The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 11

  “Is there a particular kind of tree you’re looking for?” I asked.

  “The Fraser fir is a classic. As is the Douglas fir. They both hold their needles well, but the Fraser smells more like Christmas.”

  “I didn’t know you were a Christmas tree connoisseur. What does Christmas smell like?”

  “Magic.”

  I grinned. “What does magic smell like?”

  “Childhood.”

  I stopped at a tree that looked perfectly shaped. “What kind of tree is this?”

  “I have no idea. I actually just read up on trees this morning to impress you.”

  “Look, Dad. It’s the right shape,” Alexis said. “It’s a cone.”

  Dylan said, “I taught Alex that there’s a geometric formula for selecting the right tree. When she was four, I taught her to look for an isosceles triangle. A year later she graduated to the concept of a cone. The ideal tree is one where the apex is perpendicular to the base. Or, in layman’s terms, a cone whose altitude intersects the plane of the circle at the circle’s center.”

  “I think you just took all the fun out of Christmas,” I said.

  “Math, especially geometry, is all about fun.”

  “You are a geek,” I said. “But fun.”

  “It’s a package deal.”

  We selected a near-geometrically perfect Fraser fir, and the guy at the lot trimmed the bottom and put it in the back of Dylan’s truck. Then we drove to his house to decorate it.

  Dylan’s home was only about four miles southeast from mine in the Millcreek area of Salt Lake in the foothills of the mountains, which is why he had so much more snow than I did; his roof was capped with at least two feet. It was a beautiful home with a river rock façade and a creek bed, currently frozen, cutting through the front yard.

  “What a beautiful home,” I said.

  “Thanks. Susan found it. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but I was doing remodeling work at the time, so it worked out perfectly.”

  Dylan backed his truck into the driveway, which looked like it had been carved out of a thick sheet of snow, the banks on each side more than three feet high. He took the keys from the truck and handed them to me. “If you take Alex and open the front door, I’ll get the tree.”

  I took Alexis’s hand, and we walked up the shoveled walk to the front porch. I unlocked and opened the door, then waited as Dylan lifted the tree out of the truck’s bed. I held the door for him as he carried it in, then shut it after him.

  The home was warm and welcoming, decorated with sleek modern decor. Looking around the room, I realized that I really didn’t know the adult Dylan. He was wild and unkempt as a boy, and I never suspected he would grow to be so organized and, frankly, clean. Cleaner than me.

  He had already brought up boxes of decorations and strands of lights, which were laid out along one side of the room. He dropped the tree into a stand in one of the corners of the front room.

  “You’ve got a system here,” I said.

  “That’s the way we roll around here. It’s all about systems. Especially when you’re a single dad. Would you hold the tree while I clamp it in?”

  “Of course.”

  I held the tree steady while Dylan got down under the boughs and screwed the stand’s bolts into the trunk.

  “That should do,” he said, getting up off his knees. “Now the lights.”

  I helped him string up the lights, which were LED but retro in design, brightly colored and round as ping-pong balls.

  “Alex,” he called. “I need your help.”

  Alex walked into the room. “What, Daddy?”

  “You know your job.”

  “Okay.” She looked at me. “I always plug it in. I’m good at it.”

  “I can’t wait to see,” I said.

  Dylan handed Alex the end of the cord. She got down on her knees and plugged it into the socket. The tree glowed. Alex clapped, and Dylan and I quickly joined in.

  “Well done,” he said. “No one can plug a tree in like Alex.”

  Alex smiled. “No one, Daddy.”

  “What comes next in your system?” I asked.

  “Hanging the tinsel,” he said. “Then the ornaments.”

  “I can do that.” Then, looking at Alexis, I added, “I mean, we can do that.”

  “Would you like some hot cocoa?”

  “I would love some.”

  “I don’t need to ask you, beautiful girl,” he said to Alexis. “Extra mallows.”

  “Extra mallows,” she said.

