The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4)

by Richard Paul Evans

  Not this morning. While my heart ached for all I’d lost, there was also a sweetness for what I’d found. For the first time in years I didn’t feel so incredibly alone. I felt light and hopeful. As the song said, “a thrill of hope.” Truth had entered my heart, and just like that I was born again. And with that renaissance came purpose. I had things to do.

  I went to my father’s stationery drawer and took out a sheet of his most beautiful paper. I took it to the kitchen table and wrote a letter to my father—something I should have done years earlier. I put the finished letter in an envelope, then showered and got ready for the day. There were people I needed to see.

  I opened the front door and was braced by the cold fresh air. The homes up and down my street were quiet. The only sign of life was a plume of smoke rising from the chimney of the house across the street.

  My first stop was the cemetery. Except for an old Volkswagen minivan a few streets over from me, I was alone. The stark white of the cemetery was accented by the offerings left behind from earlier visitors: the bright crimson leaves of poinsettias and the evergreen of wreaths.

  The snow I walked through was nearly up to my knees. When I got to my parents’ grave, I cleared away a small patch of snow, exposing the wet, matted grass beneath, then knelt.

  For a moment I just kneeled there, silently, and then I reached out and touched the stone, tracing the grooved letters of my father’s name with my finger.

  “Hi, Mom and Dad, it’s Noel.” I stopped talking. The words didn’t come. I bowed my head as tears fell down my cheek. Just be, I thought.

  “You probably didn’t expect to see me today, but here I am. I’m just so glad you’re finally together again.” I wiped my eyes. “I’m glad I’m your daughter.”

  The tears rolled down my face. “Mom, I need to talk to Dad for a minute, okay?” I cleared my throat. “Daddy, I’m so sorry I was such a bad daughter. I didn’t know what really happened that night or why you sent me away. That’s not an excuse; maybe it’s a reason.” I bit my quivering lip. “If you were here, I’d hug you and tell you how sorry I am. I’d try to make up for all the things we missed out on. But you’re not here.

  “I’m going to try to keep you alive through all the things you loved. Your writing, your bookstore, your friends. I promise I’ll do everything I can to keep them alive. And I’m sorry about Wendy. I’ll take care of that too.” I again wiped my tears. “I’m sorry, Daddy. I didn’t know you were loving me all along. I know that now.”

  “I wrote a letter for you. Just like you wrote for me. I’ll read it.”

  Dear Daddy,

  Even though I never deserved it, I was always your angel. Now you are mine. I will forever honor your memory and try to be the girl you believed I could be.

  Love, your daughter, Noel

  I put the letter back in the envelope and set it on the grave. “I love you, Daddy.” I bowed my head and cried, the sounds muffled by the soft snow.

  I don’t remember how long I was there. It was a while. Long enough that I was shivering and covered in snow. Still, I didn’t even notice the cold. I wiped my eyes and was about to stand when something fluttered down past me. I thought it was a leaf until it lit on my parents’ stone. Stark against the frigid backdrop of white was a blue butterfly.

  CHAPTER fifty–six

  Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.

  —Hermann Hesse

  After the cemetery, I drove to the bookstore. “Bobbooks,” I said out loud. “What a great name.”

  I had three reasons to visit the store. The first was to surround myself with my father’s presence, to feel him again. The second was more practical: I needed to pick up a few Christmas presents. The third was to find Wendy’s address.

  I picked out three books and a candle and wrapped them. I put together another little package for Wendy, then searched for her address. It was harder to find than I thought it would be. I finally found it printed on her desk on a label for some makeup she’d ordered. She lived on the west side of the valley, about twenty minutes from the store by way of the interstate. She was my first stop.

  My GPS led me west through a labyrinth of tract homes in an older, established suburb. As the sun rose higher on the day, life began to spring from the frozen world. I passed a small hill with children sledding and throwing snowballs.

  Wendy lived on the crossroads of Emerson and Thoreau, which I figured had likely influenced her choice of neighborhoods. There were cars parked all along the curbs. Most of them seemed to have been there for a while, as they looked more like igloos than automobiles. The homes in the area were simple, mostly split-level and outdated—a sharp contrast to Grace’s mansion.

  I found Wendy’s house number on a curbside mailbox, parked my car, and got out. The street was deserted, and the only sound was the whine of an unseen snowblower in the distance.

  Wendy’s front walk was covered with snow. Her home looked still and dark as if no one was home, but her Subaru was in the driveway.

  I walked up to the door and rang the bell. After a moment I knocked. I heard some footsteps, followed by some fiddling with a chain lock and then the deadbolt. The door opened.

  Wendy was wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I don’t know if her expression was more of disbelief or disgust, but she definitely wasn’t happy to see me. She started to shut the door.

  I put out my hand. “Wait, please.”

  “What do you want?”

  “We need to talk.”

  “It’s my day off,” she said.

  “Please. It’s important.”

  “To who?”

  “To my father,” I said.

  She leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed at her chest.

  “I came to apologize.”

