The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,69

come in for just a few minutes. I think there are still a few things to be said.”

I followed her inside. She took off her coat and scarf and folded them over the back of a sofa. “Can I send any food home with you?”

“I’m okay,” I said.

“Please, have a seat.”

I sat back down on the sofa. Grace came over and sat next to me.

“Now that you know the truth, how do you feel?”

Suddenly my eyes welled up. “I hurt. My father loved me, and I repaid him with hate.”

“You didn’t hate your father, Noel. You were a child. Your mother died and it didn’t make sense to you, and you were looking for a place to put all that pain. Something to blame. Or someone. I understand that. I went through it myself, and I was an adult. Some people choose to blame God. You chose to blame the man you loved most. Your father understood that. I know because we talked about it.”

“But where do I go with that? I can’t tell him I’m sorry.”

She took my hand. “It’s not as difficult as you think.” She looked softly into my eyes. “Your father believed this day would come. I have no doubt that he’s smiling down on you right now. He was never looking for an apology, Noel. He was just hoping you would come home, even if just in your heart. And here you are.”

“But it’s too late.”

“No,” she said. “It’s never too late. And there is still something you can do for him.”

“I’ll do anything.”

“Answer me this. What is it that your father desired most?”

I rubbed my eyes. “I don’t know.”

“Yes, you do, Noel. Don’t be afraid to say it. What did your father want most of all? In all his actions toward you, what’s the one common thread that ran through everything?”

I suddenly understood. “He wanted me to be happy.”

A broad smiled crossed her face. “Exactly. So does your unhappiness serve his desire?”

“No.”

“Exactly.” She looked into my eyes. “If you wish to honor him, give him what he wanted most. Be happy. Not for your sake, but for his.”

My eyes filled with tears. Grace put her arms around me and held me. After a minute she said, “Oh, there’s one more thing—one more wish he had. I’ll be right back.” She left the room, returning a moment later carrying a cardboard box. She set it on the table.

“You know, your father followed your writing religiously. He commented on your editing and the effect you had on your authors. He was brilliant that way. He read every book you edited. He knew every one of your authors and read their books.”

“Even Jerica Bradley?”

She grinned. “Not exactly high art, but even Jerica Bradley.” She rubbed her hand down my arm. “You once asked me what book I put in his casket. I didn’t answer you, because you weren’t ready. But you are now. The book was called The Silent Heart.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“That’s because it was never published. Your father wrote it. It was one of the most beautiful books I have ever read. It wasn’t just beautifully written, but it was beautiful in its depth and message. I believe it could have been a candidate for the National Book Award. Of course, your father didn’t care about such trivial things. He was a true artist. He used to say, ‘The purest work must be created for the eyes of God alone.’ And, fortunately, my eyes. I was the only one who read his book. It was a tremendous honor. He only printed one copy, then erased the manuscript. He wanted it buried with him.”

“It’s gone?”

“Like him,” she said. “I know, I probably shouldn’t have done it, but it was a promise he made me make. Trust me, I’ve doubted what I did since they closed the casket, but it’s done now.” She looked deeply into my eyes. “Your father’s secret hope was that he would someday be able to write a book with you.”

Her words brought more pain. “Just another way I’ve failed him.”

She smiled. “No, you haven’t.” She gestured to the box on the table. “That’s why I brought this in. Your father left two books for you to finish. If you really want to know your father, finish his books. He lives in them.”

I walked over to the table. “May I see them?”

“Of course,” she said. “They’re yours.”

I lifted the cover off the box. The first page I saw had the words ‘Title