppose, I’m equally guilty. I’ve learned not to reshelve the books, and she’s learned not to suggest what I should read. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “I’m still getting to know her.”

  “She’s a good girl,” she said. “She was your father’s right-hand woman. She’s done a yeoman’s job of keeping things running after your father fell ill.” Her expression turned more intense. “So, if I may ask, what are your plans for your bookstore?”

  My bookstore. It still sounded peculiar to me. “I don’t know yet. I’ve got a lot of things to figure out.”

  “I’m sure you do. Working here will be good for you. It will help you find some clarity.” She lifted the book she was holding: The Devil in the White City by Erik Larson. “I’d like to purchase this book.”

  “Very good.” I walked around the counter to the register. Then I smiled. “I’m sorry. I have no idea how to ring you up.”

  “That’s okay. You can just write it down and Wendy will ring me up later. That’s what I used to do when your father was busy with other customers. You have my card on file.”

  “Let me find something to write on.”

  “There’s a notepad in the drawer to the left of the register,” she said. “There should be a mechanical pencil in there too. Your father always used pencils.” She smiled. “It was a philosophical statement with him. He said it was a reminder that everyone makes mistakes.”

  I opened the drawer. As she said, there was a pad of paper with the store’s name printed at the top. I brought it out.

  “It seems like everyone knows more about the store than I do. Even the customers.”

  “You’ll catch up,” she said.

  I wrote down the name of her book along with its ISBN. “Your name is Grace…”

  “Kingsbury. Like the Christian author. But you can just write down ‘Grace.’ I’ve been coming here for two decades. I’d be surprised if Wendy doesn’t have my credit card memorized by now.”

  “Thank you… for your patronage.”

  She grinned. “Now you sound like your father. I’ll see you next week.”

  She walked out of the store, the little bell ringing her departure. After she left, I helped another customer find two books—American Sniper and The Five Love Languages. I had to get Wendy to check him out.

  “That was an interesting combination of books,” I said after the man left.

  Wendy grinned. “Maybe he’s married and it’s plan A and plan B.”

  I laughed. Then I looked at her and asked, “Are you married?”

  “Nope.”

  “Dating?”

  “Nope.” From the curtness of her response I could tell she didn’t want to talk about it.

  “As long as we’re here,” she said, “I might as well teach you how to use this thing. It’s not hard.”

  I found the paper with Grace’s name. “We can practice on this one,” I said. “It’s from Grace. She said you had her information.”

  “Yes we do. She’s purchased a book here every week since even before I started.”

  “That’s a lot of books.”

  “Probably a thousand.”

  “Why doesn’t she just go to the library?”

  “So we can survive,” she said. “She can afford it. You know that bag she carries?”

  “The Louis Vuitton?”

  She nodded. “It cost more than three thousand dollars. If you have that much money for a book bag, you have money for books.” She stepped in front of the register. “So, let me show you how this works.” As she was showing me she asked, “How long were you planning on staying?”

  “At least until Christmas.”

  She smiled. “I meant today.”

  “Oh. I wasn’t sure. How late are we open?”

  “Until ten during the holidays. As your father used to say, It’s harvest time.”

  “How late do you stay?”

  “I usually work eight thirty to five thirty. I come in a little early to get the store open and stay a little late to hand off the baton.” She suddenly smiled. “Sometimes I’d work late just to hang out with your father. We got into the most interesting conversations.”

  “About what?”

  “Have you ever talked to your father about UFOs?”

  “No.”

  “That’s a conversation you won’t soon forget.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be having that conversation,” I said. “Or any other.”

  Her smile fell. “No, you won’t.” She changed the subject. “We have two part-time workers who come in at five. Cammy and Cyndee. They’re university students. After Thanksgiving we’ll bring on two more part-time employees to work evenings. It gets pretty busy.”

  “I’m surprised at how much business you do.”

  “We do,” she said. “We do a brisk business.”

  She was about to leave when I said, “Can I ask you something?”

  She looked back. “Yes?”

  “What was the relationship between Grace and my father?”

  Wendy didn’t answer immediately. I sensed there was a history between the two women. “They were friends,” she finally said. “Why do you ask?”

  “They seemed close.”


  “They were close. Your father asked her to speak at his funeral.”

  “Did she visit him while he was dying?”

  “Every day.”

  “Were they in love?”

  From her expression I sensed that she didn’t like the question. After a moment she said, “They were close.”

  I decided it was best to leave it alone. “Were you with my father a lot? While he was sick?”

  “Can this be the last question about him for now?” she asked.

  “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  “The last five weeks I ran the store and then went to his house after work. The last two, I was with him all day, every day.”

  “He was lucky to have you.”

  “He wasn’t the lucky one.” She slowly exhaled. “I’m going to finish decorating. We always got the Christmas decorations up the first day of November.”

  “Do you need some help?”

  “No. Just watch the front.”

  I stayed behind the register while Wendy went back to decorating. She didn’t look at me, and I noticed her wiping her eyes.

  CHAPTER twelve

  There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.

  —Ernest Hemingway

  Before going home that night I asked Wendy about my father’s book collection. I brought out the paper with the combination. “The lawyer said my dad has some valuable books. I brought the combination to the safe.”

  “You won’t need that; I had to memorize the combinations because I could never read his writing. His handwriting was bad enough, but his numbers…” She shook her head for dramatic effect. “His fives look like Ss, his sevens look like ones, and his ones look like twos. More than once we got the wrong number of books because the sales rep misread his writing. I finally convinced him to let me do the ordering.”

  We walked back to the office. Wendy locked the door behind us. “There are two safes.”

  “Why two?”

  “This one,” she said, motioning to a large black safe with a slot in front, “is for cash. It’s where we keep the money at night.”

  “And the other?”

  “It’s where your father keeps his collection.” She lifted a drape that hung over the second safe, concealing it. “He figured that if we were ever robbed, the thieves would see the one safe and assume that was it. Pretty clever.”