  “Why? Because you realized you can’t run the store without me?”

  “That’s not why I came.”

  “Why would I believe you?”

  “I brought you something.” I handed her a small wrapped box.

  She reluctantly took the gift.

  “Open it. Please.”

  She glanced at me suspiciously, then unwrapped the box and lifted its lid. Inside was her key to the store. She shook her head. “Does this mean you’re giving me my job back?”

  “No. It means I’m giving you the bookstore.”

  Her expression froze. “What?”

  “I’m giving you the bookstore.”

  “Are you serious?”

  “Would I lie about that?”

  “It’s more likely than you giving me the store.” She looked into my eyes. “Why?”

  “My father loved you. And it was something you two had together. He would have wanted it that way.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then said, “It’s cold out; why don’t you come in?”

  “If I’m not disturbing anything.”

  “It’s just me,” she said.

  I stomped the snow off my feet and walked into the house. Her front room was tidy, with colorful giclée prints. In one corner there was a small plastic Christmas tree sparsely decorated with frosted pinecones and gold baubles.

  On two of the walls were framed pictures of Wendy with my father. In one of them, they were standing next to each other at a book signing with author Mary Higgins Clark. The picture was signed by Mary. The other photograph was of just the two of them in the canyons, the leaves behind them radiant in autumn colors. They looked deliriously happy.

  “We took that one a year ago last fall,” Wendy said.

  “He looks happy. You both do.”

  “It was four months before he was diagnosed. It was our last hike.”

  I sat down on one of the couches. “You have a nice home.”

  “Thank you.” She sat on a wooden chair next to the couch. One of her cats ran into the room and hopped up onto her lap.

  “Which one is that?�
�� I asked.

  Wendy lifted the cat’s chin. “It’s Clawdia. She’s the friendly one.” Wendy rubbed Clawdia’s neck for a moment, then said, “You went all Willy Wonka on me.”

  I smiled. “I guess I did.”

  “You’re serious about the store?”

  “Absolutely. But there is one caveat.”

  “The name?”

  I nodded. “You have to keep the name Bobbooks. It’s my father’s legacy.”

  Wendy smiled. “What happened, Noel? It’s almost Dickensian, like you got visited by the ghosts of Christmas.”

  “Something like that. I learned the truth about my father.”

  “You learned that he was a good man?”

  “I learned that he was a good father.” As I looked at her, for the first time, I understood the depth of her pain. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t be together.”

  “We were together. Every day. And that whole thing about getting married—I don’t know if it would have worked, with Grace and everything.”

  “You had a love triangle going.”

  “Every good book does, right?”

  “You know what’s weird? You could have been my stepmother.”

  “That would have been weird.”

  “For the record, I never would have called you Mom.”

  “For the record, I wouldn’t have let you.” Clawdia suddenly jumped off Wendy’s lap and ran out of the room. Wendy looked back at me. “Have you decided whether you’re going back to New York?”

  “I don’t know. I guess it depends on my next visit.”

  “To Dylan’s?”

  I nodded.

  “I hope it goes well for you.”

  “Thank you.

  “If you decide to stay, we could always use you at the bookstore.”

  “I may take you up on that.” I looked her in the eyes. “I’m going to finish my father’s books.”

  She smiled. “You have no idea how much that would please him.”

  “I might.”

  “Would you like something to drink? I’ve got some wassail I could heat up. Coffee. Kombucha.”

  “Thank you, but I’d better go. Like I said, I’ve got one more stop to make.”

  As I stood up, Wendy walked over and hugged me. “I didn’t get to be your stepmother, but, if it’s okay, I’ll be your sister.”

  My eyes welled. “I’d like that.”

  “I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “You already have. You were there for my father when I wasn’t. I’m very grateful for that. He deserved to be with someone who loved him.”

  She wiped her eyes. “It was hard. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of our time together.”

  “You really did love him.”

  “With all my heart.”

  “So do I.”

  She sighed happily. “It’s all he wanted.” Her expression fell a little. “I’m really sorry about what I said to you at the store. Especially what I said about your dying alone. That was cruel.”

  “It was true. And I needed to hear it. Maybe you were my ghost of Christmas yet to come.”

  She smiled. “Maybe. Merry Christmas, Noel.”

  “You too, sister.” I started to go, then turned back. “I have a strange question.”

  She cocked her head. “Yes?”

  “Can butterflies live in winter?”

  Her brow furrowed. “Butterflies? I think so. Why do you ask?”

  “Just wondering.” I kissed her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Wendy, and a Happy New Year.”

  CHAPTER fifty–seven

  One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.

  —Jack Kerouac

  I drove back toward my home, exiting the highway on Highland Drive. Sugar House Park was full of life; myriad bright moving colors sliding down the hills. I had planned to go to Dylan’s home, then thought better of it and, instead, drove to his parents’ house. As I suspected, Dylan’s truck was in the driveway.

  I pulled up to the curb and parked. I got my bag of gifts, then walked to the front door and knocked.

  Charlotte answered. She looked surprised to see me. “No-el.”

