The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,36
of Alex.”
“Then Tuesday?”
He groaned. “I’m sorry. More fatherhood. After work I’ve got a school meeting with Alex’s teacher. How about Wednesday?”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
“I’m sorry. I miss you too. The life of a single father’s a little hectic.”
“I get it. Then I’ll see you Wednesday.”
“Wednesday it is. Bye.”
I hung up the phone and lay back on the couch. He was just being a good father. Of all people, I should appreciate that. Then why did it upset me?
CHAPTER twenty–one
I went for years not finishing anything. Because, of course, when you finish something you can be judged.
—Erica Jong
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 16
Monday afternoon Grace showed up at the store at her usual time. She grabbed a book and carried it up to the counter. Go Set a Watchman by Harper Lee.
“I read that this was one of the most anticipated books in history,” she said.
“It’s Lee’s first book since To Kill a Mockingbird,” I said.
“Fifty-five years of bottled anticipation,” Grace said.
As I scanned the book for payment I said, “It came out last July. I’m surprised you’re just reading it now.”
“I was letting the hype die down a bit so I could judge for myself if it’s any good.” She handed me her credit card. “You know, there was a lot of controversy surrounding Mockingbird.”
“Because it’s about racism?”
“There was that, of course. But many critics didn’t believe Lee wrote it.”
“Who did they think wrote it?”
“Lee’s childhood friend, Truman Capote. You must admit that it’s an unlikely coincidence that two world-famous authors grew up next door to each other. Then, after the book became a huge bestseller, Ms. Lee added to the controversy by avoiding all publicity—for herself and her book. It was as if she were afraid to talk about it.”
“No one would do that today,” I said.
“No, they wouldn’t. These days, people can’t seem to get enough attention.” She looked into my face. “It must be interesting for you to see what’s happening on the other end of the pipe.”
“What do you mean?”
“Back in New York, you cobble together a book in some isolated inner sanctum, drop it into the distribution tube, and this is where it pops out. It’s like a general’s staff waging war miles behind the battlefield. Bookstores are the front line. It’s where books live or die.”
I liked her observation. “You’re right. There was a publisher at one of the houses that made all her senior editors work in a bookstore for at least a month before they were promoted.”
“Smart woman,” Grace said. “Maybe that’s why your father wrote so well.”
“Why is that?”
She gestured to the store around us. “He was on the front lines.”
Her comment sparked a memory. “Can I ask you something? What was the book you put in my father’s casket?”
She looked at me for a moment, then said, “May, dear. May I ask you something.” Without answering me she turned and walked out of the store.
CHAPTER twenty–two
To survive, you must tell stories.
—Umberto Eco
TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 17
Tuesday afternoon I received my fourth letter. I checked the envelope’s postmark. It was the same as the others, which perplexed me a little, as Dylan had been in Las Vegas.
Dear Noel,
Two thoughts on living a meaningful life: First, live big. Expect the world and the abundance of it. It is the only way to claim the full measure of your creation. What we expect of life is all it can be.
Second, live small. In the end (and beginning and middle), it’s the little things that add up to create the big. The vast lake of your life experience is fed by a small but constant stream.
If these two counsels seem contradictory, so be it. Life itself is an irony.
On life’s journey, avoid shortcuts to the important destinations. They usually lead to cliffs.
Live big, but do not create expectations of yourself that can’t be reached. Remember, no one’s perfect. Even God made broccoli.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER twenty–three
I must say I find television very educational. The minute somebody turns it on, I go into the library and read a good book.
—Groucho Marx
WEDNESDAY, NOVEMBER 18
It had been nearly a week since I had seen Dylan. I called him from work and suggested that instead of going out we make pizza at my house and watch a movie. He liked the idea.
“If you get the DVD, I’ll pick up the ingredients on the way home,” I said. “What do you like on your pizza?”
“The usual. Pepperoni. Sausage. Ham.”
“That’s all meat,” I said. “What about vegetables?”