The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Read online

  “Have you ever been robbed?”

  “Not yet.” She squatted down next to the safe and dialed the combination. She opened the thick door, revealing a stack of books. “Would you like to see them?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Wendy put on a pair of cotton gloves that were in the safe next to the books. They were much too large for her hands, so I guessed they belonged to my father.

  The first book she brought out was Cup of Gold by John Steinbeck. She set it down on her desk. I didn’t know the book but I did, of course, know the author. Steinbeck was one of my father’s favorites. At a young age he had introduced me to Cannery Row, Of Mice and Men, and East of Eden.

  “This was Steinbeck’s first novel,” Wendy said. “And this is a first edition. It’s worth about twenty thousand.”

  She took out a second book, setting it down next to the Steinbeck.

  I immediately recognized the cover. “Atlas Shrugged.”

  Wendy nodded. “Also a first edition. It’s inscribed by Ayn Rand.”

  “What is that worth?”

  “If I remember correctly, it’s almost the same as the Steinbeck. Maybe a little less.”

  She reached back into the safe. “You’ll like these.” She brought out two books. The spines were thick and embossed in gold leaf. “They’re second-edition Elizabeth Barrett Browning poetry collections. They contain the first printing of the love poems she wrote to her husband, Sonnets from the Portuguese.”

  I moved closer to examine them more carefully. As I reached out to touch them she stopped me. “You don’t want to touch them with your fingers. Too much oil.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And last but not least.” She reached back into the safe and pulled out another book. “Death in the Afternoon. A first-edition Hemingway, inscribed.”

  “What is that worth?”

  “Much.” She looked at me. “If you’ve ever wondered why your father didn’t drive an expensive car, it’s because he was smarter than most. He bought things that actually increased in value.”

  I was impressed by his collection. My collection.

  “What do you want to do with them?” she asked.

  “I’ll keep them in the safe,” I said.

  “I thought you would.” She returned the books along with the gloves and locked the safe.

  “Now if I could just open the safe at home,” I said. “Have you ever opened that one?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve seen it, but I don’t know what’s inside.”

  I stayed long enough to meet the two evening-shift employees. Cammy was in her early twenties, an English major at the University of Utah. Cyndee was twenty-five, a business major with a Mandarin minor who was currently taking a break from school.

  As I drove home, I thought about the books my father had collected. I wondered why he had never mentioned them to me. Considering how little we talked, I guess it wasn’t high on his priority list.

  I stopped to get groceries. The things I bought showed a little more commitment to staying; more oatmeal and granola, mayonnaise, Raisin Bran, a full gallon of skim milk, and a large bag of healthy popcorn. I put the groceries away then sat down on the couch to read. I was tired from standing on my feet all day, which was a good thing. At the publishing house I was getting used to spending the day on my rear.

  As I reheated the fried rice from the day before, I thought about Wendy and the bookstore. I wondered if she planned to stay or was already scheming her exit. Or what she’d do if I ended up selling the place. Wendy was a bit of an enigma to me. She was smart, ambitious, and pretty, yet it seemed like she had no life outside of the bookstore. I didn’t want to be the instrument that ended it all.

  CHAPTER thirteen

  I can shake off everything as I write; my sorrows disappear, my courage is reborn.

  —Anne Frank

  TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 3

  I woke early the next morning. I went for my run then got ready for work. It felt good to have a routine again. I picked up a cappuccino on the way to work and arrived at the bookstore about a quarter after nine. Christmas music was playing, and there were new pleasant fragrances wafting through the store. Wassail and pine.

  Wendy must have arrived extra early, as the store was noticeably more decorated than it was when I had left last night. The Christmas tree next to the front counter was up and decorated, strung with lights and baubles, each bearing a picture of a classic book: Gone with the Wind, Ulysses, The Old Man and the Sea.

  As I hung my coat on the rack next to the cash register, Wendy walked in from the back. “You’re late.”

  I couldn’t tell if she was teasing or testing me on the whole “boss” thing, but either way, I fell in line. “Sorry. I’ll be on time tomorrow. What’s on the docket?”

  “I just got another shipment of books,” she said. “If you’ll take the front, I’ll check in the arrivals. We’ll shelve them after lunch.”

  “You got it,” I said. “The store looks nice.”

  “Thank you.”

  It was a quiet morning. Around noon a woman walked up to me at the counter. “Excuse me. Do you know who wrote The Diary of Anne Frank?”

  She was looking at me so expectantly I decided she wasn’t joking. “That would be… Anne Frank.”

  “Right. Of course. Do you know if she ever wrote a sequel?”

  Now I was really wondering. I finally just said no.

  “No, you don’t know, or no, she never wrote one?”

  “Have you read the book?”

  “Yes. It was beautifully written. That’s why I wanted to know if she’d written anything else.”

  I sighed “No. She wrote only the one book.”

  “That’s a shame she didn’t pursue her writing. She could have had a promising career. Thanks anyway.”

  I went in back and found Wendy. “You won’t believe what someone just asked me.”

