The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4)

by Richard Paul Evans

  “I was in the area, so I came to see where you work.”

  “Why were you in the area?”

  I grinned. “To see where you work.”

  He put his hands in his pockets. “So, this is it, Chez Dylan. What do you think?”

  I looked around the store. The space was tastefully designed with a modern, yet elegant motif. The walls were lined with high-gloss burl walnut cabinetry, and the floor was an onyx-like tile that reflected the overhead rows of track lighting.

  “It’s very chic,” I said.

  “Don’t sound too surprised.”

  “You can’t blame me,” I said. “In school your entire wardrobe consisted of Pink Floyd T-shirts and army fatigues.”

  “That was the old me. I had this inner clotheshorse fighting to get out.”

  “Looks like it succeeded. I have good news. My check from the insurance company came. I’m officially a millionaire.”

  “Wow. How does that feel?”

  “I don’t think it’s sunk in yet.”

  “I guess that makes me the gold digger.”

  “Well, gold digger, I was hoping you had time for lunch.”

  “I’ll make time.” He turned to the other man. “Adesh, I’m going out for an hour. You okay?”

  “I’m good, boss.”

  “And totally disregard what she just said about being a millionaire.”

  He looked at me. “You’re a millionaire?”

  “I told you to disregard that,” Dylan said. He turned back to me. “Where would you like to go for lunch? Zurich?”

  “I knew I shouldn’t have told you,” I said. “What restaurants do you have around here?”

  “There’s an Irish pub just across the lot.”

  “Is it good?”

  “Do you like bangers and mash? Guinness pie?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Then you won’t like it. How about ramen or sushi?”

  “I like them both.”

  “There’s a Japanese restaurant up the road. I’ll drive.”

  Dylan took me to a small restaurant called Kobe. We sat ourselves at a table for two.

  “This place is famous for its ramen,” Dylan said. “But the sushi is good too.”

  “I don’t know if I trust inland sushi.”

  “Now you’re just sounding jaded,” he said. “The owner here is from Japan. He studied under Eiji Ichimura, one of the greatest sushi chefs in the world.”

  “Never heard of him,” I said.

  “Have you ever heard of the restaurant Ichimura in New York?”

  “On the Upper East Side? Everyone has.”

  “That’s his sushi bar.”

  “My apologies to the chef.”

  We both ordered ramen. After our waitress left, Dylan said, “So aside from your millions, how’s your bookstore doing?”

  “I have a million, not millions. And it seems to be doing well. I didn’t realize how busy it was. I guess I kind of fantasized that my father sat around all day drinking coffee and cursing Amazon.”

  “Your bookstore doesn’t have coffee.”

  “In my fantasy it did.”

  A few minutes later our waitress brought out our meals. I had ordered the Tonkotsu with pork belly ramen, topped with mushrooms and a soft-boiled egg. Dylan had ordered the Kimchi ramen. For a moment we ate in silence. Then Dylan said, “A million dollars. You know, if you invest smart, you’ll never have to work again.”

  “Then what would I do?”

  “You’ll write your book. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  After I didn’t say anything he said, “I’m not saying you won’t work, I’m just saying you don’t have to.” His mouth rose in a large smile. “The best part is, now there’s no reason for you to go back to New York.”

  The words struck me like a hammer. I looked down for a moment, then said, “Dylan, I have to tell you something.”

  My tone must have betrayed the gravity of what I had to share, as his smile fled.

  “What is it?”

  I took a deep breath. “When I came back to Utah, I only planned to be here a few days. A few weeks at the most. It’s been almost two months.” I looked into his eyes. “Dylan, this was never part of the plan.”

  “What wasn’t?”

  “Us.”

  He looked stunned. “Are you ending us?”

  “I should have told you sooner. They’ve offered me my job back.”

  “The publishing house?”

  I nodded.

  “And you’re going to take it?”

  “I fly back the day after Christmas.” The silence was awkward. Finally I said, “What do I have here?”

  I regretted the words as they came out of my mouth.

  “Apparently nothing,” he replied softly, his eyes showing his pain.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”

  “There’s another meaning?” He took a deep breath, then said, “We should go.”

  “You haven’t eaten,” I said.

  “I need to go,” he said.

  “All right.”

  Dylan paid the bill and we drove back to his store in silence. As we pulled into the mall he asked, “Where are you parked?”

  “I’m in the lower garage. But you can drop me off here.”

  “I’ll take you to your car.” He drove down the parking ramp. I pointed out my car and he pulled up behind it. For a moment we just sat there. The pain was palpable. Finally I said, “It’s not like I’ll never be back.”

  “No you won’t.” He looked into my eyes. “It’s like you said, there’s nothing here.” To my surprise, there were tears in his eyes. He reached up and wiped away a tear. “Look at that. The second time as well.”

  I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck, Noel. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

  I got out of the truck and he drove away. I got into my car and cried.

  CHAPTER forty–five

  I love deadlines, I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.

