FRIDAY, DECEMBER 11
Dear Noel,
Love. Love is the single greatest choice you can make in your life. Make no mistake: Love is a choice. It is not something that happens to you nor a hole you fall into. It is not an accident. Those things are mere counterfeits of love, capricious hormones that come and go like pigeons after breadcrumbs. Love is a choice, a decision, that is grown and cultivated, pruned at times and patiently cared for. If properly nourished, it will someday grow into something too big to uproot—something that will provide shade and sustenance, constantly climbing upward and spreading its shelter over others.
If you believe you must earn love, as many do, or require it of others, you do not understand its nature. Love earned ceases to be love. It is wage. Love.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER forty
No tears in the writer, no tears in the reader.
—Robert Frost
SUNDAY, DECEMBER 13
It had been more than a decade since I’d been to the ballet. I had brought only one nice dress from New York, the one I had worn for my father’s funeral. I spent extra time getting ready. I had nothing but time, and I wanted to look nice. Not just because it was the ballet but for Dylan.
Dylan picked me up a few minutes before five. My first thought was how handsome he looked in his tailored suit.
“Where’s Alex?”
“She’s already at my parents’.” He looked at me with a sort of awe in his eyes. “You look stunning, Noel. You always look beautiful, but…”
I smiled. “I clean up well. You look nice too.”
“Thank you.” He put out his arm. “Shall we go?”
A few minutes later we parked in Dylan’s parents’ driveway and went inside. Alexis ran to us as we walked in. Actually, she ran to me. “Noel!”
She was wearing a pretty little hunter-green velvet dress with pearl buttons, and her hair was pulled back in a bun like a ballerina’s.
“You look very pretty,” I said.
“Thank you.”
“Did Grandma do your hair?”
“No, Daddy did.”
“Really?” I looked at Dylan. “That’s impressive.”
“It’s no big deal,” he said. “I was good at tying knots in the Boy Scouts.”
I laughed.
“Actually, I just got tired of driving her to Grandma’s all the time.”
Charlotte already had dinner on the table. “I hope y’all weren’t expecting anything too fancy,” she said. “Just chicken and dumplings. Strat calls it comfort food.”
“Sounds perfect,” I said. “We all need more comfort.”
“Amen to that,” Charlotte said.
As usual, the main course was one part of a much larger meal. There was grilled corn, steamed vegetables, and cornbread. It wasn’t just the food that was comforting. So was being with Dylan’s family. It was the only place in my world back then that resembled a home.
After we finished eating, I offered to help clean up, but Charlotte wouldn’t hear of it.
“No, dear. You have the ballet to get to. You don’t want to be late. It’s not like the movies. They don’t let you just walk in at your leisure.”
* * *
The Capitol Theatre on Second South is one of Salt Lake’s oldest buildings. It was built in 1913 as a vaudeville house called the Orpheum until fourteen years later when its name was changed.
During the holidays the Nutcracker was performed at the theatre three times a day, and we entered the lobby against a stream of people leaving the building. It had been more than twenty-three years since I had been there, and the theater, like me, had undergone an extensive renovation, inside and out.
We surrendered our tickets at the door, then went into the hall to find our seats. The theater was ornately designed in the classic style of the Italian Renaissance, like many of the opera and ballet houses of Old Europe. The seats were red velvet with polished dark wood arms, stark against the ivory-colored walls with chalk-white panels and gold-leaf accents.
The stage bulged slightly with the orchestra pit, settled at the base of a massive red curtain with a thick gold-fringed hem. I remember, as a young girl, being on the other side of that curtain, waiting with the other little girls for our chance to dance.
As the conductor walked out to applause, a long-dormant excitement rose in my stomach, which grew as the iconic chords of Tchaikovsky resonated throughout the theater. I had watched the performance more than fifty times, though always from behind, and it was peculiar seeing the production as it was designed to be seen. The way my parents saw it. The way they saw me.
I was transfixed by it all, as memories flooded into my heart. As a girl, my love of dancing had been everything and I gave it up back when I had given up everything else I once loved.
As the performance progressed, my feeling of excitement changed to a heaviness in my stomach and chest, almost in contrast to the ethereal weightlessness of the dancers floating across the stage. In a sense, ballet is a lie—an illusion. It is made to look effortless but requires incredible physical stamina, strength, and pain. I have seen blood drip from ballerinas’ feet as they removed their toe shoes.
My life was also a lie. In this sense, I had never stopped trying to make things look easy and right.
The final scene of Act 1 was the battle scene between the soldiers and the mice—the scene I had danced in. Watching the girls prance across the stage in their little mouse costumes brought a flood of emotion. I looked over at Dylan, who was smiling, intent on the performance. Alexis was curled up against him, her hand on his arm, her head against his chest. There was something inexplicably powerful about what I was experiencing, both on stage and in the seat next to me—something I had buried deep within my psyche. I suddenly had a flashback of my father carrying me out of this very theater, my head against his chest, the smell of his cologne in my nostrils.
