The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,19

at the card. Mr. Johnson was the owner of a trucking company.

There is a rarely used word that described the moment to me: apotheosis. It means the deification of mortals. I think it’s natural, especially at funerals, for people to make the deceased more than they were in life—only my father’s funeral felt a little different. The people around me seemed sincere in their praise and love for my father. And, like Wendy, they were authentic in their grief.

After the service, the cars lined up to drive to the cemetery for the burial.

“Are you going to join the procession?” Wendy asked.

“I need to go home and get the car,” I said. “I’ll meet you up there.”

“Do you know where the cemetery is?”

“It’s the same plot where my mother’s buried.”

“Of course. I’ll see you there.”

I walked home, got into my father’s car, and drove to the cemetery. My mind was still reeling with what I’d just experienced. My father had either done a remarkable job of fooling the masses or he had changed a lot since my childhood.

When I arrived at the cemetery I parked in the nearest space I could find, which was at least three hundred yards from the grave, and walked up the slick, snow-banked street to the gathering. The snow had been cleared from the site and artificial turf had been laid around the opening in the ground. The granite headstone was already in place. It had been there, with my father’s name on it, for almost twenty years, ever since my mother died.

I watched as the pallbearers struggled up the snowy hillside, laid the casket down, and then removed their boutonnieres and placed them on the casket’s lid.

In front of the casket was a canopied “portachapel” sheltering about twenty folding chairs. Wendy had saved a seat for me in the center of the front row. Also in the front row, two seats from Wendy, was the woman Grace. The graveside service was brief; the pastor said a simple prayer and then dismissed the crowd. As I got up to go Wendy said to me, “We’ll need to discuss your plans for the bookstore before you leave town.”

“Of course.”

“When you’re ready.”

I walked back to my car alone and drove home.

When I got back to the house, there were three large boxes on the front porch. I checked their shipping labels. They had come from my publisher. I could guess what was inside. Natasha had sent my things from my office. Or, more likely, my assistant had, as it was Lori’s signature on the labels. They hadn’t wasted much time in removing the evidence of my former employment. According to the shipping date, my office had been cleared out the day after I’d left town. No wonder Lori had sounded so anxious when I called.

I brought the boxes inside, soaked a washcloth in warm water, and laid on the couch with the cloth over my face. There was far too much in my life right now to process. Most of all I just wanted to be left alone.

I had forgotten it was Halloween.

The onslaught started early, hours before dark. I gave up on trying to rest, made myself some chili, and grabbed a book. For the next three hours my reading was interrupted every few minutes by the doorbell, followed by shouts of “Trick or Treat.”

Finally, I just put out what was left of the candy and turned out the porch light. It was a surreal ending to an already surreal day.

CHAPTER ten

A blank piece of paper is God’s way of telling us how hard it is to be God.

—Sidney Sheldon

SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 1

I woke the next morning with an emotional hangover. I drank a black coffee, then went out and ran to clear my mind. With the funeral over, it was time for me to figure out what I was going to do. In the last two months I’d lost my marriage, my apartment, my father, and now my job. Maybe this was how women ended up as cat ladies. It’s a good thing I was allergic to cats.

Running had neither cleared my mind nor my lungs, as the overcast sky was more brown than gray from one of the valley’s inversions. The weather only added to my feelings of suffocation beneath the weight of anxiety and loneliness.

I bathed and dressed, then drove up the canyon to Park City to get out of the inversion. It was still early in the ski season, but there was enough snow