  Alex and I began draping the tinsel on the tree while Dylan disappeared into the kitchen. A few minutes later he came out with three mugs on a tray with peppermint sticks and steam rising above their tops. He set the tray down on the coffee table then handed me one of the mugs. There was writing on it.

  Those who believe in telekinetics, raise my hand.

  Kurt Vonnegut

  “Nice mug,” I said. “You know, my father was a huge Vonnegut fan.”

  “I might have bought that mug at your bookstore.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised.” I took a sip of cocoa.

  “You sell coffee mugs but not coffee,” he said. “Go figure.”

  “The book world defies explanation.”

  CHAPTER twenty–eight

  As a writer you should not judge. You should understand.

  —Ernest Hemingway

  Alexis and I finished hanging the ornaments, and then she went up to her room while Dylan and I sat in front of the tree sipping our cocoa.

  “May I ask a personal question?”

  Dylan shrugged. “You can ask.”

  I looked up to make sure Alex wasn’t listening, then asked softly, “Why didn’t Susan end up with Alex? I mean, it’s usually the way it goes.”

  Dylan frowned and set down his cup. “She didn’t want her. Susan got in with a group of friends who convinced her that family and home took away her freedom. She saw the house, Alex, and me as chains. Or at least anchors.”

  “That’s sad.”

  “It’s true. At least in part. I agree with her premise, but not her conclusion. Home is an anchor. But that’s not a bad thing. Anchors are valuable. The sea is turbulent; it’s a gift to hold ground. People talk about ‘freedom’ as if life were measured by mileage. It’s not.”

  “What is life measured by?”

  “Matters of consequence, like being a good human.”

  “For a mathematician you’re surprisingly poetic.”

  “Math is poetry,” he replied.

  “I think I agree with you.” I took another drink of cocoa, then leaned back into the soft couch. “It really is a pretty tree.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where do you get your ornaments?”

  “The blue and red ones from Target. The unique ones from all over. It’s Alex’s and my tradition. We buy a new ornament every year. We still haven’t gotten this year’s yet.”

  “How long have you had this tradition?”

  “Four years. We started the year Susie left. Alex and I were at the mall shopping, and she kept crying for her mommy. I was looking for something to cheer her up. An ornament did it.” He grinned. “And ice cream.”

  “Ice cream is powerful,” I said.

  “Very powerful. And now I’m getting hungry.” He looked down at his watch. “It’s almost time for dinner.”

  “What time are we supposed to be at your parents’ place?”

  “In fifteen minutes. We should leave.” He stood and shouted to Alexis. “Alex. Time to go to Meemaw’s.”

  “I’m coming.”

  I also stood. “I still feel bad not helping your mother cook.”

  “Guilt without cause. She would throw you out of her kitchen like spoiled milk. Or, she’d let you help but then never invite you back.”

  “Really?”

  “I’ve seen it happen. It’s her domain. Dad and I grew up with ‘Get out of my kitchen.’ ” Dylan turned toward the stairs. “Alex
is. It’s time to go. Now.”

  “I’m coming!” A minute later she came down the stairs.

  “Where were you?” Dylan asked.

  Alexis was obviously embarrassed and whispered to Dylan forcefully, “I was in the bathroom.”

  Dylan winked at me. “Sorry.”

  * * *

  Dylan’s parents lived in the same wood-shingled box of a house they had when he and I went to school together. It was about two miles from where I lived, just north of the park a few blocks. Like my home, theirs was in an older neighborhood that had gone through gentrification and had become a yuppie paradise, surrounded by remodeled homes and expensive cars.

  Seeing the old place brought back memories as thick as moths around a country porchlight.

  “It’s been a while,” Dylan said. “Do you remember it?”

  “Like my own house. It hasn’t changed much.”

  He took my hand. “Neither have my parents.”

  CHAPTER twenty–nine

  Wanting to meet an author because you like his work is like wanting to meet a duck because you like pâté.