  “Merry Christmas, Charlotte.”

  “Merry Christmas to you, honey. Come on in.”

  “Thank you.” After she shut the door, I handed her one of the presents. “This is for you.”

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  She tore off the wrapping. “A Jerica Bradley book. Thank you. I was going to get that one after the Christmas rush died down.

  “Open the cover.”

  “The cover?” She opened the book. The title page was inscribed:

  Dear Charlotte,

  From one southern hen to another, Keep pecking.

  Jerica Bradley

  She looked at me. “Jerica Bradley really wrote that?”

  “Yes, she did,” I said. “I have no idea what it means, but who else would write an inscription like that?”

  “Thank you. I will treasure it.”

  “Is Dylan here?”

  “He is. He’s downstairs in the guest room taking a nap. Alex woke around four thirty. You know how kids are on Christmas morning. I’ll go wake him.”

  “No. Please don’t. I’ll just go in, if you don’t mind.”

  She looked at me for a moment, then said, “I think that will be okay.”

  “Are Stratton and Alex here?”

  “They’re in the den. It’s down the hall.”

  I walked to the den. Alexis saw me as I walked in. “Noel!”

  “Hi, sweetie.”

  “Daddy said I wouldn’t get to see you anymore.”

  I frowned. “I would have missed you too much.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Stratton said.

  “Merry Christmas to you.” I lifted my bag. “I brought presents.”

  “Do you have one for me?” Alexis asked.

  I nodded. “Of course I do.” I brought out her present. “You can probably tell it’s a book. Do you like books?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you want to open it?”

  “Uh-huh.” She pulled back the wrapping paper to expose the children’s book beneath.

  “It’s a book called The Day the Crayons Came Home,” I said.

  She laughed. “That’s silly.”

  “I know. Maybe you and your grandpa can read it.”

  “I call him Pawpaw,” she said.

  “We’d love to,” Stratton said.

  “I have a present for you too,” I said.

  “You didn’t need to do that. You caught me flat-footed. Now I’m in your debt.”

  “I’ll always be in yours,” I said. I handed him the wrapped book, which was as thick as a brick. “Dylan said you like nonfiction. I think you’ll like it.”

  He pulled back the paper and held it up. The Wright Brothers by David McCullough.

  “McCullough is a two-time Pulitzer Prize winner,” I said.

  “I’m familiar with McCullough. I read his book on Theodore Roosevelt.”

  “Mornings on Horseback,” I said. “It won the National Book Award. My father loved it too.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “It’s a very fine gift.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  He set the book down. “More than that, I’m glad you came. Dylan’s been pining for you. I hate seeing that.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “I didn’t treat him like he deserved to be treated.” I shook my head. “I haven’t really been the person I want to be.”

  Stratton smiled at me kindly. “Well, I suppose admitting that is the first step to becoming that person.”

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “Merry Christmas, Noel.”

  “Merry Christmas, Mr. Sparks.”

  “Pawpaw, can you read this to me?” Alexis said, holding up her book.

  “How about you read it to me?”

  “Okay.”

  Stratton winked at me. �
�Dylan’s in the guest room. It’s the first door down the stairs.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was afraid to see him. I wouldn’t be surprised if he made me leave. I guess I expected it. I wouldn’t blame him, either.

  I softly walked down the carpeted stairs and opened the door. Dylan was asleep, snoring a little. I gently sat on the bed and then lay back, my face next to his. For several minutes I just watched him sleep. He was beautiful. My mind and heart both raced. I had no idea what I would say to him when he woke. My anxiety grew. Why wouldn’t he throw me out? I was considering leaving when his eyes fluttered open. He looked as surprised as I thought he would. His voice was raspy as he said, “I thought you were Alex.”

  “I’m sorry. It’s just me.”

  “I’m not used to waking up to a strange woman in bed.”

  “That’s probably good.”

  He smiled slightly.

  My eyes were locked on his. “Do you think you could get used to it?”

  “Maybe. With a little practice.”

  “I would love to practice waking up with you.”

  He just looked at me. My eyes welled up. “I’m so sorry, Dylan. You’ve been nothing but good to me.” I swallowed. “Everything you said about me was true. You have no reason to forgive me. But if you could somehow give me another chance…” I closed my eyes as tears rolled down my cheeks. “I’ll be better. I promise. I—”

  I didn’t finish, as he pressed his lips against mine. I fell back onto the bed as we kissed. After a while he leaned back and looked into my eyes. “Apology accepted.”

  “I’m not done.”

  “You have more to say? You kind of said a lot already.”

  I smiled. “I meant with the kissing part.”

  EPILOGUE

  This might be the happy ending without the ending.

  —David Levithan

  TWO YEARS LATER

  I settled myself in at the small round table near the back of Bobbooks while Dylan brought over a cup of coffee.

  “So, how does this thing work?” he asked, handing me the mug.

  “Thank you, honey,” I said as he sat down. “You just take their books and open it to the Post-it Note, if there is one. If they have more than one book, you can stack them inside each other.”