As I looked at them, tears began falling down my cheeks. A few at first, then in greater numbers. My chest constricted. I was suddenly having trouble breathing and felt nauseous. Dylan glanced over at me, his concern evident in his eyes. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
“No.” I stood and hurried out of the performance, in too much pain to be embarrassed by the disapproving glances I got as I ran up the aisle toward the exit.
CHAPTER forty–one
If you really want to know yourself, start by writing a book.
—Shereen El Feki
Dylan came out after me, carrying Alexis. I was grateful that he didn’t ask what was wrong. I couldn’t have explained it if he did. All he said was, “I’ll take you home.”
The drive home was silent. It seemed that lately all our drives home were silent.
As usual, Dylan walked me to the doorstep. He never came inside when Alexis was with us, and right now I wished she wasn’t with us. I wanted him to come inside. I desperately wanted him to hold me and never let me go. But there was something else inside me that was pushing back—a force growing louder and stronger, shouting at me to run before it was too late; screaming that love was an illusion. There were no true relationships. No one stayed together anymore. Not my mother and father. Not my husband. And not Dylan. No one.
“I’m sorry we had to leave early,” I said. “I hope Alex is okay.”
“She’s fine,” he said gently. “Were there too many memories?”
“Ghosts of Christmas Past,” I said. “Just too many ghosts.” I closed my eyes. “It’s hard being back.”
“I know.” He put his arms around me. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
“I just need some sleep. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll let you get some sleep.” He kissed me, then stepped back, still holding my hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some rest.”
He walked off to his truck. I stood on the porch watching as he drove away. Then I walked inside and shut the door and leaned against it. I suddenly felt dizzy.
; The attack started with ringing in my ears growing louder and louder until I collapsed to the floor and the ringing became screaming—my mother screaming at my father to get off her. Then it was me being held down. My father was on top of me, holding me as I struggled, powerless against him. My clothes were drenched in sweat. Only now it wasn’t my mother screaming, it was me. That’s when I passed out.
CHAPTER forty–two
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
—Henry David Thoreau
MONDAY, DECEMBER 14
Sometime in the night I had gotten to my room and into bed. I woke with a headache, but my heart hurt more. It pounded in panic. I had to leave. It didn’t matter where I went. I wasn’t running to something, I was running away from this, whatever this was. I couldn’t think of any other way to escape than to fasten myself to something that would take me with it—like tying an anchor to my leg and throwing it into the sea. There was only one thing like that in my life. I picked up the phone and dialed Natasha.
“Noel,” she said. “Good morning.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to get back to you.”
“I figured you probably had some legal things to work out with your father’s death. So are you coming back to us?”
“Yes,” I said, fixing myself to the word.
“Wonderful. How soon can you be here?”
“It might take a while. I don’t have a place to live.”
“We can help with that. We have a corporate contract with the Hilton. We’ll put you up for a week or two while you find a place.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“We just want you back,” she said. “And you made the right choice.”
“Thank you for taking me back.”
I hung up. I didn’t know if it was the right choice. But it felt like my only one.
* * *
I felt numb as I drove to work. The store was busy all day, and I didn’t stop for lunch. I couldn’t have eaten anyway, as my stomach ached. As usual, I was at the front counter when Grace came in. She picked out her book, then brought it over to me. “Here we are.”
I couldn’t get the scanner to read the book, so I typed in the ISBN. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me.
“How are you, Noel?”
“I took the job,” I blurted out. It sounded like a murder confession at a police interrogation.
She looked at me silently, then asked, “The editor job in New York?”
“Yes.” I expected that she would be disappointed in me after I had told her that being an editor wasn’t really my dream. Or maybe I was just projecting my own disappointment in myself onto her.
“Then you’ll be leaving us soon.”
“Right after Christmas.” I handed her the book, and she put it in her tote and then looked back at me. As I looked into her eyes I sensed no judgment or condemnation. Just kindness. She reached out and gently touched my hand. “They’re fortunate to have you. But their gain is our loss. You will be missed.”
CHAPTER forty–three
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
—Thomas Mann
Around three in the afternoon I got a call from my father’s attorney. I hadn’t heard from him since he’d come by the house my first week back.
“Noel, it’s Christopher Smalls. I just wanted to let you know that I have a check from the insurance company. I can mail it to you or you’re welcome to come get it. I would bring it by, but I have appointments.”
“Thank you; I can come get it. Where are you?”
“My office is in the Avenues. I’ll text you the address.”
I told Wendy that I had to leave early. I don’t think she was happy, but, frankly, she hadn’t been happy with me ever since I told her I wanted to change the store’s name.
