The Noel Diary Page 8

  “My father grumbles about it a lot. What really gets him is that it’s becoming kind of an artist enclave. ‘Educated idiots,’ he calls them. I bought him a bumper sticker that read I lived in Ivins before Ivins was cool. He never put it on his car.”

  I grinned. “Do you have siblings?”

  “No. I’m an only child. My parents are older. They’re retired now, in their late seventies. They were unable to have children, so it wasn’t until they were in their forties that they adopted me. I was adopted at birth. My parents are pretty tight-lipped anyway, but they kept the whole thing secret, so I didn’t even know until I was sixteen that I was adopted. I suspected it before then, but I didn’t ask.”

  “Why did you suspect it?”

  “We don’t look much alike. Mostly my eyes . . .”

  “You have beautiful eyes,” I said.

  She smiled shyly. “Thank you. You’re embarrassing me. But thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  She seemed a little flustered. “I was saying, I don’t look like them, but more telling than that was our personalities. I don’t know how much is nature versus nurture, but in the personality department, I’m completely different from my parents. I’m kind of a free spirit and they’re hyper religious. Like, my mother could have been a nun and my dad is practically ascetic.”

  “That must have been difficult for you, growing up that way.”

  “I disappoint them a lot. I suppose that’s where the guilt thing comes in. Even my name.”

  “Rachel’s a pretty name,” I said.

  “They named me Rachel because it’s a Bible name. It means ewe. A female sheep. I was named after an animal.”

  I laughed. “Animal or not, it’s still a pretty name.”

  “Thank you. They named me that because of the Bible verse in Matthew that said God will put the sheep on the right and the goats on the left.”

  “I’m a goat,” I said.

  “Well, if I’m a sheep, I’m the black one. When I was fourteen, I was with some friends in the St. George Mall when a man handed me his business card and asked if I would be interested in modeling, like in magazines or TV commercials. I was really excited. But when I showed my mother the man’s card, she went crazy. She said that I needed to repent and that vanity was of the devil and all models are going to hell.”

  “That might be true,” I said.

  She looked at me, unsure if I was being serious or not.

  “I was joking,” I said. “But I’ve dated a few models . . .”

  She grinned. “Then you should know.”

  I laughed. “I should know better, that is. When did you find out you were adopted?”

  “When I was sixteen, a friend at school asked me how old I was when I was adopted. I said, ‘I’m not adopted.’ She just looked at me like I was crazy. She said, ‘Really? Are you sure?’ That night I asked my parents. They didn’t have to say a thing. I knew immediately from their reactions that I was. I asked them why they hadn’t told me sooner and my mother said that they were waiting until I was older, because they were afraid that I might feel different or unwanted by my birth mother.”

  “Is that why you started looking for your birth parents?”

  “Not really. I asked my parents about them, but they said it was a sealed adoption and that even they didn’t know who the mother was. They said that they knew the woman wasn’t married and that the father wasn’t any part of the deal.” Rachel grinned. “I mean, he had to be some part of the deal. It’s not like I was an immaculate conception.”

  “Not likely,” I said.

  I looked at her for a moment, then said, “Why do you want to find her?”

  “There’s a question,” she said. “I don’t know if I could put words to it. It’s like finding yourself.” She looked at me. “What about your mother? You said you weren’t close.”

  “No. I moved out of her house when I was sixteen. This is the first time I’ve been back since then.”

  “You didn’t see your mother before she died?”

  “No.”

  “Do you wish you had?”

  I thought over the question. “I don’t know. Part of me does. Part of me wishes I could see her and she’d apologize. But more likely than not I just would have been disappointed again. She probably would have asked me who I was.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  I sighed. “It’s nothing. I mean, it is, but it’s history now.”

  “So why go through the house if all there is is pain?”

  “I’m still looking for clues.”

  “Clues to what?”

  I looked at her thoughtfully. “There’s something I haven’t told you about. For years I’ve had these dreams of me as a child and a woman holding me, loving me. I’ve wondered who she was or whether she even existed.” I swallowed. “Now I’m wondering if she was your mother.”

  Just then the waiter walked up to the table carrying a tray. “Gnocchi with sage butter.” He set the plate down in front of Rachel. “And the spaghetti vongole for you.” He set another plate in front of me.

  He turned to Rachel. “Would you like some Parmesan cheese on that?”

  “Yes, please.” He grated cheese on top of it.

  “There you go. Can I get you anything else?”

  “Could you get me a glass of Chianti?” I said.

  “Absolutely.”

  He walked away.

  “Buon appetito,” I said.

  We ate for a moment in silence. Rachel spoke first. “This is really good. Do you want to try some?”

  “Please.”

  She speared a couple of dumplings and held her fork out for me to eat. I ate them off the fork. “Those are good. Would you like to try mine?”

  She looked at it a moment, then said, “I’m not a big oyster fan.”

  “They’re not oysters, they’re clams,” I said.

  “To-may-to, to-maw-to,” she replied.

  “Then I’ll keep my shellfish to myself.” I looked at her and added, “Shellfishly.”