  —Douglas Adams

  FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18

  It was only a week before Christmas. Eight days before I returned to New York. My heart ached. I couldn’t believe how much I missed Dylan.

  As long as I was burning bridges, I had one more to bring down. That afternoon I took Wendy aside. “We need to talk,” I said. “In private.”

  “All right.” We went into the office. Wendy locked the door, then sat on top of her desk. “What’s up?”

  “I’m going back to New York.”

  She sat quietly for a moment, then said, “I thought you might.” The next question hung in the air between us. “What are you doing with the bookstore?”

  “I’m going to sell it.”

  Something, pain or anger, flashed in her eyes. She took a deep breath. “When?”

  “I’ll put it up after the New Year.”

  Her eyes welled up. “When do you leave for New York?”

  “The twenty-sixth.”

  Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, “I’m sure whoever buys it will want you to stay.”

  She took a tissue from her desk and wiped her eyes. “We’ll see.”

  The silence grew awkward. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry.”

  She stood. “I’ve got work to do.”

  The rest of the day was miserable. Several times I caught Wendy crying. Cyndee asked me what was wrong. I told her I didn’t know. For the first time since I’d worked with Wendy, she left early. Maybe for the first time ever. She didn’t say goodbye.

  Dear Noel,

  Too many live their lives as if they’ll live on this Earth forever, scheming and building sand empires that will fall at the next wave of time. Ultimately, the only empire worth building is one of the soul, as the heart alone exists outside of time and physics. We all arrived on Earth with a round-trip ticket. We are sojourners and star travelers, all of us
—campers from the Great Beyond. While it behooves us to leave the campground better than we found it, we are fools to put down stakes or pour foundations on unclaimable ground. One does not build a cathedral for Easter Sunday.

  Tabula Rasa

  CHAPTER forty–six

  Get it down. Take chances. It may be bad, but it’s the only way you can do anything good.

  —William Faulkner

  SATURDAY–SUNDAY, DECEMBER 19–20

  According to the marketing gurus and their charts, the Saturday before Christmas is the busiest shopping day of the year. They call it Super Saturday. It was anything but that. Business was good, the customers plentiful, but the day was miserable. To my surprise, Wendy didn’t act angry or bitter, as I’d expected. She just seemed sad—like she was grieving again. I think she was. She had grieved my father. Now she was grieving the death of the store.

  I counted the minutes until we closed and I could go home and suffer alone.

  * * *

  That night I had a dream about Dylan. It wasn’t a bad dream. In fact, it was sweet. He was loving me. When I woke, I wished it had been a bad dream. I could have dealt better with that. I wouldn’t be left craving him.

  * * *

  I had assumed I wouldn’t see Dylan again. Maybe ever. But I was wrong. Sunday evening I was on the Internet looking through a listing of apartments in Brooklyn when the doorbell rang. I looked out through the peephole. Dylan was standing there in his leather bomber jacket. His hands were behind his back.

  I opened the door.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “What do you want?” I asked, sounding harsher than I intended.

  “Now there’s an irrelevant question.” He brought a box out from behind his back. “I bought you a Christmas-birthday present.” He offered me the gift. “What did you call it, a ‘two-in-one’?”

  “I can’t take it.”

  “You mean won’t.”

  I just looked at him.

  “Look, this isn’t some pathetic attempt at getting you back. I had already bought it, so I figured I might as well give it to you.”

  I still just stood there.

  “C’mon, Noel. It’s just a birthday present.”

  I exhaled slowly. “All right.” I took it from him. “Thank you.”

  “You can open it.”

  I furtively glanced up at him, then looked back down at the gift. I tore the paper back, revealing a heavy black hinged box. I lifted its lid to expose a beautiful black resin Montblanc pen with a gold nib.

  “It’s for writing your book. When you’re ready.”

  I looked up at him. “Thank you. That was very thoughtful.”

  “I’m a thoughtful guy.”

  Emotion rose in my chest. “I’m sorry.”

  Dylan raised his hand. “We’ve already done this.” He looked at me for a moment then said, “But there is something that still needs to be said. May I?”

  I nodded.

  “I’ve spent most of my life dealing with abandonment. It’s a real thing, you know, not just some trending psychobabble. When you’re a kid and your parents give you away, it does something to your wiring.

  “But, over time, I’ve learned some things about it. Things that help. Humans are born vulnerable. If they don’t have care, they die. So, the fear of abandonment is hardwired into us for survival. We fear abandonment even as we fear death. It’s that primal.

  “The thing is, when you’re a kid, there’s no way to make sense of that. My parents gave me away like I was a stick of gum. I’m an adult and I still can’t make sense of that. Part of me wants to hunt them down and make them explain.

  “But the truth is, my inner self doesn’t blame them. It blames me. It’s in there asking, What’s wrong with me that they didn’t love me? We wonder why we’re so unlovable.

  “Noel, we’re no different. Your mother left. Your father sent you away. Your husband left. How do you process that? How can you just say, It’s them, not me, and believe it?”

  His voice cracked. “Sometimes it feels like the only way to deal with that fear is to push people away. Because the chance that you might really be unlovable is much too terrifying to face.

