The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,60

the booth. “May I help you?”

“I’m here to see Grace Kingsbury.”

He glanced down at a clipboard, then back at me. “Is Ms. Kingsbury expecting you?”

“No. She doesn’t know I’m coming. My name is Noel Post. I mean, Book. Noel Book.”

The man looked at me doubtfully. “You sure?”

“Sorry. I’m not crazy. I just went through a divorce. I don’t know what my last name is anymore.”

“I’m sorry,” he said, sounding sincere. “I understand.” He lifted a brown phone receiver to his ear and dialed a number. I could hear him speaking. “This is Rich from security. There is a Miss Noel Book here to see you. Thank you. I’ll let her in.”

He set down the receiver and turned to me. “Do you know where Ms. Kingsbury lives?”

“No, sir.”

“Take this street down to the corner and turn right. She’s in the second home from the corner, number 227. There’s covered visitor parking across the street from her place.”

“Thank you.”

The security gate rose, and I quickly pulled forward to get past it before it fell again. Following the guard’s instructions, I parked across from her house.

Grace’s home was an elegant French chateau–inspired mansion. It was probably four or five times larger than my father’s home, with four chimneys and seven gables. It was covered with roughly textured French provincial brick and the large-paned windows on the ground floor were flanked by olive-green shutters that matched the oxidized, vacant copper planters beneath the higher windows. Even draped in snow, I could tell that the yard had been elaborately landscaped with the frosted outline of pruned shrubs and lines of columnar trees that were tied up in burlap sheets between occasional statuary. The heated cobblestone driveway was not only clear but dry.

Near the front of the home was a fountain that was covered for the winter. Directly behind the fountain was a glass-and-wrought-iron entryway surrounded by thick stone pillars and nestled beneath a second-story balcony. It looked like a home for nobility.

I walked up the cleared path to the door, unsure of what I would say, but my emotions were still growing in intensity. I rang the bell.

After the call from the guard, Grace was expecting me and almost immediately answered the door. She was dressed in jeans and a cashmere sweater that fell past her knees.

“Noel. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon.” She looked down at the envelope in my hands. “I see you figured it out.”

“How dare you?” I said.

“I dare a good many things,” she said calmly. “To what are you specifically referring?”

“You wrote these letters.”

“No, I transcribed them. Or penned them, if you prefer. But it was your father who wrote them.”

“I don’t care what you call it,” I said. “You lied to me.”

“I did no such thing.”

“You withheld information.”

“I withheld information,” she repeated, shaking her head. “When did I do that?”

“When you didn’t tell me.”

“You never asked, dear. And I never offered. That doesn’t make me a liar any more than it makes you an accomplice. More important, it’s what your father desired.”

“My father desired,” I repeated angrily. “You’re all such sycophants.”

She smiled at the accusation. “I suppose we are. It’s because we love him. My question is, why don’t you? He certainly loved you.”

“If you think that, you didn’t know him.”

“I think I knew your father better than you did.”

I went straight for the jugular. “Then you knew he was abusive?”

To my surprise, Grace seemed more amused than shocked. “You’re claiming that your father abused you?”

“Not me. My mother.”

She still looked unimpressed. “Tell me about this abuse. Was it physical?”

I suddenly felt like I was on trial. “I was young. I don’t remember.”

“You must have some memory. At least enough to keep you bitter for all these years.”

“The night my mother died he was holding her down. She was screaming at him to let her go.”

“That’s all you remember?”

“It’s enough,” I said. “It was traumatic.”

Grace breathed out deeply, her eyelids falling slightly. “What else do you remember about that night?”

“More than I care to.”

“Do you know how your mother died?”

“Of course I do. She died in a car accident.”

“Do you know who was at fault in the accident?”

“My father.”

For the first time Grace looked angry. “Your father wasn’t in the car.”

“I don’t know. Probably my mother. She was upset. She was sobbing when she left the house.”

Grace looked at me for a moment, then said, “How much do you really know about your mother?”

The way she framed the question angered me more. “Not as much as I’d