  —Margaret Atwood

  Stratton and Charlotte Sparks were as southern as boiled peanuts. Stratton called her “Sweet Pea,” and Charlotte called him “Honey Bun” or, more often, “Strat.” They were transplants from Huntsville, Alabama. They had met when they were twelve, married at nineteen, and then come out to Utah when Stratton was stationed as a JAG at Hill Air Force Base in Ogden.

  Unable to have children of their own, they registered with Children’s Services as foster parents, hoping to someday adopt one of the children they were helping. That child was Dylan.

  About the time Dylan came along, Stratton had just left the military and gotten a job downtown at a large Salt Lake legal firm. That’s when they moved to the Sugar House area, a chain of events that helped Dylan’s and my paths to cross.

  They were a big part of my childhood at a critical time in my life. I don’t remember Stratton being around much in those days—probably because of his new job—but it was always pleasant when he was. I once told Dylan that his father scared me. Dylan just laughed. “I know,” he said. “He looks scary, but he’s about as mean as a cotton boll.”

  Stratton was quiet, with a surprisingly wry sense of humor. I don’t think I’d ever been with him when he hadn’t told at least one joke (or at least something that resembled one).

  Charlotte was strong-willed, proper, and beautiful. And an excellent cook. She’d brought her southern cuisine with her to Utah, and she gave me my first taste of cheese and grits, black-eyed peas, and collard greens, something most Utahns will never experience.

  “Is anyone else eating with us?” I asked as we pulled into the driveway.

  “Just us and the folks.” Dylan parked his truck and we walked through the side door into the kitchen. “We’re here,” Dylan announced as we walked in.

  “Where’s my princess?” Stratton shouted from an unseen room.

  “Pawpaw!” Alexis shouted, running off to find her grandfather.

  With the exception of some new wallpaper and carpet, the interior of the house hadn’t changed much since I’d last been there. From the side entryway, I could see the dining room table. It was beautifully arranged with a long ivory tablecloth and a centerpiece of autumn-colored flowers: orange roses; mums of yellow, bronze, and rust; and green huckleberry. Two unlit orange tapered candles rose from the center.

  The table was set for five with floral and gold-embossed china, crystal goblets, and silverware on linen napkins. Mrs. Sparks ascribed to a southern formality that few take time for in the bustle of modern life.

  Dylan led me into the kitchen, where his mother was leaning over the stove stirring something in a pot. Charlotte looked older than I remembered, but was still very pretty, with curled yellow hair. She was wearing a flowery apron over a long mint-and-ivory dress with a matching sash and a lace hem. A symphony of aromas wafted through the room.

  “The house smells amazing, Mom. As usual.”

  “Thanks, honey,” she said, kissing him on the cheek. “It’s about time y’all got here.” She turned to me, her expression growing even more animated. “No-el,” she drawled. “Just look at you. You’ve grown into such a beautiful woman. I was so happy to hear Dylan say you would be joining us today.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Sparks. I’ve really been looking forward to this.”

  “And honey, I’m just so sorry to hear about your dear father. He was such a good man.”

  “Thank you, ma’am.”

  “Call me Charlotte, honey. Did y’all get your Christmas tree put up?”

  “Yes, we did,” Dylan said.

  “It’s a tradition of his,” Charlotte said to me. “We can’t have too many traditions. Tradition is the foundation that you build a family on.”

  “I brought something for you,” I said. I handed her the wrapped book.

  “Oh, honey. You didn’t need to bring me anything.”

  “It’s just a book.”

  She set it aside. “Bless you. I’ll enjoy opening it after supper.”

  “Is there something I can do to help?”

  “No, we’re just about ready. Wait, there is one thing.” She turned to Dylan. “Son, would you pour the sweet tea and light the candles? You can leave the pitcher on the table.”

  “I’m on it.”

  “You’re a dear. The pitcher’s in the fridge.”

