The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,43
away,” Alexis said.
“Thank you. That’s very sweet.”
“Noel has inherited her father’s bookstore,” Dylan said.
“Bobbooks,” Stratton said. “Over on Ninth and Ninth. I like that bookstore. It has a very classic feel to it. Reminds me of a little bookstore in Huntsville I used to patronize.”
“Noel doesn’t like the name,” Dylan said.
I kicked him under the table.
“Wasn’t your father’s name Bob?” Stratton asked.
“Robert,” I said. “He never liked the name Bob.”
“But he named his bookstore Bob’s books,” Stratton observed.
“It’s actually Bobbooks. It’s kind of a made-up word. He liked the sound of it. Originally, he was going to name it Book’s Books, but he didn’t think people would get it.”
“Noel wants to change the name,” Dylan said. “She has an idea for a better one.” He looked at me. “Go ahead, tell them.”
I resisted kicking him again.
“What would you change it to?” Charlotte asked.
Now I really wanted to kick him. “Well, it’s a little unusual.” I swallowed. “It Was a Dark and Stormy Bookstore.”
Both Charlotte and Stratton looked at me blankly. Finally, Charlotte said, “Isn’t that interesting. You always did march to your own drummer, didn’t you? Good for you.”
I glared at Dylan. I could tell he was dying to laugh.
I was glad when the conversation changed to something other than me, the bookstore, or anything else of personal embarrassment. At one point, Charlotte went off talking about Stratton’s sister who, three years earlier, at the ripe age of sixty-two, left her husband to become a country singer. “She’s no spring chicken,” Charlotte said. “It’s no surprise her star never rose.”
“No,” Stratton added. “That was a fool thing. But not all surprising. Her biscuit was never quite done in the middle.”
“God bless her,” Charlotte said.
Stratton turned to me. “So you’re a book editor?”
I nodded. “I was.”
“Then you might appreciate this. A woman was sitting at her deceased husband’s funeral when a man leaned forward and said, ‘Do you mind if I say a word?’
“The woman replied, ‘No, you go right ahead.’ The man stood up, cleared his throat, and said, ‘Plethora.’ Then he sat back down.
“ ‘Thank you,’ the woman said. ‘That means a lot.’ ”
Dylan laughed. Charlotte wasn’t pleased. “Strat,” she said. “What in the world were you thinking? Noel just lost her daddy.”
Stratton turned to me. “I guess I wasn’t thinking. I’m very sorry.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “My dad would have liked that.”
The meal was authentically southern. There was bacon-wrapped turkey with cornbread dressing, biscuits, creamy corn pudding, crunchy green bean casserole, and sweet potato casserole with plenty of sweet tea to wash it all down. After dinner Charlotte served coffee and pecan pie.
I had just started on my pie when Stratton asked, “Noel, do you have a place in New York?”
“I did when I left. I was living with a roommate, but I’m being kicked out next week. So, technically, I’m homeless.”
“She has a home here,” Dylan said. “She inherited her father’s place.”
“What about your job?”
“I was kind of kicked out of that too.”
“Looks like the Lord has other plans for you,” Charlotte said.
“Well,” Stratton said, “I hope you end up back here. It’s a nice place to raise a family.”
Stratton brought out a cigar and was about to light up when Charlotte said, “Not here, Strat. We have guests.”
It was a wonderful meal. Not just the food, which was perfect, but the joy of it all—the laughter and stories and familiarity; a magical quality of family that permeated every moment. It felt like home.
CHAPTER thirty
I never knew how to worship until I knew how to love.
—Henry Ward Beecher
After dinner Dylan and I went into the kitchen to clean up. Charlotte tried to help, but we barred her from the room, so she went to the living room with Alexis and Stratton. After we finished the dishes, Dylan and I found his mother.
“Mom, would you mind watching Alex for a little bit? I’m going to drive Noel home.”
“Of course, dear. Take your time. There’s no hurry.”
“Thank you for dinner,” I said. “It was wonderful.”
“It was wonderful seeing you, Noel. I hope we see you again real soon.” She turned to Stratton, who was watching the Alabama State Turkey Day Classic and was pretty much oblivious to us. “Honey Bun, Dylan and Noel are leaving now.”
Stratton looked up. “You sure you don’t want to stay and watch the game?”
“I’ll be back,” Dylan said. “I’m just taking Noel home.”
“Case I forget, Crimson Tide rolls this Saturday at Auburn. One-thirty kickoff.”