The Noel Letters (The Noel Collection Book 4) Page 8

  “You know stationery?”

  “It’s a passion of mine. There’s a little stationery shop on Sixth Avenue. The owner makes his own paper and notebooks.”

  “It’s a lost art,” Wendy said. “Your father loved it too.”

  I walked out to the front counter, then looked at the envelope again. After all the legal junk I’d been through with my divorce, I was just glad it wasn’t a registered letter.

  The postmark was from Salt Lake City and dated just the day before. I opened the envelope and pulled out the letter, which was written on the same paper. The handwriting was in a delicate, feminine script.

  Dear Noel,

  Home is the port we seek when we weary of the turbulent sea. You have weathered enough storms, sweetheart. Welcome home.

  Tabula Rasa

  Tabula Rasa?

  I was still looking down at the letter when Wendy emerged from the back. “I forgot to ask, were you planning on working late tonight?”

  “I can.”

  “That would be good. Cyndee called in sick.”

  “I got it.” She was about to go when I asked, “Do you know someone named Tabula Rasa?”

  She looked at me quizzically. “You don’t know what that is?”

  I shook my head. “Not a clue.”

  “Tabula rasa,” she said, carefully pronouncing the word, “isn’t a who. It’s a what. It’s Latin for the theory that humans are born without mental content—so all we know is what we’ve been taught or experienced. Literally, the phrase means ‘scraped tablet.’ In other words, a blank slate. Why do you ask?”

  I lifted the paper. “The letter I just got was signed ‘Tabula Rasa.’ ”

  “May I see it?”

  I handed her the letter. She read it over, then handed it back. “Interesting pseudonym. I’d guess it was written by someone from the past who knows you’re back in town and is hoping for a fresh start.”

  “Why would they write anonymously?”

  She shrugged. “Best way to get read, right? Everyone loves a mystery. We’ve got two bookcases as proof. Any idea who might have written it?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I guess I’ll wait to see.”

  Wendy walked back to her office as I returned the letter to the envelope. I wondered what Dylan was up to.

  CHAPTER fifteen

  You can make anything by writing.

  —C. S. Lewis

  FRIDAY, NOVEMBER 6

  I first met Dylan when I was twelve, about a year and a half before my mother died. I immediately recognized that there was something different about him from the other boys my age. Even our schoolteachers seemed to treat him differently. I didn’t learn until later that he was a foster child with a checkered past.

  Dylan was the only child of two drug addicts. After he’d suffered years of neglect and abuse, his parents were reported to the state, and they gave up custody of him without protest—no doubt adding to the psychological damage that had already been done.

  Dylan stayed with his maternal grandmother for a while, but, in his words, he was “too hot for her to handle.” By “hot” he meant shoplifting, drinking, smoking, and running away. His grandmother was already in her eighties, and the two of them were an unlikely combination at best. Just four months later he was deemed a ward of the state.

  Dylan was already in his third foster home when we met. I had two classes with him in seventh grade: algebra and English. I was immediately drawn to him. He wasn’t hard to notice, as he naturally drew attention to himself, both good and bad. He was rebellious but also funny. Once he made our algebra teacher laugh, something the rest of us considered akin to parting the Red Sea.

  Children always know who the “bad” kids in school are, and though Dylan was labeled as one, he wasn’t mean. In fact, other than the occasional fight he’d get in, there was a surprising gentleness to his demeanor. Even my mother once commented that he was “such a polite young man.”

  Academically, Dylan was naturally gifted at math, something I had little interest in. On the other side, he hated English, which I excelled at. We quickly figured out that we could scratch each other’s backs and began helping each other, which usually meant doing each other’s homework. It was a match made in heaven. Or something like that.

  The homework part was mostly a ruse to see each other. We began hanging out together all the time. He was the first boy I kissed. We began kissing a lot until his foster parents caught us and wouldn’t allow me in his room anymore. We still kissed, just not at his house.

  When my mother died, Dylan was the first one I told. I remember him holding me as I sobbed uncontrollably. Everything in my life changed after that. Some changes, like grief and anger, were immediate. Others were more gradual and less obvious. At least at first.

  Although we remained friends into high school, it became evident that we were going in opposite directions. His foster parents, whom he had grown to like, asked to adopt him. That had a major impact on him. Where his biological parents had willingly given him up, here were two people fighting to keep him. He had finally found a home, and his days of rebellion were waning.

  While Dylan was cleaning up his life, I was doing the opposite, wandering farther down a spiraling path of rebellion and self-destruction.

  Despite Dylan’s warnings, I started hanging out with some of the kids he used to hang out with. That’s when I started pushing the limits, drinking and ditching classes. By my sophomore year, my grades fell from straight As to Ds and Fs.

  My father was beside himself. Things came to a head one school day morning when he came home from the bookstore and caught me and my “friends” drinking in my room. He went ballistic.

  That’s the second time my world was uprooted. Three weeks later my father sent me away to a boarding school in Tucson, Arizona. To say I was unhappy was like saying the Titanic had had a rough crossing. I didn’t talk to him from the moment I found out to the time I left, except for our final fight when I screamed at him that my mother’s death was his fault. I remember that there were tears in his eyes.

