The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,41
wood-shingled box of a house they had when he and I went to school together. It was about two miles from where I lived, just north of the park a few blocks. Like my home, theirs was in an older neighborhood that had gone through gentrification and had become a yuppie paradise, surrounded by remodeled homes and expensive cars.
Seeing the old place brought back memories as thick as moths around a country porchlight.
“It’s been a while,” Dylan said. “Do you remember it?”
“Like my own house. It hasn’t changed much.”
He took my hand. “Neither have my parents.”
CHAPTER twenty–nine
Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté.
—Margaret Atwood
Stratton and Charlotte Sparks were as southern as boiled peanuts. Stratton called her “Sweet Pea,” and Charlotte called him “Honey Bun” or, more often, “Strat.” They were transplants from Huntsville, Alabama. They had met when they were twelve, married at nineteen, and then come out to Utah when Stratton was stationed as a JAG at Hill Air Force Base in Ogden.
Unable to have children of their own, they registered with Children’s Services as foster parents, hoping to someday adopt one of the children they were helping. That child was Dylan.
About the time Dylan came along, Stratton had just left the military and gotten a job downtown at a large Salt Lake legal firm. That’s when they moved to the Sugar House area, a chain of events that helped Dylan’s and my paths to cross.
They were a big part of my childhood at a critical time in my life. I don’t remember Stratton being around much in those days—probably because of his new job—but it was always pleasant when he was. I once told Dylan that his father scared me. Dylan just laughed. “I know,” he said. “He looks scary, but he’s about as mean as a cotton boll.”
Stratton was quiet, with a surprisingly wry sense of humor. I don’t think I’d ever been with him when he hadn’t told at least one joke (or at least something that resembled one).
Charlotte was strong-willed, proper, and beautiful. And an excellent cook. She’d brought her southern cuisine with her to Utah, and she gave me my first taste of cheese and grits, black-eyed peas, and collard greens, something most Utahns will never experience.
“Is anyone else eating with us?” I asked as we pulled into the driveway.
“Just us and the folks.” Dylan parked his truck and we walked through the side door into the kitchen. “We’re here,” Dylan announced as we walked in.
“Where’s my princess?” Stratton shouted from an unseen room.
“Pawpaw!” Alexis shouted, running off to find her grandfather.
With the exception of some new wallpaper and carpet, the interior of the house hadn’t changed much since I’d last been there. From the side entryway, I could see the dining room table. It was beautifully arranged with a long ivory tablecloth and a centerpiece of autumn-colored flowers: orange roses; mums of yellow, bronze, and rust; and green huckleberry. Two unlit orange tapered candles rose from the center.
The table was set for five with floral and gold-embossed china, crystal goblets, and silverware on linen napkins. Mrs. Sparks ascribed to a southern formality that few take time for in the bustle of modern life.
Dylan led me into the kitchen, where his mother was leaning over the stove stirring something in a pot. Charlotte looked older than I remembered, but was still very pretty, with curled yellow hair. She was wearing a flowery apron over a long mint-and-ivory dress with a matching sash and a lace hem. A symphony of aromas wafted through the room.
“The house smells amazing, Mom. As usual.”
“Thanks, honey,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s about time y’all got here.” She turned to me, her expression growing even more animated. “No-el,” she drawled. “Just look at you. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman. I was so happy to hear Dylan say you would be joining us today.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Sparks. I’ve really been looking forward to this.”
“And honey, I’m just so sorry to hear about your dear father. He was such a good man.”
“Thank you, ma’am.”
“Call me Charlotte, honey. Did y’all get your Christmas tree put up?”
“Yes, we did,” Dylan said.
“It’s a tradition of his,” Charlotte said to me. “We can’t have too many traditions. Tradition is the foundation that you build a family on.”
“I brought something for you,” I said. I handed her the wrapped book.
“Oh, honey. You didn’t need to bring me anything.”