  She laughed. “That was an awful pun.”

  “That’s the nature of a pun—the more awful the better. Bad enough and it’s good.”

  “You almost turned the corner on that one,” she said. “I can see why you’re a writer.”

  The waiter set the glass of wine on the table. “There you are, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  He walked away. I took a sip, then set down my glass. “Do you like wine?”

  “I’ve never tried it.”

  “You’ve never tasted wine?”

  “No. I told you, my parents were . . . strict. Alcohol was forbidden.”

  “But you must have had opportunities. When they weren’t around?”

  “I tried beer at my high school graduation party,” she said.

  “You are definitely going to hell.”

  She laughed. “It tasted like hell. I didn’t like it.”

  “It’s an acquired taste. Like . . . clams.”

  “And oysters.”

  “And oysters. What do they say, it was a brave man who first ate an oyster.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t a brave woman?”

  “Because women have more sense than that.” I took another bite of my pasta, then said, “Tell me about Braydon.”

  “Brandon.”

  “Sorry. Do your parents approve of Brandon?”

  “Approve? I think they like him more than they like me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “He’s just like them. He’s kind of . . . severe.” She looked at me. “I shouldn’t have said that. He’s a good guy.”

  “What does he do?”

  “He works for a sporting supply company.”

  “He’s a jock?”

  She burst out laughing. “No. He’s a bookkeeper. He weighs almost the same as I do. Unfortunately, his job doesn’t pay much, which is why he’s so upset about me not working. But someday he wants to open his own store.
”

  “A sporting store?”

  “No. A video-game store. He plays a lot of video games. That’s his release.”

  “And you?”

  “I don’t like video games.”

  I laughed. “I meant, what about your career.”

  “I like being a dental assistant. Someday I want to be a mother. Does that sound unambitious?”

  “The world needs more good mothers.”

  “How about you?” she asked.

  “I’d make a terrible mother.”

  She laughed. “I meant your career. I know you’re a writer. Is that how you make your living, or do you have side gigs as well?”

  I hid my smile. “Well, I used to work for a healthcare company, writing newsletters and press releases. But now I sell enough books to keep a roof over my head.”

  She nodded. “I wish I could do something creative for a living. But I’d first have to have some creativity.” She ate a little, then said, “Before I go back home, I need to do some Christmas shopping. There are so many great stores in Salt Lake. How about you? Have you finished your Christmas shopping?”

  “I haven’t even started yet. I’ll probably do some shopping when I go back to New York.”

  “Why are you going to New York?”

  “To meet with my . . .” I stopped. “My friend.”

  “Oh.” She looked at me. “A woman friend?”

  I thought I detected a note of jealousy in her voice. Maybe I was just being hopeful. “You could say that.”

  There was a brief, awkward pause. “I’ve never been to New York City,” she said wistfully.

  “It’s a great city. Especially at Christmastime. It’s crowded, but it has an energy you won’t find anywhere else.” Then I added, “Except maybe in Ivins.”

  “Yeah, right. I’ve always wanted to see New York. I’d probably just get lost.”

  “You just need the right guide,” I said.

  “Like you?”

  I smiled. “Exactly like me.”

  We finished eating around ten. The restaurant was trying to close down and I could tell they were eager for us to leave. Especially when they started mopping the floor next to us. Finally we drove back to the house. I pulled up behind Rachel’s car and turned off the ignition. Rachel turned to me. “That was a really good restaurant.” She grinned. “Even if they tried to throw us out.”

  “The company wasn’t bad either.”

  She smiled.

  “Thanks for all your help today,” I said.

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “When I decided to come down, I didn’t plan on having company. You are . . . enjoyable.”

  “Enjoyable?”

  “Today wasn’t miserable.”

  “Miserable is a long way from enjoyable.”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  She laughed. “About tomorrow. Are you sure it’s okay if I go with you?”

  “Of course it’s okay with me. Like I said, I like your company. Are you having second thoughts?”

  “No. I just wish I could be more straightforward with Brandon without him getting so angry about everything.” She looked at me. “How about you? Are you worried about seeing your father?”

  “A little. I really don’t know how it will go. I guess I’ll find out.”

  “When do the piano movers come?”

  “They’re supposed to be there at eleven. But I’m going over earlier. I wanted to get some more done before they get there.”

  “Name the time,” she said.

  “Is eight too early?”

  “Eight it is.”

  “I’ll bring the coffee,” I said. “And some muffins?”

  “I love muffins. Thank you. Good night.”

  “Good night,” I said.

  She leaned forward as if to kiss me, then stopped. Even in the limited light I could see her blush. “I’m so sorry, I don’t know why I did that.”

  “It’s just habit,” I said. “No worries.”

  “Sorry. I’ll see you at eight.” She looked flustered as she got out and walked to her car. She looked back and smiled before climbing in. I lightly waved to her. She started her car, then did a U-turn in the road and drove away.