  The day before I left, Dylan came to say goodbye. It was the last time I saw him. He wrote me a few times in Arizona, but I never wrote back. I was cutting ties to everyone and everything that connected me to my old life, and Dylan was part of that. I vowed I would never go back to Utah.

  CHAPTER sixteen

  A word after a word after a word is power.

  —Margaret Atwood

  Dylan picked me up for dinner at six thirty sharp. The restaurant he took me to was called Antica Sicilia. It was located in a small strip mall on Thirty-Ninth South next to a franchised hair salon.

  It wasn’t the kind of location you’d expect to find fine dining, but the owners and most of the staff were Sicilian immigrants, and the online reviews were remarkable. So was the wait. The small sitting area was full of people, and when a couple came in without a reservation requesting the next available table, the maître d’ laughed. “Porca miseria. Maybe you try again next Wednesday.”

  Dylan had made reservations the night he came by my house, and we were quickly seated at a table near the open kitchen. One of the managers was also one of Dylan’s clients, which didn’t hurt. In fact, he came by our table to say hello. He was short, barely five feet tall, and wore an immaculate black suit with a sky-blue shirt open at the collar. Dylan introduced him to me as Salvatore.

  “Amico,” he said to Dylan. “You have found a new beauty.” He kissed Dylan on the cheeks, and then did the same to me. Dylan said, “This is my friend, Noel. She’s from New York.”

  “Oh, New York. I love the city. It’s been too long since I have been to the city. Thank you for joining us tonight.”

  “Piacere mia,” I said, reaching the limit of my Italian.

  His expression became animated. “Mama mia, she speaks la bella lingua. Mr. Dylan is a buon amico. I have sent you a bottle of Etna Rosso. Please, enjoy.”

  “Thank you,” I said. After he left, I t
urned to Dylan. “That was nice.”

  “Salvatore’s a good guy. I’m the only place in town he can get suits his size that weren’t made for boys.”

  “You made that suit?”

  “My tailors did.”

  “It’s nice.”

  “Thank you. We do quality suits.” He lifted his menu. “What would you like to eat?”

  “What do you recommend?”

  “Their signature dish is their ‘flaming wheel of cheese’ spaghetti carbonara. It’s served tableside.”

  “That sounds good.”

  “Unless you’re Charlie.”

  “Who’s Charlie?”

  “He’s one of my employees. He has long hair that caught on fire while they were preparing it.”

  “Was he hurt?”

  “No. I threw a glass of water on him. It made for an exciting meal.” He looked back down at the menu. “I’ll order some bruschetta as an appetizer. Do you like tomatoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And one caprese salad to share.”

  A waitress, one of the few non-Italians on the crew, took our order. Dylan filled my glass with wine, then his own.

  “What should we toast?” he asked.

  “How about books?” I said.

  He lifted his glass. “To books.” He took a sip of wine, then set the glass down. “Speaking of books, tell me about your job in New York.”

  “Former job,” I said.

  “Sorry. Your former employment.”

  “I was a senior editor for one of the big publishing houses.”

  “Senior editor. That sounds important.”

  “It’s publishing. We get paid in titles, not paychecks.”

  “What do you do, correct spelling and grammar?”

  “No. That’s a different kind of editor.”

  “I didn’t know there were different kinds of editors.”

  “Many,” I said. “Just like there are different kinds of engineers. What you’re describing is a copy editor. They tend to be a bit OCD. At least the good ones are. They’re the kind of people who can’t help but correct your grammar.”

  “We call them grammar Nazis,” Dylan said. “They’re annoying.”

  “They make my life a lot easier,” I said.

  “Then what kind of editor are you?”

  “Senior editor is more of an all-purpose position. I’m kind of like a coach. I give my authors suggestions on their books and act as a liaison between them and the publishing house. Then, in my spare time, I also look for new talent, which means I’m reading constantly.”

  “That doesn’t sound fun.”

  “You don’t like reading?”

  “Will it end our date if I say no?”

  I cocked my head. “Is this a date?”

  “One question at a time,” he said. “No, I don’t hate reading, per se. It’s like anything else; once you’re required to do it, it’s not fun anymore. Basic human psychology.”

  “I’ll forgive you, then,” I said. “On account of basic human psychology. So, to the next question. Is this a date?”

  “It’s dinner,” he said. “What skill set does it takes to be an editor?”

  “Nice changeup,” I said. “I’d say the two main qualities of being an editor are, first, you’ve got to love to read, and second, you can’t want to make any money. That mostly sums it up.”

  “And you should probably love English,” he added. “I got As in English because of you.”

  “Do you remember what they called me in school? Thesaurus Rex.”

  “That’s a compliment.”

  “It’s not when you’re thirteen.”

  “Everything’s upside down when you’re thirteen.”

  “I’ve got news for you. Everything is still upside down.”

  He lifted his glass. “To upside down, then.”

  I clinked my glass to his and took a sip. “That’s not bad wine.”

