“Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
“Noel has inherited her father’s bookstore,” Dylan said.
“Bobbooks,” Stratton said. “Over on Ninth and Ninth. I like that bookstore. It has a very classic feel to it. Reminds me of a little bookstore in Huntsville I used to patronize.”
“Noel doesn’t like the name,” Dylan said.
I kicked him under the table.
“Wasn’t your father’s name Bob?” Stratton asked.
“Robert,” I said. “He never liked the name Bob.”
“But he named his bookstore Bob’s books,” Stratton observed.
“It’s actually Bobbooks. It’s kind of a made-up word. He liked the sound of it. Originally, he was going to name it Book’s Books, but he didn’t think people would get it.”
“Noel wants to change the name,” Dylan said. “She has an idea for a better one.” He looked at me. “Go ahead, tell them.”
I resisted kicking him again.
“What would you change it to?” Charlotte asked.
Now I really wanted to kick him. “Well, it’s a little unusual.” I swallowed. “It Was a Dark and Stormy Bookstore.”
Both Charlotte and Stratton looked at me blankly. Finally, Charlotte said, “Isn’t that interesting. You always did march to your own drummer, didn’t you? Good for you.”
I glared at Dylan. I could tell he was dying to laugh.
I was glad when the conversation changed to something other than me, the bookstore, or anything else of personal embarrassment. At one point, Charlotte went off talking about Stratton’s sister who, three years earlier, at the ripe age of sixty-two, left her husband to become a country singer. “She’s no spring chicken,” Charlotte said. “It’s no surprise her star never rose.”
“No,” Stratton added. “That was a fool thing. But not all surprising. Her biscuit was never quite done in the middle.”
“God bless her,” Charlotte said.
Stratton turned to me. “So you’re a book editor?”
I nodded. “I was.”
“Then you might appreciate this. A woman was sitting at her deceased husband’s funeral when a man leaned forward and said, ‘Do you mind if I say a word?’
“The woman replied, ‘No, you go right ahead.’ The man stood up, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Plethora.’ Then he sat back down.
“ ‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘That means a lot.’ ”
Dylan laughed. Charlotte wasn’t pleased. “Strat,” she said. “What in the world were you thinking? Noel just lost her daddy.”
Stratton turned to me. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. I’m very sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “My dad would have liked that.”
The meal was authentically southern. There was bacon-wrapped turkey with cornbread dressing, biscuits, creamy corn pudding, crunchy green bean casserole, and sweet potato casserole with plenty of sweet tea to wash it all down. After dinner Charlotte served coffee and pecan pie.
I had just started on my pie when Stratton asked, “Noel, do you have a place in New York?”
“I did when I left. I was living with a roommate, but I’m being kicked out next week. So, technically, I’m homeless.”
“She has a home here,” Dylan said. “She inherited her father’s place.”
“What about your job?”
“I was kind of kicked out of that too.”
“Looks like the Lord has other plans for you,” Charlotte said.
“Well,” Stratton said, “I hope you end up back here. It’s a nice place to raise a family.”
Stratton brought out a cigar and was about to light up when Charlotte said, “Not here, Strat. We have guests.”
It was a wonderful meal. Not just the food, which was perfect, but the joy of it all—the laughter and stories and familiarity; a magical quality of family that permeated every moment. It felt like home.
CHAPTER thirty
I never knew how to worship until I knew how to love.
—Henry Ward Beecher
After dinner Dylan and I went into the kitchen to clean up. Charlotte tried to help, but we barred her from the room, so she went to the living room with Alexis and Stratton. After we finished the dishes, Dylan and I found his mother.
“Mom, would you mind watching Alex for a little bit? I’m going to drive Noel home.”
“Of course, dear. Take your time. There’s no hurry.”
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. “It was wonderful.”
“It was wonderful seeing you, Noel. I hope we see you again real soon.” She turned to Stratton, who was watching the Alabama State Turkey Day Classic and was pretty much oblivious to us. “Honey Bun, Dylan and Noel are leaving now.”
Stratton looked up. “You sure you don’t want to stay and watch the game?”
“I’ll be back,” Dylan said. “I’m just taking Noel home.”
“Case I forget, Crimson Tide rolls this Saturday at Auburn. One-thirty kickoff.”
“I’ll bring the dogs,” Dylan said.
“You should bring Noel,” he said. “That Saban’s doing a heck of a job. I think we’re going all the way this year.” He said to me, “You’re more than welcome to join us, young lady.”
“Thank you. But they need me at the bookstore. We’ve got a really big book signing. And it’s the first Saturday after Thanksgiving, so I’m thinking it will be crazy busy.”
“Busier than a rented mule,” he said. “It sure was nice seeing you again. Don’t wait so long next time.”
“That’s up to your son.”
“You don’t need his say so to come by,” he said. “Just drop by anytime.”
“Thanks, Dad,” Dylan said. He squatted down next to Alexis. “I’ll be right back, honey. You okay?”
“No worries, Daddy,” she said.