  She turned back to me. “There’s hot crawfish dip in the living room you can nibble on. And I got you some of those mint sandwiches you were so fond of.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Now you just go out and sit with Strat and relax while I finish things up.”

  “Go on,” Dylan said. “I’ll be right there. Just don’t eat it all.”

  “I’ll try to restrain myself.”

  I went into the front room. Dylan’s father was sitting at the piano with Alexis, teaching her how to play something. He turned around as I walked in then stood to greet me. He looked exactly the same as I remembered, except he was shorter and his hair had gone completely gray. His smile was as big as I remembered. “Noel Book. It’s been a year of Sundays.”

  “Actually, longer,” I said. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

  “And a Happy Thanksgiving to you. Charlotte and I were so looking forward to having you join us.”

  “It’s all my pleasure.”

  “Not all yours,” he said.

  “Pawpaw’s teaching me a song on the piano,” Alexis said. “ ‘I Want a Hippopotamus for Christmas.’ ”

  “Do you know what a hippopotamus is?” I asked.

  She looked at me like I was a fool. “Of course. It’s a short elephant without a trunk.”

  “That’s the best definition I’ve ever heard,” I said. I turned to Stratton. “I didn’t know you played the piano.”

  “Not like I used to. During law school I played at a bar on weekends for spending money. Now I just do a hymn now and then, or a Billy Joel song. I used to love to play that ‘Rootbeer Rag’ before my arthritis flared up.”

  Alexis pounded at the keys until Dylan walked in. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Hi, Son. Alex says you got your tree up.”

  “Yes, we did. Did you get a haircut?”

  “No. I pretty much got them all cut.”

  Dylan grimaced. “I walked into that.” He turned to me. “Did you try the dip yet?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well, it’s not going to eat itself.” He walked over and got a little plastic plate and scooped some dip onto it along with cubes of French bread and handed it to me. Then he did the same for himself. “Nothing like southern cooking.”

  Stratton replied, “Only thing better than southern cooking is a southern woman.”

  “I heard that,” Charlotte shouted from the kitchen.

  Stratton winked at us. “I hoped she would.”

  * * *

  About five minutes later Charlotte wa
lked into the living room. “Dinner’s on.”

  “All right,” Stratton said. “You heard the woman. Let’s eat.”

  We sat around the oval table; Stratton on one end, Dylan on the other, with Alexis and me at his sides. I was about to start putting food on my plate when Dylan reached over and took my hand. “Grace,” he said.

  “I’ll offer grace,” Stratton said. “Dear God, thank you for this bounty and this day to give thanks. We are grateful to live in a free country and to have each other. We are grateful today that Miss Noel has joined us and ask your blessings to be upon her at this sorrowful time of loss. We praise thee and say thanks for all we have, in His name we praise, Amen.”

  “Amen,” I said. I couldn’t remember the last time I had prayed.

  Stratton rose and began to carve the turkey.

  “Dylan says that you’ve been living in New York City,” Charlotte said.

  “Yes, ma’am. Charlotte.”

  “What do you do there?”

  “I was an editor for a publishing house.”

  “So you work with authors?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Any that I may know?”

  “Kiel Taylor, Debbie Rasmussen, W. W. Spooner, Jerica Bradley.”

  “You’ve met Jerica Bradley?” she exclaimed.

  “I work with her. I help edit her books.”

  “You work with the Jerica Bradley? You know, I just love her books. I’ve read every one of them. She must be just a delight to work with.”

  I bit my lip.

  She leaned forward. “Tell me, what’s she like? In real life.”

  I carefully considered my response, as I’m not one to burst bubbles. “She’s very talented.”

  “Isn’t that God’s truth. The next time you see her, please tell her that I’m her biggest fan and to keep up the good work.”

  “I would be happy to.”

  “Will you be staying in Utah for a while?” Stratton asked.

  “At least until Christmas. I’m still figuring things out.”

  “I hope you don’t go away,” Alexis said.