The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,22
see you in a half hour.” I stopped at her door. “Maybe we could go to lunch sometime.”
She looked a little surprised at the invitation. “That would be nice. Thank you.”
The bread store was crowded. I ate my lunch with a stranger (we shared the last open table), then walked back to the bookstore.
In the short time I was gone, Wendy had arranged the Christmas book display I’d begun and was now hanging a string of lights in the front window. There was an artificial Christmas tree lying in sections on the floor next to the front desk, along with two bins filled with Christmas decorations.
“You’ve been busy,” I said.
“ ’Tis the season.”
“Did you eat lunch?”
“Almost.”
There were three customers in the store. A man was looking through the history shelves, while a woman perused our New York Times bestsellers shelf. She was holding one of Jerica Bradley’s books, one I had edited. I was considering telling her that I had worked on the book when she put it back.
I recognized the third customer. She was the elegant woman who had spoken at my father’s funeral. Grace, I reminded myself. I wasn’t absolutely positive it was her, as she was wearing glasses and a hat and was dressed much more casually than before, though she was still dressed up by my standards. Over her shoulder was a debossed cream-colored Louis Vuitton tote.
I walked up to her. “May I help you?”
She looked at me and smiled. “Hi, Noel.”
I was surprised that she knew my name. “You spoke at my father’s funeral.”
She extended her hand. I took it.
“My name is Grace Kingsbury. Your father was a dear friend of mine. I’m sorry we didn’t speak on Saturday. I wanted to share my deepest condolences.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I should have introduced myself. I wasn’t feeling very social. But I thought your eulogy was beautiful.”
“That’s kind of you. I deeply admired your father. He was a remarkable man.”
“How did you know him?”
“Circumstance,” she said. “You probably don’t remember, but you and I have met before.” She smiled slightly. “I still remember the circumstance. You were a teenager and upset because your father wouldn’t let you go to a party where they were serving alcohol. It was right here at the store. You were a bit agitated. You probably didn’t even see me standing next to him.”
“I can’t believe you remember that.”
“I have a good memory,” she said. “I’ve been a regular at the bookstore for eighteen years. You’re living in New York now?”
“Yes.”
“Which borough?”
“Brooklyn. For the time being.”
“For the time being. Are you planning on moving?”
“Not by choice. My roommate is kicking me out,” I said. “She’s getting back together with her husband.” I’m not sure why I felt the need to explain. “It’s fairly recent, so I don’t know where I’ll end up. For now I’ve decided to stay in Utah.”
“Probably not a bad plan,” she said. “If your publisher can give you the time off.”
“That’s not a problem,” I said. I didn’t ask how she knew I worked for a publisher.
“I love Manhattan in December. Except for all the tourists.”
She spoke like a resident. “You’ve lived there?”
“I studied dance at Juilliard,” she said. “When I was young, of course.”
“How did you end up in Utah?”
“My husband. We came west with his job. Before that we were living in Hartford. I’ve been all over Europe, but moving here was my first time west of the Mississippi.”
“That must have been a culture shock.”
“It wasn’t bad. People are people, no matter where they live. And I was pleasantly surprised to find the people here were a bit softer.”
“Softer?”
“Not as hardened by life as they were in New York.”
“I can see that,” I said. “Did you keep dancing?”
“A little. But I finally had to let it go.”
“Why is that?”
“The thing that dooms every professional athlete, dear. Age. And, in my case, a child.”
“I used to dance,” I said. “When I was little.”
“I know. It made your father very happy. He had a special place in his heart for dancers.” She looked at me as if she were gauging my response. “Will you be working at the bookstore now?”
“I plan to. As long as Wendy doesn’t throw me out.”
“Wendy is a tad possessive,” she said. “And quite particular. Though, I suppose, I’m equally guilty. I’ve learned not to reshelve the books, and she’s learned not to suggest what I should read. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”