The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,52
and father. Not my husband. And not Dylan. No one.
“I’m sorry we had to leave early,” I said. “I hope Alex is okay.”
“She’s fine,” he said gently. “Were there too many memories?”
“Ghosts of Christmas Past,” I said. “Just too many ghosts.” I closed my eyes. “It’s hard being back.”
“I know.” He put his arms around me. “Are you feeling okay? You look a little pale.”
“I just need some sleep. I’ll be better tomorrow.”
“Then I’ll let you get some sleep.” He kissed me, then stepped back, still holding my hand. “I’ll call you tomorrow. Get some rest.”
He walked off to his truck. I stood on the porch watching as he drove away. Then I walked inside and shut the door and leaned against it. I suddenly felt dizzy.
The attack started with ringing in my ears growing louder and louder until I collapsed to the floor and the ringing became screaming—my mother screaming at my father to get off her. Then it was me being held down. My father was on top of me, holding me as I struggled, powerless against him. My clothes were drenched in sweat. Only now it wasn’t my mother screaming, it was me. That’s when I passed out.
CHAPTER forty–two
How vain it is to sit down to write when you have not stood up to live.
—Henry David Thoreau
MONDAY, DECEMBER 14
Sometime in the night I had gotten to my room and into bed. I woke with a headache, but my heart hurt more. It pounded in panic. I had to leave. It didn’t matter where I went. I wasn’t running to something, I was running away from this, whatever this was. I couldn’t think of any other way to escape than to fasten myself to something that would take me with it—like tying an anchor to my leg and throwing it into the sea. There was only one thing like that in my life. I picked up the phone and dialed Natasha.
“Noel,” she said. “Good morning.”
“I’m sorry I took so long to get back to you.”
“I figured you probably had some legal things to work out with your father’s death. So are you coming back to us?”
“Yes,” I said, fixing myself to the word.
“Wonderful. How soon can you be here?”
“It might take a while. I don’t have a place to live.”
“We can help with that. We have a corporate contract with the Hilton. We’ll put you up for a week or two while you find a place.”
“That’s very generous of you.”
“We just want you back,” she said. “And you made the right choice.”
“Thank you for taking me back.”
I hung up. I didn’t know if it was the right choice. But it felt like my only one.
* * *
I felt numb as I drove to work. The store was busy all day, and I didn’t stop for lunch. I couldn’t have eaten anyway, as my stomach ached. As usual, I was at the front counter when Grace came in. She picked out her book, then brought it over to me. “Here we are.”
I couldn’t get the scanner to read the book, so I typed in the ISBN. I could feel the weight of her gaze on me.
“How are you, Noel?”
“I took the job,” I blurted out. It sounded like a murder confession at a police interrogation.
She looked at me silently, then asked, “The editor job in New York?”
“Yes.” I expected that she would be disappointed in me after I had told her that being an editor wasn’t really my dream. Or maybe I was just projecting my own disappointment in myself onto her.
“Then you’ll be leaving us soon.”
“Right after Christmas.” I handed her the book, and she put it in her tote and then looked back at me. As I looked into her eyes I sensed no judgment or condemnation. Just kindness. She reached out and gently touched my hand. “They’re fortunate to have you. But their gain is our loss. You will be missed.”
CHAPTER forty–three
A writer is someone for whom writing is more difficult than it is for other people.
—Thomas Mann
Around three in the afternoon I got a call from my father’s attorney. I hadn’t heard from him since he’d come by the house my first week back.
“Noel, it’s Christopher Smalls. I just wanted to let you know that I have a check from the insurance company. I can mail it to you or you’re welcome to come get it. I would bring it by, but I have appointments.”