The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,37
think not.”
“What about broccoli in general?”
“Do you mean do I like it?”
“Yes.”
“If I were sentenced to death, I probably wouldn’t include it in my last meal.”
“Fair enough,” I said.
* * *
Dylan arrived around seven, nearly a half hour late.
“I’m so sorry,” he said. “The babysitter was late, and Alex wasn’t happy I was leaving. She gets upset when I’ve been gone.”
“I understand. You’re her only parent.”
We made two small pizzas. Mine was a simple margherita with basil, tomato, and mozzarella. Dylan’s had everything on it that I had bought. We followed dinner with a vanilla-orange gelato that Dylan had picked up with a DVD on the way to my house.
He had chosen the movie Everest, based on the ill-fated 1996 expedition that claimed eight lives. I had read the Jon Krakauer book Into Thin Air, about the same tragic expedition. The book was better than the movie, but the movie was good, and the book gave me deeper context. It was only the second time since I came back that I had watched television, demonstrating how successfully my father had ingrained in me the evils of the medium.
“I don’t think I’ll ever climb Everest,” I said, taking the DVD from the player.
“And I will not climb it with you,” Dylan said.
I grinned. “Thanks for your support.” As I turned back to him I had an idea. “Hey, can you help me with something?”
“Absolutely.”
“My father has a safe in his closet. He left me the combination, but I haven’t been able to open it. Think you can?”
“I can give it a try.”
I led him to the safe, then retrieved the paper with the combination and handed it to him while he got down on his knees in front of it. I sat on the floor behind him.
“What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. My father’s lawyer said it contained some of his most valuable possessions.”
“Then let’s open it.” He looked over the combination. “Your father’s writing is kind of hard to read. Especially in the dark.”
“He was famous for his bad handwriting.”
He handed me back the paper. “Here, you read it to me.”
I read the numbers as he dialed them in. After four tries he shook his head. “Are you sure that’s the right combination?”
“It’s the only one I have.”
He turned back toward the safe. “You might have to hire someone to open it.” Dylan got back to his feet, then checked his watch. “I’m sorry. I should probably be getting home.” We walked back out to the living room. As Dylan put on his coat he asked, “What are you doing for Thanksgiving?”
“I don’t have any plans.”
“Then you can spend it with us.”
“You and Alex?”
“And my parents. We have dinner at their house every year. They would love to have you over. You know my mom can cook.”
“I’d like that. Thank you.”
“Alex will be especially happy. It was her idea to invite you.”
I raised my eyebrows. “Oh, it wasn’t yours?”
“No. I tried to talk her out of it, but she was pretty stubborn.”
“Smart girl. What can I bring?”
“How about a book for my mom?”
“That’s not what I meant. I’d be happy to bring a book, but what food can I bring?”
“I don’t think my mom accepts contributions to her meal. She’s picky that way. I can ask. She might not be too upset.”
“I don’t want to upset her,” I said. “I’ll just bring a book. What time do you eat?”
“Usually around two. Do you have plans before that?”
“Not really. I’ll probably just go for a run.”
“Well, if you’re up to it, it’s Alex’s and my tradition to pick out a Christmas tree. You’re welcome to join us.”
“That sounds fun. What time?”
“A little before noon. That will give us time to put it up and decorate it then get over to my parents.”
“That will be great,” I said.
“Great,” he echoed. “I’ll pick you up around eleven thirty. Dress warm.” We lightly kissed, then I watched him walk to his truck. I waved once more, then shut the door.
* * *
I was looking forward to seeing Dylan’s parents again. I had once spent a fair amount of time at their house. Charlotte was a strong, southern matriarch, a housewife who spent much of her time engaged in charitable causes. You could say that Dylan was one of them. After several other foster homes had given up on him, Charlotte and Dylan’s father, Stratton, stepped in as foster parents, eventually winning him over.
It wasn’t surprising that Charlotte showed such interest in me after my mother’s