The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,49
me to the door. “I’m sorry about that,” he said.
“It’s okay. She doesn’t have a mother. I understand.”
He looked at me gratefully. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Thank you for tonight.” I lifted my bag of truffles. “And the chocolates. I’m glad you called. You thwarted yet another lonely night.”
“Maybe I can thwart another one,” he said. “One of my clients works for Ballet West. He offered me tickets to the Nutcracker a week from Sunday.”
“I haven’t been to the Nutcracker since I danced in it.”
“You danced in it?”
“Just one year. I was a mouse. I’d love to go.”
“Splendid. The show starts at seven, so why don’t I pick you up at five and we’ll have dinner at my parents’. Charlotte’s cooking.”
“I’m not going to pass that up. Thank you.”
He leaned forward and we kissed. It felt so good. He felt good. “Things are too busy these days,” he said. “For both of us. It will be better after the season when things slow down. Right? As long as you don’t go anywhere.”
I didn’t know what to say. I still hadn’t told him about Natasha’s call. “You’re right. Everything will be better.”
CHAPTER thirty–six
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 4
Dear Noel,
As you sail your way through the sea of humanity, you will discover that most people don’t want truth. They want confirmation. Truth has always been frightening to those clinging to shaky ladders of belief. The more indefensible the belief, the tighter their grip. Let them be. Truth does not require confirmation nor consensus to endure. Truth is patient. It can afford to be. In the end it will have its way.
To walk in truth is to have the humility to listen to what you don’t want to hear and say what others don’t want to know. Humility is the power to admit that you may be wrong.
Admitting to false beliefs is not weakness, it is the first step on the path to truth. And make no mistake, there is no such thing as individual truth, only individual perception. Perception is subjective, but truth isn’t. Hold your hand over a candle and you’ll understand.
Tabula Rasa
CHAPTER thirty–seven
Don’t edit your own soul according to the fashion. Rather, follow your most intense obsessions mercilessly.
—Anne Rice
MONDAY, DECEMBER 7
Monday afternoon Grace came in at her usual time. She dropped her chosen book on the counter—a massive nine-hundred-page tome—then handed me her credit card. I scanned the book.
“I have news,” I said.
She smiled. “Good news, I hope.”
“I’m not sure.” I glanced around. “I haven’t told anyone yet, but my publisher offered me my job back.”
She looked pleased. “That is definitely good news. So they finally realized they can’t live without you?”
“It’s a little more complicated than that. They only did it because one of my big authors, Jerica Bradley, said she’d only work with me.”
“That is a little more complicated,” she said. She looked into my face. “Is that what you want? To be an editor for the rest of your life?”
“It’s what I went to school for.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
I was still getting used to Grace’s directness. “I don’t know.”
“Let me ask you this. If you knew that whatever you did you would be a great success at it, what would you do?”
“I’d be a writer.”
“There you have it. You have the connections to agents and publishing houses, and your father put you in a situation where you could have the time to write.”
I handed back her credit card. “My father wanted to be a writer.”
“Your father was a writer,” she said. “He completed two novels, had two more in progress, and wrote a children’s book. They were all exceptional. Have you read any of them?”
“I only knew of one. And I never read it.”
“Pity,” she said. “I think you would have taken it to your publisher if you had. They’re among the few I have kept.” She lifted the book she’d just purchased. “Unlike this one. I have a feeling that”—she looked at the cover—“City on Fire might end up on fire, if you know what I mean.”
“Then why are you buying it?”
“The New York Times called the author’s talent as thick as the book, USA Today called it epic, and the New York Post called it, and I quote, ‘a steaming pile of literary dung.’ I love books with mixed reviews. I thought I’d give the author a chance.” She winked. “Who knows? Every now and then an author will surprise you.” She put the book into her tote. “Good luck with your decision.” She turned and walked out