He kissed her on the forehead then we walked out of the house. After he’d pulled out into the street I said, “Alexis is at home with your parents.”
“It is her home,” he said. “Charlotte and Stratton are her favorite people in the world. And they think the sun rises and sets on her.” He looked over. “After Susie left, my mother stepped in like a mama bear. I never even asked. It was natural. Alex spends almost every Saturday night with her. It’s their cooking night. They even have matching aprons.”
“That’s really beautiful,” I said. “I wonder what that would be like.” I looked at him. “I was never close to my grandparents.”
“Why is that?”
“My mother’s parents weren’t a part of her life. They disowned her after she married my father. My father’s parents both passed away when I was still young.”
“Why did they disown her?”
“I don’t know. She never told me.”
A few minutes later Dylan pulled up to my curb. “Home.” He shut off the truck.
I breathed out slowly. “Today was nice. Thank you for inviting me.”
“What a coincidence.”
“What’s a coincidence?”
“All these nice days I’ve had lately are on the same days I’m with you.”
“Funny, I’ve noticed the same thing. Would you like to come in?”
“Absolutely.”
He got out of the truck and came over and opened my door. I had already started to open it when he took it, which startled me. “Sorry, I’m not used to having my door opened for me.”
“You will be if you keep hanging out with me.”
We walked up to the front porch. The walkway was lightly dusted with snow, and we left imprints of our steps. I unlocked the door. We stomped the snow off our feet, then went inside. Dylan started taking off his shoes.
“You don’t need to do that.”
“I don’t want to track snow around.”
“You’re right.” I took my shoes off as well. “Can I get you some coffee? I have decaf.”
“No, thank you.”
“All right. We’ll just sit.” I sat down on
the couch, patting the cushion next to me. “Sit.”
“It sounds like you’re talking to a dog.”
I smiled. “Down, boy.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Dylan sat next to me.
“I had an author who used to talk to me like that all the time. Actually, it was Jerica Bradley—your mom’s idol. She’d always finish our conversations with ‘Good girl.’ I’m surprised she didn’t throw me a bone.”
Dylan laughed. “Whatever works.”
“It didn’t.” I leaned back against the couch. “I know you have that football game with your dad, but maybe during halftime you might want to bring Alex down to the book signing. We’re having Laura Numeroff. She wrote the children’s book If You Give a Mouse a Cookie.”
“We have that book.”
“I think everyone does. She’s a big deal. I thought Alex might like to meet her. You wouldn’t have to wait in line.”
“I’ll take you up on that,” he said. “Alex would like that.” He looked at me with a satisfied grin. “It’s good having friends in high places.”
I smiled back. “It will be good seeing you. Things have been so busy. I haven’t been seeing enough of you.”
“I feel the same. You can’t get enough of a good thing,” he said.
It felt good to hear that. “You think I’m a good thing?”
“Today’s the best day I’ve had in a long time.” He slightly hesitated. “I’m almost afraid to enjoy it too much.”
“Why is that?”
“Because I don’t want to go through losing you.”
“Who says you have to lose me?”
“You haven’t made up your mind about staying.”
I sighed. “I know.” I looked into his eyes. He looked beautiful. I said, “Do you remember the first time we kissed?”
“We were in the basement of Mark Frank’s house.”
“Mark Frank. I forgot about him. The only seventh grader at Hillcrest with a mustache.”
“And a mullet.” Dylan shook his head. “That kid pretty much lived on his own. I got in a lot of trouble at his house. Or maybe that was the problem—I didn’t get in trouble. I don’t think I ever saw an adult there.”
“I’m surprised you remember.”
“No one forgets their first kiss,” he said. “It’s a religious experience. Especially when it’s with a girl as beautiful as you. I couldn’t believe you let me kiss you. I still can’t.”
“A religious experience,” I repeated softly.
“I’ve always thought there were things outside heaven worthy of worship,” Dylan said. He looked into my eyes. “There are reasons to stay, Noel. I hope you’ll consider that.” For a moment we just looked into each other’s eyes. Then he said, “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Regret what?”
He leaned forward and we kissed.
CHAPTER thirty–one
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
—Elmore Leonard
BLACK FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27
Every Thanksgiving before my mother died followed the same pattern. After the meal was over and the dishes were done, our family would go to the bookstore to prepare for Black Friday. I asked my father why they called it Black Friday. He said, “Because that’s the day American businesses get into the black.” I asked what it meant to “get into the black.” He replied, “It means we get to do it again next year.”
My father’s attention to the season was more than a nod to crass consumerism. He loved the holidays, and his store was his canvas to capture the season in all its richness. It was his aim to ensure that each of the senses were positively engaged; the sights, the sounds, the smells, and even the tastes, as we doled out plastic cups of free wassail and eggnog along with plates of Christmas-themed sugar cookies, the kind with red and green sprinkles.
His store was always crowded during these times, not just with customers but with happiness. People came from miles around to drink in the Christmas spirit and remember what it once was like to believe.