  As I watched her go, I was definitely feeling something for her. Wrong or not, I wished that we had kissed.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  December 16

  I woke early. Too early. A quarter to five. It had been a restless night. My mind was too active, spinning like a roulette wheel, the ball occasionally dropping on different topics of intrigue: encountering my father, my mother, the house, Rachel’s mother, and Rachel.

  A half hour later I gave up on sleep and went downstairs to the fitness center and ran on the treadmill for an hour, then went back to my room and packed for our trip. An hour later I left for the house.

  I stopped at a Starbucks for coffee and blueberry muffins. Even though I was twenty minutes early, Rachel was already there at the house, smoke rising from her car’s tailpipe.

  She smiled at me as I walked toward her carrying our coffee and muffins. “Good morning,” she said. “How did you sleep?”

  “Awful. I had strange dreams.”

  “About what?”

  “Things.” I handed her a coffee, and she took a sip.

  “I’m sorry,” she said again. “I had strange dreams too. Only mine were nice.”

  “About what?”

  “Things,” she said, with a curious smile on her face. She turned and walked ahead of me through the snow to the front porch. When we reached the front door, I handed Rachel my cup, took the house key from my pocket, unlocked the door, and opened it. I followed her inside.

  The room was warm, and I could hear the sound of the furnace blowing. I turned on the lights, then walked over and opened the blinds.

  “It doesn’t smell as bad as it did yesterday,” Rachel said behind me.

  “The magic of Lysol.”

  “And we have a full three hours before the movers get here. We might actually finish.” She set her coffee down on a cleared end table. “So, after dinner, I went back to my hotel and decided to see if I could find your books on Amazon.”

  “And?”

  “I found five of them, all major bestsellers, with thousands and thousands of fans. Then I looked up your Facebook page. You have like a million followers. I was so embarrassed.”

  “Why?”

  “I kept asking how you made a living. You didn’t tell me you were a famous author and have sold millions of books.”

  “If you have to tell people you’re famous, you’re not.”

  She laughed. “You could have told me.”

  “Why? So you could act differently?”

  “No. Because it’s who you are.”

  “No, it’s not really who I am. It’s my image. You’ve seen more of who I am digging through this junk than my readers will ever know.”

  She nodded. “I believe that.”

  “It’s nice to not have to be author Jacob Churcher, just Jacob.”

  “I understand that,” she said. “I’m sorry. I hope I didn’t ruin anything.”

  “We’ll be okay,” I said, smiling. “We’ve got enough ground beneath us.”

  “You mean because I liked you before I found out you were famous?”

  I liked the comment. “Something like that.”

  “Well, how about, I’ll still like you even though you’re famous.”

  “So that’s how it is,” I said.

  She smiled. “Yep. That’s how it is. Your fifteen minutes of fame are over. Now get back to work.”

  I grinned. “Now you sound like my agent.”

  I was sitting on the ground in front of the piano bench going through a box of Christmas decorations when Rachel said, “I think you’re going to want to see this.” I looked over. She was holding an open box.

  “What is it?”

  She handed me the box. “It’s a diary.”

&n
bsp; I took the box from her. Inside was a leather book about the size of one of my paperback novels. The word diary was embossed in gold into its leather face. I opened it up. The lined paper was old and the handwriting that covered it was graceful and feminine and mostly in red ink. I started to read.

  June 11, 1986

  Dear Diary,

  I’ve started this new diary, since I’m starting a new life. I’m afraid to say that nothing will be the same after today. I’m leaving home tomorrow morning. I don’t know when I’ll be back, or if they’ll even let me back. My parents are sending me away to Salt Lake City to have my baby. The woman who is facilitating my stay says that I would usually first meet the people I’ll be staying with, but my parents are rushing this because my mother says I’m beginning to show, even though I’m only eleven weeks along. Last night at dinner my parents argued over whether they should tell people that I went to live at my aunt’s house or went away to a special school. They chose the latter alibi, as family members would see through the other. It’s the story I’ve been told to stick to. They’re ashamed of me. And I have this baby that I’m bringing into the world in shame. I’m so sorry, little one. I still haven’t heard from Peter. I miss him.

  Noel

  “Noel,” I said. I looked up at Rachel. “I think your mother’s name was Noel. I think this is your mother’s diary.”

  Rachel stood. “It’s my mother’s?” She practically ran back over to my side. “Her name is Noel?”

  There were three photographs inside the book. I lifted them out. The first was a picture of my family. My mother, father, Charles, and me. I looked like I was about four, so it must have been fairly close to the time my brother died. My parents looked so young. I was sitting on my mother’s lap. She looked different than I remembered her. Besides being noticeably younger, there was light in her eyes. My parents were smiling. It seemed so foreign to me.

  The next picture was of a young man. He looked about nineteen or twenty. He was sitting on a motorcycle. He had long, black hair and wore a leather bomber jacket. He had a look of confidence in his eyes.

  “I wonder who that is,” I said.

  I lifted the next picture and froze. It was her. The woman in my dreams. She was real, right there in color. She was in the photograph with my father. He was standing in the kitchen about to blow out the candles on a birthday cake. To his side sat a young woman with a slightly protruding stomach. She was holding me on her lap.