  “I’ve worked here for seventeen years. I’ll believe anything. Try me.”

  “She asked if Anne Frank had written a sequel.”

  She grinned. “I’ve been asked that before.” She looked up. “I think the most bizarre question was from a woman who asked if we had a book on avids.”

  “On what?”

  “Avids,” Wendy said. “The woman said, ‘My husband is an avid hunter, and I thought he’d like a book on them for Father’s Day.’ ”

  “Tell me she was joking.”

  “For her sake I hoped she was, but she wasn’t.”

  I shook my head. “Are people just dumb?”

  “I think everyone’s dumb. Just in different ways. Einstein used to get lost on the way home.”

  It was another busy day, and I could sense from our customers the growing anticipation of the holidays, like water rolling to a boil. The ambience Wendy created certainly helped. If you weren’t in the Christmas spirit when you arrived at our shop, you would be by the time you left.

  Businesswise, Wendy said we were doing well. I still hadn’t gone through the store’s financials—something I was as ill prepared to do without an accountant as hike through the Amazon without a guide—so I had no idea of the store’s financial status. All I knew from the publishers’ end of things were the ongoing reports of the demise of the independent American bookseller. Happily, in the case of Bobbooks, a line from Mark Twain seemed to apply: “Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.”

  I worked until seven thirty, taking just a short break for dinner, then came home a couple of hours after dark. I decided to read a little before going to bed, and I was a chapter into a new book called Fates and Furies when the doorbell rang.

  It was a little late for visitors, especially since I didn’t know anyone, and I had visions of Mr. Smalls, the attorney, standing on my doorstep. I got up and opened the door.

  A man stood in the doorway. He was certainly no Smalls. He looked to be my age, tall, with light-brown wavy hair and the beginnings of a beard. He was wearing a leather bombe
r jacket with a wool scarf and cowboy boots—the fancy type made from some kind of reptile skin. I noticed something in one of his hands—a long, narrow, gift-wrapped box.

  He was good-looking enough that it threw me a little. “May I help you?”

  He just smiled at me as if waiting for me to recognize him. “Hi, Noel.”

  It took a moment, but I did. I recognized his eyes. He was Dylan Sparks, a boy I had been friends with in middle and high school. We were more than friends, actually; he was my first boyfriend, with all that that entailed.

  “Dylan! I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Well, it’s been a few years. I saw you were back in town so I thought I’d come by and say hi.”

  “Who told you I was back in town?”

  “No one. I saw you at your father’s funeral.” He stood there for a moment, then said, “Am I interrupting something?”

  “No, I was just reading.”

  “Of course you were,” he said. He cocked his head. “Are you going to invite me in?”

  “I’m sorry. Yes,” I said, stepping back from the doorway.

  He came inside and I shut the door behind him. “Have a seat.”

  “Thank you.” He sat down on the couch next to the fireplace.

  “Can I get you coffee or something?”

  “No, I’m good.”

  I sat on the end of the couch facing him. “This is a little surreal.”

  He smiled. “Totally surreal. You look great, though. Time’s been good to you.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m sorry about your father. He wasn’t that old. How are you handling things?”

  “I’ve been better.”

  “I bet,” he said. “I brought you something.” He handed me the box he’d been carrying. “I read that you should always send sweets after a death, to sweeten the bitterness of loss. I know how you used to like Fernwood’s Mint Sandwiches.”

  I took the mints from him. “Thank you. I can’t believe you remembered I like these. I haven’t had one since I left.”

  “They’re still good.”

  “And fattening.”

  “You didn’t worry about that back then.”

  “There are a lot of things I didn’t worry about back then.”

  “You and me both,” he said. “What else is happening in your life?”

  “Where do I begin? Pretty much everything is in commotion. I’m officially divorced.”

  “Is that a good or bad thing?”

  “Jury’s still out,” I said. “All things considered, I’d rather be happily married. But I suppose it’s better to live a bitter truth than a blissful lie. At least I keep telling myself that.”

  “I get it,” he said. “Except I held on to the lie for as long as I could.”

  “You’re divorced?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. She left me. I kept telling myself it was just a phase she was going through and that she still loved me, she’d just forgotten. How’s that for denial?” He exhaled as he shook his head. “In the end, the divorce was a formality. Truth was, she’d left us years before.”

  “Us?”

  “I have a daughter. Alexis.”

  “How old is she?”

  “Seven. Almost eight.”

  “I’m sorry. About the divorce.”

  “Me too. I liked her. I liked being married.”

  “You married Susan, right?”

  He nodded. “Susan Tedesco. She was a dancer.”

  “I remember her. We took dance together. Only she stuck with it.”

  “At least she stuck with something.”

  “Was it painful?”

  “The divorce?”

  I nodded.

  “Horribly. Rejection aside, I liked the idea of having a family. She saw settling down as settling for less; I saw it as a higher level of existence. You know my background. I don’t take family or home for granted. Anyway, it’s been five years now. Almost six.” He looked at me. “How many years has it been since you left Utah?”

