The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,34
told anyone this, but the day you left, I went in my room and cried.”
I looked at him. “I’ve never seen you cry.”
“After what I went through as a kid, I never did. Except when you left.”
“That’s sweet,” I said.
“Those were hard days.”
“Those were hard days.” After a minute, I said, “I think I need some wine. Would you like some?”
“No, thank you. But go ahead.”
Dylan signaled our waiter, and I ordered a glass of Kung Fu Girl Riesling. After the waiter left, Dylan asked, “How long has your father had the bookstore?”
“As long as I remember.”
“Was that always his dream? Selling books?”
“He loved his bookstore, but his real dream was to be a writer. Before my mother died, every month a group of wannabe writers gathered at our house. About six of them. They’d read parts of their books and critique one another’s writing. Then some of the members would start drinking, and the evening would end with my father playing old Neil Young songs on his guitar.”
“Classic,” Dylan said. “Your father was pretty cool.”
“No teenager thinks their father’s cool,” I said. “But he was smart and said funny things. Maybe he was cool.”
“So why did you stop talking to each other?”
“I think it was my way of punishing him for my mother’s death. Then exiling me.”
Dylan’s brow furrowed. “Why did you blame him for your mother’s death?”
“I’d rather not get into that.”
“I respect that,” he said. “So, after high school, where did you go?”
“After graduation my father wanted me to come home, but I’d already been offered a scholarship to ASU, so I stayed in Arizona and went to college.”
“What did you study?”
“English literature. My ultimate goal was to be a writer. I figured the best way to get there would be to get in with a big publisher. So I graduated from ASU with honors, and then a few months after that, I was accepted into the Columbia publishing program in New York. I kept getting farther away from Utah.”
“And your father.”
“And my father,” I said. “He kept asking me to come back, even for a summer. I almost did, but then I met Marc. He was in the same publishing program at Columbia. He was already apprenticing as a literary agent at his godfather’s New York firm. We got engaged after six months.”
The waiter brought my glass of wine. I took a sip, then continued. “My father invited me to bring Marc back to Utah, but I didn’t want to.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. Maybe because Marc came from a wealthy family and I didn’t want him to see where we lived. So, my father flew out to meet him.” I shook my head. “That was the final nail in the coffin of our relationship.”
“So it didn’t go well.”
“It was a disaster. The three of us went out to dinner. Marc was acting really strange—because he was nervous, I guess—and he ended up drinking way too much. My father suggested to Marc that he not drink any more, and Marc exploded and said it wasn’t any of my father’s business. The scene turned ugly before my father apologized and de-escalated the situation. I remember going to the bathroom and crying.
“It was obvious that my father didn’t approve of Marc, which I took as a personal affront. I told my dad to go back to Utah. He said, ‘I’m sorry. I’m just looking out for you.’ I said, ‘I never asked you to.’
“He apologized again, then went to kiss me on the forehead, but I moved away from him. I’ll never forget the pain on his face. He said, ‘When you need me, I’ll be there.’ It was the last time I saw him.
“A week later I moved in with Marc, and a year later we got married. I didn’t invite my father to my wedding.”
Dylan looked at me thoughtfully. “Do you wish you had?”
“Sometimes.”
“And the marriage…”
“Oh, that,” I said. “I thought I had it all. We had a nice apartment in SoHo. I was loving my job, and Marc was doing well at his. I even considered sending him my father’s book, but I never did.”
“Why not?”
“Marc still didn’t like him.” I took a deep breath. “We’d been married about five years when I got pregnant. It was an accident. At first Marc said he was for it. Then I came home to find our apartment emptied. When I called Marc to ask what was going on, he told me he didn’t want to be a father,