My father would schedule three or four book signings for that weekend, at least one of them with a national bestselling author. My father was the envy of local booksellers, since he had a reputation for bringing in authors that no other local bookstore could land.
The year I was eight, he brought in R. L. Stine, the author of the Goosebumps books. For about three days I was the most popular kid in school. I have no idea how my father lured one of the highest selling authors in the world to our little store in Utah, though the fact that his store reported sales to the New York Times bestsellers list didn’t hurt.
On a side note, small city book signings aren’t necessarily bad for authors. Jerica, a New Yorker, explained it best. After one uptown book signing, she said, “In Pocatello, Idaho, I’m a goddess. In New York I’m a footnote on the What’s Happening page.”
My mother and I would help run those book signings. To expedite the signing process, I would hand out Post-it Notes for people to write down the names of who they wanted their books dedicated to, while my mother would sit next to the authors, opening the books to the title page and then handing them to the author.
My mother’s main job wasn’t to open books but rather to engage the customer so they felt like they’d had a good experience even if the author was less than cordial. The customers always liked my mother, and more than one author was taken with her as well. She was charming, pretty, and engaging. Her death left a hole in my heart no one else could ever fill. Not even my father. Especially not my father. He had dug the hole.
* * *
This Black Friday, Wendy had scheduled two author signings. The first was a popular local radio show host named Amanda Dickson. Her self-published book was called Behind the Mike: Twelve Years of Radio Scuttlebutt. Ms. Dickson’s local following translated into a large turnout and a lot of sales.
Our second book signing was for the Holiday Healthy cookbook. The signing probably would have gone well, except that the author made the mistake of giving out treats made from her recipes. They were awful. You might as well have just eaten the book.
All in all, it was another strong sales day. It was also the first Friday I hadn’t received a letter from Tabula Rasa. I was admittedly disappointed. I wondered if Dylan had run out of things to say.
CHAPTER thirty–two
If the book will be too difficult for grown-ups, then you write it for children.
—Madeleine L’Engle
SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 28
As we expected, Saturday’s crowd was even larger than Friday’s. Before his death, my father had gifted us one last big signing—Laura Numeroff.
Hundreds of people showed up, and the line literally stretched around the block. For more than four hours our bundled-up employees walked up and down the line handing out cups of hot wassail.
Dylan texted me when he arrived. I met him and Alexis in the back parking lot where I had saved him a space and brought them in through the employees’ entrance. I escorted them past the stanchions to the front of the line.
Ms. Numeroff was personable and even got up from the table to take a picture with Alexis, something we didn’t have time to let the other customers do.
That morning I had picked Ms. Numeroff up from her hotel, something my father used to do for the authors, and we’d built a quick rapport as she shared great gossip. She told me she had once dated the drummer of a famous rock band (name withheld), but he dumped her shortly after their first album took off. In her subsequent melancholy, she wrote her first If You Give… book. The series, so far, had sold more than 45 million copies, nearly triple the band’s combined album sales. “Karma is sweet,” she said to me.
Dylan offered to stay and help with the signing, but I sent him off to watch the football game with his father. Ms. Numeroff had a tight schedule, and we had to close the doors with people still in line so she could catch her flight out.
By the end of the day we were all exhausted. Wendy was beyond ecstati
c about our success. Even though the bulk of the sales were run through credit cards, she had still emptied the cash from the register into the safe six times.
As we were locking up, she said, “Your boyfriend is cute. Was that his daughter?”
“Alexis,” I said.
“She was well behaved.”
“Good fathering,” I said.
“We could use more of those,” Wendy said.
Her comment piqued my interest. “Were you close to your father?”
“I didn’t even know him. He left my mother when I was two.” She turned off the front display lights, then said, “By the way, your letter came in the mail today. I left it back on the desk.”
“Thank you.”
“Have you figured out who’s sending them?”
“I think it’s Dylan.”
“Maybe you should just ask him.”
“If he wanted me to know, he’d tell me, right? And if it’s not him, it would just be embarrassing.”
“You’ll figure it out.”
I saved the letter for when I got home.
Dear Noel,
Be kind. If you can’t love your neighbor, be kind to them, and you may see your kindness turn to love. Do not proclaim your great love for the disadvantaged masses when you hate your next-door neighbor. The world of humanity is not the vast, unfathomable ocean, it is the lone starfish that washes up on the beach.
Do not think of love as weakness. Love is not the fluff of greeting cards. Love is the hard, rocky shore that holds fast against the ocean’s turbulent waves. Love is the soldier who lays down his life for his friends in the trenches. Love is the mother who goes to bed hungry so her children will have breakfast. Love is the opposite of self-interest, the disciples of which flee at the hint of self-sacrifice. Those without love are like the ethereal seeds of a dandelion, scattering to the wind at the first small breeze to find the next real thing.
Tabula Rasa
I lay the letter on the bed. “You should have been a writer, Dylan.” I was glad he had come to the signing. I went to bed with him on my mind.
The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 12
