The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,67
home. The same man was at the security booth from the night before. I could see that the counter inside the booth was covered with fruit baskets and presents, likely given to the man by residents coming back from work or parties.
To my surprise, the man remembered me. “Merry Christmas, young lady. Is it Miss Post or Miss Book today?”
“You pick this time.”
He laughed. “Let’s go with Miss Book. You’re here for Ms. Kingsbury again?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Just a moment.” He lifted his phone. “Ms. Kingsbury, Miss Book is here to see you again. Thank you. I’ll send her through. And a Merry Christmas to you too.”
He turned to me. “There’re a lot of visitors tonight, so you can park along the street if you have to. You won’t be towed. It’s the one night of the year we allow that.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Have a Merry Christmas.”
“You too. And a happy New Year.”
I drove around the corner to Grace’s house. The visitor parking spots were all taken, so I parked along the curb and got out.
Grace opened the door before I could ring the bell. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, and she was dressed beautifully, in a deep maroon dress with gold piping and a large holly-shaped brooch of emeralds and rubies.
“You look nice,” I said. “You must have a party.”
“I’m a little early, but I have Midnight Mass,” she said. She looked at me kindly. “What can I do for you, dear?”
As I looked at her, my eyes suddenly filled with tears. “I have no place to go. I have no one.”
She stepped forward and put her arms around me. “You have me,” she said. “You’ve come to the right place.”
CHAPTER fifty–four
Writing is like driving at night in the fog. You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way.
—E. L. Doctorow
The last time I’d been to Grace’s house I hadn’t gotten past the front door—let alone my emotions—so I hadn’t really seen her home. It was exquisitely designed, with cream-and-gold fabric paneling and marble floors with plush, gold-fringed rugs. There was art everywhere, beautiful quality pieces like I had seen in the galleries in New York.
“Come in here,” she said. She led me to a spacious front room. The ceiling was high, at least twelve feet, with coffered ceilings framing a large crystal chandelier. In the corner was a Christmas tree that almost reached the ceiling, intricately decorated with twinkling lights and small, feathered birds, satin ribbons, and clear amber and purple glass baubles the size of grapefruits.
“Please have a seat.”
“Thank you,” I said. “You have a beautiful home.”
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“You don’t have visitors tonight?”
She looked at me gently. “No. I don’t have any family.”
“My mother took your family away.”
“That was a long time ago, Noel. We’ll let the spirit of Christmas Past tend to her own. Agreed?”
I nodded.
“I hope you’re hungry. You’re just in time for dinner.”
“I didn’t come for…”
“It’s okay, dear. As you can see, I’ve already set the table for two.” She motioned to an adjacent dining room. Candles glowed from a holiday centerpiece.
“How did you know I was coming?”
“I didn’t. The place was set for your father. We spent every Christmas Eve together. I’m a creature of habit, and it was my way of inviting him back. Or denying that I lost my best friend.” She looked at me sadly. “Then again, maybe he sent you.”
“My father came here on Christmas Eve?”
“Every Christmas Eve.” Her face lit with a fond smile. “Such beautiful times we had. The stories your father would tell over a hot buttered rum.”
“My father didn’t drink.”
“He did on occasion. He did on Christmas Eve. With me.” She smiled. “I guess that’s not all true. We’d also toast the New Year with a Dom Perignon. Sometimes a Möet & Chandon. For a man who didn’t drink he had a surprisingly sophisticated palate.”
“You spent the holidays with my father?”
“Always.”
“Did Wendy know?”
Grace laughed; it was a sweet, full expulsion. “So you know about Wendy?”
“She told me.”
“She’s a very beautiful young woman. She was quite smitten with your father. Of course, so was I. Two women in love with the same man. What’s a woman to do?” Her brows rose. “What’s a man to do?”
“He was lucky,” I said.
“We were the lucky ones.”
“I fired Wendy yesterday.”
Grace looked at me in surprise. “Oh my. What on earth drove you to that?”
I looked at her and said, “I’m an idiot.”
Grace burst out laughing. “Oh good, you’re finally being