  “It’s been almost sixteen years.”

  He shook his head. “Has it really been that long?”

  “Time flies when you’re having fun.”

  “It also does when you’re not.” He looked into my eyes. “I’ve wondered about you. How you were doing. What you were doing.”

  “Making books,” I said.

  “I could have guessed that,” he said. “I ran into your father a few years ago. We were at the same restaurant. He came over to talk to me. He told me you were working for some big-time New York publishing house. I wasn’t surprised. Then he said, ‘You were always good to Noel. I was glad you two were friends.’ I asked him how you were doing personally. He said, ‘She’s married and seems happy. Other than that, I don’t really know. She doesn’t talk to me. I miss her.’ ”

  “He probably just wanted you to think he cared,” I said.

  “He seemed sad when he said it.” Dylan’s forehead furrowed. “Why would he care if I thought he cared?”

  I couldn’t answer.

  He clasped his hands together. “Anyway, how long will you be in Utah?”

  “I’m not sure. I thought I was going back to work, but now… I guess not.”

  “What happened?”

  “My supervisor called a few days ago to inform me that I no longer have a job.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry. When it rains it pours.”

  “The last person who said that to me took my job.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not after your job.”

  “So, what are you doing these days?” I asked. “Other than stalking me.”

  He grinned. “Mr. Mom. And I own a men’s suit store.”

  “You sell suits?”

  “High-end custom-tailored suits and tuxedoes for the discriminating male.”

  “I never would have guessed you’d end up doing that.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “I thought you’d either be operating an oil rig in the middle of some ocean or have died saving hostages.”

  He smiled. “I know, right? One day I’m covered with plaster, putting up drywall for a future suit store, and the next thing I know, I’m selling suits.”

  “Another life parallel between us,” I said. “One day I’m editing books, the next I’m selling them. I inherited my father’s bookstore.”

  “It’s like they say, ‘When one door closes, another opens.’ ”

  “More like when one door closes another one falls on you.”

  He laughed. “I think running a bookstore would be fun.”

  “We’ll see. Culture hasn’t been kind to independent bookstores. It feels a little like being handed the keys to a car as it goes over a cliff.”

  “It’s not doing well?”

  “Actually, my father’s store is doing surprisingly well.”

  “I’m not surprised. I like your father’s bookstore. Bobbooks. It’s always busy when I’m there.”

  “Do you go there much?”

  “Usually when I have a birthday or Mother’s Day. They’ve got great candles.”

  “You go to the bookstore to buy candles?”

  “Well, you don’t sell coffee…”

  I laughed. “No. My father never liked the idea of that. He didn’t think coffee and books mixed. Not that candles do, either.”

  He leaned forward. “Speaking of which, we should get coffee sometime. Or maybe dinner?”

  “I’d like that.”

  “How about Friday night?”

  “You were serious.”

  “Why wouldn’t I be?”

  “I live in New York. Sometime usually means never.”

  “Well, I don’t live in New York. So, Friday?”

  “Friday would be great.”

  “Good. I just need to make sure that works with my mom.”

  “Your mom’s coming with us?”

  He grinned. “No. She’s my sitter. She usually invites Alex over for sleep
overs on the weekend anyway. She’s her only grandchild, you know. She’s kind of crazy about her.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “I’m off work at six. How about you?”

  “I get off at five, so any time after six.”

  He stood. “Six thirty, then. I’ll come straight from work.”

  I walked him to the door and opened it. He looked at me and smiled. “It’s good seeing you, Noel. Have a good night.”

  “You too,” I said.

  As he was walking out I said, “Dylan.”

  He turned back.

  “Thank you for coming by.”

  He smiled. “My pleasure.”

  I shut the door. At least I had one thing in my life to look forward to.

  CHAPTER fourteen

  Quiet people have the loudest minds.

  —Stephen Hawking

  THURSDAY, NOVEMBER 5

  Thursday morning I walked into Wendy’s office. She was wearing a black bodysuit with a red sash, accentuating her hourglass figure.

  “What’s up, boss?”

  Wendy looked up. “Are you really going to call me that?”

  “I’m just respecting the arrangement.”

  “We need to start promoting our Black Friday book signings.”

  “You’re still doing that?”

  “You know how your father was. He loved his authors.”

  “Most of them,” I said. “So, what do you need me to do?”

  “Just make sure there are fliers in everyone’s shopping bag.”

  “Where are they?”

  “I left them on the front counter. Next to the register.”

  “I’ll do it.” I was about to leave when she said, “Oh, this came for you.” She handed me an envelope. The paper it was made from was textured and uneven, as if it were handmade. It was a light cream color.

  “It’s beautiful stationery,” I said. “No return address. Who knows I’m here?”

  “I suspect there are a few people who know you’re in Utah.”

  “I mean at the bookstore.”

  “I haven’t told anyone,” Wendy said. “Probably just the IRS. They know everything.”

  I looked back down at the envelope. “I don’t think the IRS has taken to using handmade cotton rag envelopes.”