A half hour later I was driving up a one-way street to the attorney’s office. It was an old slate-bricked home with a large plate-glass window emblazoned in gold with the name of several other professionals, including a CPA and a marriage counselor.
Mr. Smalls greeted me in the lobby as I walked in, then led me to his office and shut the door behind us. His wood furniture was scuffed and outdated, as if it had been purchased at an estate sale.
“Have a seat,” he said.
I sat down. “I only have a few minutes. I’d like to get to the bank before it closes.”
“This won’t take long.” He handed me an envelope. I pulled back the flap and took out the check. It was a yellow safety-paper check made out to me for a million dollars.
“Ever seen a check for a million dollars?” he asked.
“Not with my name on it. That’s a lot of zeroes.”
“More than I’ll ever see.” He smiled. “Still planning on getting out of Dodge?”
I put the check in my purse. “I’m going back to New York. So I guess I’ll be selling the house. Do you know a good real estate agent?”
“We have one here in this office. Shelley specializes in residential real estate. I can introduce you to her right now, or I can snag her business card for you.”
“Her card is fine for now. Like I said, I’d like to get to the bank.” I stood. “Also, do you know how I would go about selling the bookstore?”
“That’s a bit more complicated. But I’d be happy to look into that for you as well.”
“I’d appreciate it.” I shook his hand. “Thank you, Mr. Smalls.”
“Your very welcome. Good luck.”
* * *
I walked out of the office carrying a million-dollar check, feeling like people would stare if they knew.
I banked with a large national institution that had a branch near my home in Sugar House. I filled out a deposit slip, then walked up to an open window and handed it, along with the check, to the teller. What happened next was a little surreal. The young man asked for my ID, then suddenly froze when he saw the amount on the check. He furtively glanced up at me and said, “Just a minute.” He carried the check over to someone in a small office. That person looked at the check and then over at me, then stood and walked through a door at the back of the bank. A few minutes later a handsome, fortysomething man in an Armani suit walked up behind me.
“Excuse me, Ms. Book?”
I turned around. “Yes?”
He put out his hand. “My name is Roland Cox. Thank you for your business. You’re in the wrong side of the bank.”
* * *
The letter I got the next day seemed especially appropriate. And, in a way, prophetic. I wondered if Dylan had sensed that something critical was happening in my life.
Dear Noel,
Life is difficult. The sooner we accept this, the sooner we can get on living it. Be grateful for your challenges. Without great mountains we cannot reach great heights and we were born to reach great heights. Never give up on your dreams. Too many in this world stop at speed bumps mistaking them for walls. Most obstacles are just stepping-stones on the path to success and failure is merely a temporary space on the gameboard of life waiting for the next roll of the dice.
Tabula Rasa
How was I going to tell him that I was leaving?
CHAPTER forty–four
There’s no such thing as perfect writing, just like there’s no such thing as perfect despair.
—Haruki Murakami
THURSDAY, DECEMBER 17
On Thursday afternoon I let Wendy know I would be taking a longer than usual lunch break. For the first time, I drove to Dylan’s suit shop.
Dylan’s was located less than ten minutes from the bookstore in a strip mall on the slope of the Wasatch mountains. The mall was decorated with strings of Christmas lights and giant foil snowflakes hanging from the parking lot light fixtures.
The upper parking lot was full, and I ended up parking below ground and walking up to Dylan’s store. A large sign above the door read
Dylan’s Quality Men’s Suits a
nd Apparel
In the display window were glossy black mannequins dressed in black or navy suits with crisp white shirts with French cuffs and bright silk ties with matching pocket squares. Blue foil snowflakes hung from fishing line around them.
As I opened the door, an electronic bell rang. Dylan was standing near the back at a cash register helping a customer. He looked up at me with a surprised expression. “Noel.”
I waved. “Hi.”
The older gentleman he was helping turned around to see who he was talking to.
“I’ll be right with you,” Dylan said, sounding unusually professional.
A younger, dark-featured man in a suit and open collar walked up to me from the adjacent showroom. “May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Dylan.”
He turned to Dylan. “Boss, can I finish up for you?”
“Bennett and I are just about done.” Dylan said to his client, “This beautiful woman is my friend, Noel. She was my very first girlfriend back in seventh grade.”
“Pleased to meet you, Noel,” he said. Then, to Dylan, “Tell me, how did an ugly guy like you land such a beauty?”
“Money,” Dylan said dryly. “She’s a gold digger.”
“I’m standing right here,” I said.
Dylan handed the man back a credit card, then the vinyl suit bag hanging from a post extending from the counter. “There you go, Bennett. Have fun on your cruise. Don’t fall overboard, and come back with the same woman you go with.”
The man laughed. “I’ll do my best.” He slung the bag over his shoulder, then said to me as he walked past, “Take the scoundrel for everything he’s worth.” He walked out of the store.
Dylan walked out from around the counter and we kissed. “What are you doing here?”
The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 14
