The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,71

Daddy,

Even though I never deserved it, I was always your angel. Now you are mine. I will forever honor your memory and try to be the girl you believed I could be.

Love, your daughter, Noel

I put the letter back in the envelope and set it on the grave. “I love you, Daddy.” I bowed my head and cried, the sounds muffled by the soft snow.

I don’t remember how long I was there. It was a while. Long enough that I was shivering and covered in snow. Still, I didn’t even notice the cold. I wiped my eyes and was about to stand when something fluttered down past me. I thought it was a leaf until it lit on my parents’ stone. Stark against the frigid backdrop of white was a blue butterfly.

CHAPTER fifty–six

Words do not express thoughts very well. They always become a little different immediately after they are expressed, a little distorted, a little foolish.

—Hermann Hesse

After the cemetery, I drove to the bookstore. “Bobbooks,” I said out loud. “What a great name.”

I had three reasons to visit the store. The first was to surround myself with my father’s presence, to feel him again. The second was more practical: I needed to pick up a few Christmas presents. The third was to find Wendy’s address.

I picked out three books and a candle and wrapped them. I put together another little package for Wendy, then searched for her address. It was harder to find than I thought it would be. I finally found it printed on her desk on a label for some makeup she’d ordered. She lived on the west side of the valley, about twenty minutes from the store by way of the interstate. She was my first stop.

My GPS led me west through a labyrinth of tract homes in an older, established suburb. As the sun rose higher on the day, life began to spring from the frozen world. I passed a small hill with children sledding and throwing snowballs.

Wendy lived on the crossroads of Emerson and Thoreau, which I figured had likely influenced her choice of neighborhoods. There were cars parked all along the curbs. Most of them seemed to have been there for a while, as they looked more like igloos than automobiles. The homes in the area were simple, mostly split-level and outdated—a sharp contrast to Grace’s mansion.

I found Wendy’s house number on a curbside mailbox, parked my car, and got out. The street was deserted, and the only sound was the whine of an unseen snowblower in the distance.

Wendy’s front walk was covered with snow. Her home looked still and dark as if no one was home, but her Subaru was in the driveway.

I walked up to the door and rang the bell. After a moment I knocked. I heard some footsteps, followed by some fiddling with a chain lock and then the deadbolt. The door opened.

Wendy was wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt. I don’t know if her expression was more of disbelief or disgust, but she definitely wasn’t happy to see me. She started to shut the door.

I put out my hand. “Wait, please.”

“What do you want?”

“We need to talk.”

“It’s my day off,” she said.

“Please. It’s important.”

“To who?”

“To my father,” I said.

She leaned against the door frame, her arms crossed at her chest.

“I came to apologize.”

“Why? Because you realized you can’t run the store without me?”

“That’s not why I came.”

“Why would I believe you?”

“I brought you something.” I handed her a small wrapped box.

She reluctantly took the gift.

“Open it. Please.”

She glanced at me suspiciously, then unwrapped the box and lifted its lid. Inside was her key to the store. She shook her head. “Does this mean you’re giving me my job back?”

“No. It means I’m giving you the bookstore.”

Her expression froze. “What?”

“I’m giving you the bookstore.”

“Are you serious?”

“Would I lie about that?”

“It’s more likely than you giving me the store.” She looked into my eyes. “Why?”

“My father loved you. And it was something you two had together. He would have wanted it that way.”

She looked at me for a moment, then said, “It’s cold out; why don’t you come in?”

“If I’m not disturbing anything.”

“It’s just me,” she said.

I stomped the snow off my feet and walked into the house. Her front room was tidy, with colorful giclée prints. In one corner there was a small plastic Christmas tree sparsely decorated with frosted pinecones and gold baubles.

On two of the walls were framed pictures of Wendy with my father. In one of them,