  “It’s a pretty simple conclusion. In fact, I figured that out when I was Alex’s age—that the only way I was going to make it through life was by going it alone. That’s why I burned through foster homes like a wildfire. I punished anyone who took a chance on me. And I had to prove to myself that I didn’t need them. That I didn’t need anyone.

  “And then Stratton and Charlotte came along. I tried to push them away, but the harder I pushed, the tighter they held. They did the impossible. They convinced me I was lovable. So when Susan abandoned me. I still believed I was okay. And my reward is that I have this beautiful little girl whose life centers around me.

  “I’m telling you this, Noel, because the only difference between us is that someone got through to me. I want you to know that you are lovable. And no one can prove otherwise. Not even you.”

  We both stood there in silence. Then he said, “Okay, that’s my speech. I’ll let you go. I love you. I think I always have. And I probably always will.”

  Tears were streaming down my face. I wanted to be loved by him more than I could say. But he was right. The terror was just too great.

  He kissed my cheek, and then as he stepped off the porch I said, “Dylan. Thank you for the letters.”

  He looked at me with a quizzical expression. “What letters?”

  “The ones you’ve been sending me.”

  He shook his head. “Must be some other fool.” Then he walked to his truck and drove away.

  CHAPTER forty–seven

  Here is a lesson in creative writing. First rule: Do not use semicolons. They are transvestite hermaphrodites representing absolutely nothing. All they do is show you’ve been to college.

  —Kurt Vonnegut

  MONDAY, DECEMBER 21

  Four days until Christmas; five more days until I went back to New York. There were a lot of customers but not a lot of cheer in the bookstore. One of the customers had to remind Wendy to turn the Christmas music on.

  Grace came in at her usual time but didn’t stay long. I was helping a customer when she approached me. “I have my book,” she said, lifting it from her tote to show me. I didn’t even look to see what it was.

  “I’ll check you out as soon as I’m done here,” I said.

  “No hurry. I wrote everything down so someone can get to it later. The counter was a little cluttered, so I left it attached to the notepad in the top drawer.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I probably won’t get the chance to see you before Christmas. Or after, for that matter. I wanted to tell you that it’s been a pleasure getting to know you better. You’re an amazing young woman. I wish nothing but the best for you.”

  I felt emotional. “Thank you.”

  “I can see why your dad was so proud of you.” She looked into my eyes for a moment, then said, “Merry Christmas, Noel. And have a happy birthday.” She turned and walked out of the store. I wondered if I would ever see her again.

  Dear Noel,

  Life is a house of cards balanced on a teeter-totter, precariously perched on a roller coaster. The only thing that should surprise us about our surprises is that we are surprised by them. Don’t worry if life doesn’t look the way you thought it would. It never does. Life is a ladder. You can choose the direction to climb, but not the rungs. As you climb, you will slip at times. Do not be discouraged. Sometimes success is better measured in intention than inches.

  Tabula Rasa

  CHAPTER forty–eight

  All great authors are seers.

  —George Henry Lewes

  WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 23

  It snowed hard for most of the morning, not that it did much to deter our clientele. It was, after all, the last full shopping day before Christmas—the last chance at redemption for holiday procrastinators.

  T
he day had been exhausting. Wendy was acting differently than she was yesterday. I don’t know what it was. She almost acted as if nothing had happened. Perhaps it was the denial stage of grief. The two of us had worked a double shift, along with Cammy, Cyndee, and Teddy, our twenty-year-old tattooed rock star–wannabee holiday hire.

  Wendy flipped the Open sign over to Closed and locked the door. “One more day,” she said. She handed me another letter. “This came today.”

  I was surprised to see it. “I guess this will be the last one.”

  “Why is that?”

  Before I could answer, Teddy walked up behind us, his graffiti-covered army-surplus backpack slung over one shoulder. “Can I go now?”

  Wendy nodded. “I’ll see you tomorrow. Remember, we close early. Three o’clock.”

  “Peace out.” He disappeared out the back.

  “He’s a funny kid,” I said. “Good worker.”

  “He was,” Wendy said, then added, “What a year. I wish your father had been here to see it all.” She sighed. “No, I just wish he was here…” Her words trailed off in sadness.

  For a moment neither of us spoke. Then she said, “Every Christmas Eve after we closed, your father and I would lock up and then go in back and have a celebratory glass of wine and just talk. I loved being with him.” She seemed lost in the memory. A moment later she looked back at me as if suddenly awakened from a trance. “Are you spending tonight with Dylan?”

  “No. We broke up.”

  Wendy looked at me quizzically. “I thought things were going well.”

  “They were. There was just… baggage, you know?” I lifted the envelope Wendy had just given me. “He won’t admit that he’s been writing the letters.”

  Wendy looked at me for a moment, then said, “He didn’t write those letters.”

  “What?”

  “They’re from your father.”

  “How are they from my father? And that’s definitely not his handwriting.”

  “It’s Grace’s handwriting. She’s been sending them to you.”