The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,59

that the letters were from my father. He used to call himself a pocket philosopher. But Grace? Why would she have involved herself in this. And why hadn’t she let on?

I remembered that I had a sample of Grace’s writing in the front desk—the note she’d left for the book she had purchased that I still hadn’t gotten around to entering. I took the note out from the drawer and set it on the counter.

I opened the letter I’d just received to compare the writing, but found that it was scrawled in different handwriting from the others. It was a little difficult to read, as the writing appeared frail and shaky. I glanced down at the bottom of the letter. This time, my father had signed his name. My guess was that he had written the letter from his deathbed.

October 28

My dearest Noel,

The December when you were almost five years old you asked me why Santa came down the chimney instead of using the front door. You were always delightfully inquisitive. I told you it was because not everyone believed in him, so if he didn’t sneak in, they might miss the gifts he brought for them.

In writing these letters anonymously, I suppose I too have come down the chimney in hopes that your lack of belief in me might not get in the way of what I wished to share. Please forgive my dear friend Grace for following my wishes. I seek your forgiveness, not just for the subterfuge of these letters but for every way I have failed you. I ask this not for my sake but for yours. The weight of a parent’s failures is much too heavy a burden for any child to carry. The ship must release the anchor for its own journey. My journey is over; yours has only begun.

Mark Twain wrote, “The two most important days in your life are the day you are born and the day you find out why.” In this we share a day. The day you were born was the day I discovered why I was born. How grateful I am that you came into my life.

In the end, and, if this is, indeed, my end, remember this: Christmas is the story of a Father reaching out to His children. Nothing more. Nothing less.

This is me reaching out to you just one last time, my beloved daughter. It is my deepest hope that my words may help you in your journey ahead. I ask just one kindness in return, one small gift from you: Believe that you are loved by me and always were.

Your loving father,

Robert

My mind reeled. Stop pretending that you loved me! You killed my mother and sent me away. Why are you tormenting me? I wiped tears from my eyes, only to find them quickly replaced. After all this time, why was I suddenly unsure? And why was I holding so tightly to my pain?

CHAPTER fifty

Let me live, love, and say it well in good sentences.

—Sylvia Plath

I still had several of the week’s letters in my purse. I took the note that Grace had written to the back office, set it down on the desk, and then laid down next to it the last letter I’d received from Tabula Rasa. Grace’s penmanship was highly stylistic. There was no doubt the handwriting was hers.

I looked up Grace’s address in our customer records. I wrote it down, then went out in the storm to my car. My emotions felt as wild as the weather. I had no idea what I’d say, but I was going to confront her.

Grace lived in the Capitol Hill area, a wealthier section of Salt Lake City just north of the Salt Lake business district. I had suspected she was wealthy, and her neighborhood confirmed it. She lived in a gated community with well-spaced, stately homes.

I pulled my car up to the community’s entrance, which required passing through security—a stucco-and-rock guard booth that had been decorated with Christmas lights and a large green wreath that framed a stop sign. The yellow-and-black-striped security gate that blocked the entrance was wrapped with silver tinsel garland and a sign reading Happy Holidays.

Inside the booth was a uniformed, badged security guard—a broad, muscular man with graying hair. I rolled down my window, and in spite of the booth’s overhanging roof, snowflakes fell inside my car. The security guard slid open his window, which was streaked on the inside from condensation. I could hear Christmas music coming from