The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,24
to speak at his funeral.”
“Did she visit him while he was dying?”
“Every day.”
“Were they in love?”
From her expression I sensed that she didn’t like the question. After a moment she said, “They were close.”
I decided it was best to leave it alone. “Were you with my father a lot? While he was sick?”
“Can this be the last question about him for now?” she asked.
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“The last five weeks I ran the store and then went to his house after work. The last two, I was with him all day, every day.”
“He was lucky to have you.”
“He wasn’t the lucky one.” She slowly exhaled. “I’m going to finish decorating. We always got the Christmas decorations up the first day of November.”
“Do you need some help?”
“No. Just watch the front.”
I stayed behind the register while Wendy went back to decorating. She didn’t look at me, and I noticed her wiping her eyes.
CHAPTER twelve
There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.
—Ernest Hemingway
Before going home that night I asked Wendy about my father’s book collection. I brought out the paper with the combination. “The lawyer said my dad has some valuable books. I brought the combination to the safe.”
“You won’t need that; I had to memorize the combinations because I could never read his writing. His handwriting was bad enough, but his numbers…” She shook her head for dramatic effect. “His fives look like Ss, his sevens look like ones, and his ones look like twos. More than once we got the wrong number of books because the sales rep misread his writing. I finally convinced him to let me do the ordering.”
We walked back to the office. Wendy locked the door behind us. “There are two safes.”
“Why two?”
“This one,” she said, motioning to a large black safe with a slot in front, “is for cash. It’s where we keep the money at night.”
“And the other?”
“It’s where your father keeps his collection.” She lifted a drape that hung over the second safe, concealing it. “He figured that if we were ever robbed, the thieves would see the one safe and assume that was it. Pretty clever.”
“Have you ever been robbed?”
“Not yet.” She squatted down next to the safe and dialed the combination. She opened the thick door, revealing a stack of books. “Would you like to see them?”
“Yes, please.”
Wendy put on a pair of cotton gloves that were in the safe next to the books. They were much too large for her hands, so I guessed they belonged to my father.
The first book she brought out was Cup of Gold by John Steinbeck. She set it down on her desk. I didn’t know the book but I did, of course, know the author. Steinbeck was one of my father’s favorites. At a young age he had introduced me to Cannery Row, Of Mice and Men, and East of Eden.
“This was Steinbeck’s first novel,” Wendy said. “And this is a first edition. It’s worth about twenty thousand.”
She took out a second book, setting it down next to the Steinbeck.
I immediately recognized the cover. “Atlas Shrugged.”
Wendy nodded. “Also a first edition. It’s inscribed by Ayn Rand.”
“What is that worth?”
“If I remember correctly, it’s almost the same as the Steinbeck. Maybe a little less.”
She reached back into the safe. “You’ll like these.” She brought out two books. The spines were thick and embossed in gold leaf. “They’re second-edition Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry collections. They contain the first printing of the love poems she wrote to her husband, Sonnets from the Portuguese.”
I moved closer to examine them more carefully. As I reached out to touch them she stopped me. “You don’t want to touch them with your fingers. Too much oil.”
“Sorry.”
“And last but not least.” She reached back into the safe and pulled out another book. “Death in the Afternoon. A first-edition Hemingway, inscribed.”
“What is that worth?”
“Much.” She looked at me. “If you’ve ever wondered why your father didn’t drive an expensive car, it’s because he was smarter than most. He bought things that actually increased in value.”
I was impressed by his collection. My collection.
“What do you want to do with them?” she asked.
“I’ll keep them in the safe,” I said.
“I thought you would.” She returned the books along with the gloves and locked the safe.
“Now if I could just open the safe at home,” I said. “Have you ever opened that one?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen it, but I don’t know what’s inside.”