The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection #4) - Richard Paul Evans Page 0,72
they were standing next to each other at a book signing with author Mary Higgins Clark. The picture was signed by Mary. The other photograph was of just the two of them in the canyons, the leaves behind them radiant in autumn colors. They looked deliriously happy.
“We took that one a year ago last fall,” Wendy said.
“He looks happy. You both do.”
“It was four months before he was diagnosed. It was our last hike.”
I sat down on one of the couches. “You have a nice home.”
“Thank you.” She sat on a wooden chair next to the couch. One of her cats ran into the room and hopped up onto her lap.
“Which one is that?” I asked.
Wendy lifted the cat’s chin. “It’s Clawdia. She’s the friendly one.” Wendy rubbed Clawdia’s neck for a moment, then said, “You went all Willy Wonka on me.”
I smiled. “I guess I did.”
“You’re serious about the store?”
“Absolutely. But there is one caveat.”
“The name?”
I nodded. “You have to keep the name Bobbooks. It’s my father’s legacy.”
Wendy smiled. “What happened, Noel? It’s almost Dickensian, like you got visited by the ghosts of Christmas.”
“Something like that. I learned the truth about my father.”
“You learned that he was a good man?”
“I learned that he was a good father.” As I looked at her, for the first time, I understood the depth of her pain. “I’m sorry that you couldn’t be together.”
“We were together. Every day. And that whole thing about getting married—I don’t know if it would have worked, with Grace and everything.”
“You had a love triangle going.”
“Every good book does, right?”
“You know what’s weird? You could have been my stepmother.”
“That would have been weird.”
“For the record, I never would have called you Mom.”
“For the record, I wouldn’t have let you.” Clawdia suddenly jumped off Wendy’s lap and ran out of the room. Wendy looked back at me. “Have you decided whether you’re going back to New York?”
“I don’t know. I guess it depends on my next visit.”
“To Dylan’s?”
I nodded.
“I hope it goes well for you.”
“Thank you.
“If you decide to stay, we could always use you at the bookstore.”
“I may take you up on that.” I looked her in the eyes. “I’m going to finish my father’s books.”
She smiled. “You have no idea how much that would please him.”
“I might.”
“Would you like something to drink? I’ve got some wassail I could heat up. Coffee. Kombucha.”
“Thank you, but I’d better go. Like I said, I’ve got one more stop to make.”
As I stood up, Wendy walked over and hugged me. “I didn’t get to be your stepmother, but, if it’s okay, I’ll be your sister.”
My eyes welled. “I’d like that.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.”
“You already have. You were there for my father when I wasn’t. I’m very grateful for that. He deserved to be with someone who loved him.”
She wiped her eyes. “It was hard. But I wouldn’t trade a minute of our time together.”
“You really did love him.”
“With all my heart.”
“So do I.”
She sighed happily. “It’s all he wanted.” Her expression fell a little. “I’m really sorry about what I said to you at the store. Especially what I said about your dying alone. That was cruel.”
“It was true. And I needed to hear it. Maybe you were my ghost of Christmas yet to come.”
She smiled. “Maybe. Merry Christmas, Noel.”
“You too, sister.” I started to go, then turned back. “I have a strange question.”
She cocked her head. “Yes?”
“Can butterflies live in winter?”
Her brow furrowed. “Butterflies? I think so. Why do you ask?”
“Just wondering.” I kissed her cheek. “Merry Christmas, Wendy, and a Happy New Year.”
CHAPTER fifty–seven
One day I will find the right words, and they will be simple.
—Jack Kerouac
I drove back toward my home, exiting the highway on Highland Drive. Sugar House Park was full of life; myriad bright moving colors sliding down the hills. I had planned to go to Dylan’s home, then thought better of it and, instead, drove to his parents’ house. As I suspected, Dylan’s truck was in the driveway.
I pulled up to the curb and parked. I got my bag of gifts, then walked to the front door and knocked.
Charlotte answered. She looked surprised to see me. “No-el.”
“Merry Christmas, Charlotte.”
“Merry Christmas to you, honey. Come on in.”
“Thank you.” After she shut the door, I handed her one of the presents. “This is for you.”
“What is it?”
“Open it.”
She tore off the wrapping. “A Jerica Bradley book. Thank you. I was going to get that one after the Christmas rush died down.