The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,55
work again.”
“Then what would I do?”
“You’ll write your book. That’s what you’ve always wanted.”
After I didn’t say anything he said, “I’m not saying you won’t work, I’m just saying you don’t have to.” His mouth rose in a large smile. “The best part is, now there’s no reason for you to go back to New York.”
The words struck me like a hammer. I looked down for a moment, then said, “Dylan, I have to tell you something.”
My tone must have betrayed the gravity of what I had to share, as his smile fled.
“What is it?”
I took a deep breath. “When I came back to Utah, I only planned to be here a few days. A few weeks at the most. It’s been almost two months.” I looked into his eyes. “Dylan, this was never part of the plan.”
“What wasn’t?”
“Us.”
He looked stunned. “Are you ending us?”
“I should have told you sooner. They’ve offered me my job back.”
“The publishing house?”
I nodded.
“And you’re going to take it?”
“I fly back the day after Christmas.” The silence was awkward. Finally I said, “What do I have here?”
I regretted the words as they came out of my mouth.
“Apparently nothing,” he replied softly, his eyes showing his pain.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that.”
“There’s another meaning?” He took a deep breath, then said, “We should go.”
“You haven’t eaten,” I said.
“I need to go,” he said.
“All right.”
Dylan paid the bill and we drove back to his store in silence. As we pulled into the mall he asked, “Where are you parked?”
“I’m in the lower garage. But you can drop me off here.”
“I’ll take you to your car.” He drove down the parking ramp. I pointed out my car and he pulled up behind it. For a moment we just sat there. The pain was palpable. Finally I said, “It’s not like I’ll never be back.”
“No you won’t.” He looked into my eyes. “It’s like you said, there’s nothing here.” To my surprise, there were tears in his eyes. He reached up and wiped away a tear. “Look at that. The second time as well.”
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t know what to say. He leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek. “Good luck, Noel. I hope you find what you’re looking for.”
I got out of the truck and he drove away. I got into my car and cried.
CHAPTER forty–five
I love deadlines, I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by.
—Douglas Adams
FRIDAY, DECEMBER 18
It was only a week before Christmas. Eight days before I returned to New York. My heart ached. I couldn’t believe how much I missed Dylan.
As long as I was burning bridges, I had one more to bring down. That afternoon I took Wendy aside. “We need to talk,” I said. “In private.”
“All right.” We went into the office. Wendy locked the door, then sat on top of her desk. “What’s up?”
“I’m going back to New York.”
She sat quietly for a moment, then said, “I thought you might.” The next question hung in the air between us. “What are you doing with the bookstore?”
“I’m going to sell it.”
Something, pain or anger, flashed in her eyes. She took a deep breath. “When?”
“I’ll put it up after the New Year.”
Her eyes welled up. “When do you leave for New York?”
“The twenty-sixth.”
Neither of us spoke for a moment. Then I said, “I’m sure whoever buys it will want you to stay.”
She took a tissue from her desk and wiped her eyes. “We’ll see.”
The silence grew awkward. Finally, I said, “I’m sorry.”
She stood. “I’ve got work to do.”
The rest of the day was miserable. Several times I caught Wendy crying. Cyndee asked me what was wrong. I told her I didn’t know. For the first time since I’d worked with Wendy, she left early. Maybe for the first time ever. She didn’t say goodbye.
Dear Noel,
Too many live their lives as if they’ll live on this Earth forever, scheming and building sand empires that will fall at the next wave of time. Ultimately, the only empire worth building is one of the soul, as the heart alone exists outside of time and physics. We all arrived on Earth with a round-trip ticket. We are sojourners and star travelers, all of us—campers from the Great Beyond. While it behooves us to leave the campground better than we found it, we are fools to put down stakes or pour foundations on unclaimable ground. One does not build a cathedral for Easter Sunday.