The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,62

one to share this. But it’s time you knew the truth. It’s good to know the truth.”

“Thank you,” I said softly.

“If you need anything, you know where I live. Merry Christmas, Noel.”

I drove home in silence, the only sound coming from the blowing of the car heater and the flapping of the windshield wipers. I had the letter from my father on the seat next to me. My mind reeled through a labyrinth of emotions. I reimagined the scene I’d played out in my mind ten thousand times, of my father holding down my screaming mother, but now with new understanding. He was trying to save her life.

My neighborhood was quiet, the homes glowing with the festive colors of Christmas in contrast to my house, which was dark inside and out.

I turned on the kitchen light, then turned up the heat. I hadn’t had anything to eat since lunch, but I was too upset to eat or to make anything. I poured myself a glass of wine, then sat at the kitchen table and again took the letter out of the envelope, laying it out to read. The cuckoo chirped the half hour.

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.

It was just as Grace had said; there are none so blind as those who will not see. I had been willingly walking blind for decades. What do you do when you realize that your life has been a lie? I read the letter again. And again.

I looked at the date my father had scrawled at the top of the letter. October 28. It took me a moment to realize that the date couldn’t be right, as he’d died October 27, the day I’d arrived back in Utah. Maybe, in his state, he’d been confused about the date.

As I examined the date more closely—and the numbers around it—I noticed something about my father’s handwriting. The date wasn’t October 28, it was actually October 18. I remembered Wendy complaining about my father’s handwriting—especially his numbers. She had said that his ones looked like twos.

I went to my room and grabbed the paper on which he’d written the safe’s combination.

23 R – 32 L – 52 R

The first 2 looked different than the others. It looked just like the 1 on his letter. I’d been dialing the wrong number.

I rewrote the combination.

13 R – 32 L – 52 R

I sat down at the safe and carefully turned the dial. This time it clicked at the last number. I felt as if I were opening a time capsule. I suppose I was. My heart pounded as I slowly opened the door.

The first thing I saw was a small round ring dish. I had made it in school in the second grade as a Father’s Day gift. Our class had sculpted the pieces in clay, and our teacher had them fired and glazed so we could paint them.

I held it up to examine it. I hadn’t seen it since I was a child, and it brought back a flood of memories. Written on the bottom were my words in a seven-year-old’s earnest script:

Happy Father’s Day

I thought parents just threw these things away. But here it was among his most precious possessions.

Next to the dish were a pair of pink ballet slippers. My first dance shoes. They were tied together by their silk ribbons. I took them out. I remembered how special I felt wearing them. I set them down next to the dish.

Under the shoes was a small square unsealed envelope. I extracted the contents. The message was scrawled in crayon in a child’s handwriting.

Happy Burth day,

I lov lov lov U.

Yor DoTTer

NOEL

I smiled. I was only four when I wrote that. I especially loved that I felt the need to remind him that I was his “Dotter.” Next to the letter was a more formal piece of stationery, a crimson envelope. The outside had just two words written in soft, feminine handwriting:

My Dearest

I pulled back the flap and took out the letter. There were tear stains on the paper. Whether they were from the writer or the recipient, I don’t know. Maybe both. I began to read.

My beloved Robert,

How do you still hold to me? How do you continue to hope beyond hope?

The bigger question on my heart is Why? Why do you still believe in me after