The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,45
lived on his own. I got in a lot of trouble at his house. Or maybe that was the problem—I didn’t get in trouble. I don’t think I ever saw an adult there.”
“I’m surprised you remember.”
“No one forgets their first kiss,” he said. “It’s a religious experience. Especially when it’s with a girl as beautiful as you. I couldn’t believe you let me kiss you. I still can’t.”
“A religious experience,” I repeated softly.
“I’ve always thought there were things outside heaven worthy of worship,” Dylan said. He looked into my eyes. “There are reasons to stay, Noel. I hope you’ll consider that.” For a moment we just looked into each other’s eyes. Then he said, “Don’t make me regret this.”
“Regret what?”
He leaned forward and we kissed.
CHAPTER thirty–one
If it sounds like writing, I rewrite it.
—Elmore Leonard
BLACK FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 27
Every Thanksgiving before my mother died followed the same pattern. After the meal was over and the dishes were done, our family would go to the bookstore to prepare for Black Friday. I asked my father why they called it Black Friday. He said, “Because that’s the day American businesses get into the black.” I asked what it meant to “get into the black.” He replied, “It means we get to do it again next year.”
My father’s attention to the season was more than a nod to crass consumerism. He loved the holidays, and his store was his canvas to capture the season in all its richness. It was his aim to ensure that each of the senses were positively engaged; the sights, the sounds, the smells, and even the tastes, as we doled out plastic cups of free wassail and eggnog along with plates of Christmas-themed sugar cookies, the kind with red and green sprinkles.
His store was always crowded during these times, not just with customers but with happiness. People came from miles around to drink in the Christmas spirit and remember what it once was like to believe.
My father would schedule three or four book signings for that weekend, at least one of them with a national bestselling author. My father was the envy of local booksellers, since he had a reputation for bringing in authors that no other local bookstore could land.
The year I was eight, he brought in R. L. Stine, the author of the Goosebumps books. For about three days I was the most popular kid in school. I have no idea how my father lured one of the highest selling authors in the world to our little store in Utah, though the fact that his store reported sales to the New York Times bestsellers list didn’t hurt.
On a side note, small city book signings aren’t necessarily bad for authors. Jerica, a New Yorker, explained it best. After one uptown book signing, she said, “In Pocatello, Idaho, I’m a goddess. In New York I’m a footnote on the What’s Happening page.”
My mother and I would help run those book signings. To expedite the signing process, I would hand out Post-it Notes for people to write down the names of who they wanted their books dedicated to, while my mother would sit next to the authors, opening the books to the title page and then handing them to the author.
My mother’s main job wasn’t to open books but rather to engage the customer so they felt like they’d had a good experience even if the author was less than cordial. The customers always liked my mother, and more than one author was taken with her as well. She was charming, pretty, and engaging. Her death left a hole in my heart no one else could ever fill. Not even my father. Especially not my father. He had dug the hole.
* * *
This Black Friday, Wendy had scheduled two author signings. The first was a popular local radio show host named Amanda Dickson. Her self-published book was called Behind the Mike: Twelve Years of Radio Scuttlebutt. Ms. Dickson’s local following translated into a large turnout and a lot of sales.
Our second book signing was for the Holiday Healthy cookbook. The signing probably would have gone well, except that the author made the mistake of giving out treats made from her recipes. They were awful. You might as well have just eaten the book.
All in all, it was another strong sales day. It was also the first Friday I hadn’t received a letter from Tabula Rasa. I was admittedly disappointed. I wondered if Dylan had run out of things to say.