  “Salvatore’s Sicilian. Bad wine is blasphemy. Or at least sacrilege.” He poured a little more into my glass. “How’s the bookstore doing?”

  “It’s been busy. I think the holiday season has officially begun for Bobbooks.”

  “Bobbooks,” he repeated. “I love that name.”

  “That makes one of us.”

  He looked at me over the rim of his glass. “You don’t like the name of your bookstore?”

  “No. Never did.”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “I didn’t say anything was wrong with it, I just said I don’t like it. It’s not my taste.”

  “What would you have named it?”

  I held my hands up for emphasis. “It Was a Dark and Stormy Bookstore.”

  He looked at me blankly. “Explain it to me.”

  “If I have to explain, you still won’t like it.”

  “Which is why it would make a bad name. Besides, it’s way too long for a sign.”

  “That’s your opinion,” I said.

  “No, I’ve bought signage—it’s not cheap, and Dark and Stormy is a whole lot of letters, as opposed to Bobbooks, which is”—he stopped to count—“eight. Besides, the whole thing sounds gloomy.”

  “What’s wrong with gloomy?”

  “People read to get away from gloomy.”

  “Tell that to Stephen King.”

  “Stephen King’s a writer, not a bookstore. Give me the name of a successful bookstore with a gloomy name.”

  “I’ll give you three. Dearly Departed Books, Ohio. Dead End Books, New York. The Poisoned Pen in Scottsdale.”

  “Those are really names of bookstores?”

  “They really are.”

  He looked down for a moment then said, “All right, apparently I know nothing about the book industry. I mean, I go to bookstores to buy coffee and candles. At least Bobbooks tells you what you’re selling.”

  “Which isn’t coffee or candles,” I said.

  We both ate for a moment then I asked, “What’s the name of your store?”

  He hesitated a beat then said, “It Was a Dark and Stormy Suit Store.”

  I laughed. “No, really.”

  “After all that I don’t want to tell you.”

  “Please?”

  “It’s Dylan’s. As in Dylan’s custom suits for men.”

  “Dylan’s,” I repeated.

  “I knew you wouldn’t like it.”

  “No, I like it. It’s… boutique-ish.”

  “Not sure if that’s good, but I’ll accept your pretended acceptance.”

  Ten minutes later our waitress returned with one of the chefs. He was pushing a stainless-steel cart carrying a large wheel of Parmesan cheese that was hollow in the middle and filled with spaghetti. He poured in a bowl of raw eggs and lit it on fire. He mixed the egg in with the pasta, then, after the flames were extinguished, served it up on our plates. A few minutes later Salvatore returned. “Buon amici, how is everything?”

  “It’s buono,” Dylan said. He looked at me. “How is it?”

  “It’s delicious.”

  “Very good. Tutto a posto. Do not forget your dolci. It is on me.”

  We shared a cannoli for dessert, an Italian tube-shaped pastry that is deep fried and filled with sweetened ricotta cheese.

  “You know, this dessert is almost two thousand years old,” Dylan said.

  “Hmm,” I said. “It tastes fine to me.”

  He grinned.

  I remembered what Dylan had told me about seeing my dad at an Italian restaurant. “Is this the restaurant where you saw my father?”

  “Yes. He was sitting right over there.” He pointed to a table two places away from us.

  “Is that why you brought me here?”

  “Nope. I brought you here because of the carbonara.”

  * * *

  After dinner Dylan drove me home and walked me to my door.

  “Would you like to come in?” I asked.

  “I would, but I better get back to Alex. She’s got ice-skating in the mo
rning.”

  I took out my key and unlocked the door, then turned back to him. “That was really nice tonight. Thank you.”

  “Would you like to go out to dinner again?”

  “No,” I said. “I think we should go out on a date instead.”

  He smiled. “A date it is.” I leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. “Good night, Dylan.”

  “Good night.”

  I started to walk in, then turned back. “There have been a lot of storms in our lives, haven’t there?”

  He looked at me curiously. “Way too many.”

  I smiled. “Call me.” I went inside. It was the best time I’d had in months.

  CHAPTER seventeen

  You can never get a cup of tea large enough or a book long enough to suit me.

  —C. S. Lewis

  SATURDAY, NOVEMBER 7

  I woke up happy the next morning, the first time since I came to Utah. My dinner with Dylan had been unexpectedly pleasant. I hadn’t had much luck with men as of late. If I were being completely truthful, that extended to women as well. Maybe I just didn’t have much luck with people in general.

  I ran my four miles around the park, showered and dressed, then went to the bookstore. Wendy wasn’t expecting me, being Saturday, and she already had enough help, but I had nowhere else to be and the store was crowded, so I decided to stay.

  Later that afternoon during a short break in traffic, I asked Wendy, “What do you think of selling coffee?”

  “Is this like a Zen question, or does this have something to do with the bookstore?”

  “I’ll be more precise,” I said. “What do you think of putting a café in our bookstore? Just look at that crummy coffee shop on the corner of Seventh. The Daily Grind. The only thing worse than their name is their coffee, but they’ve got a line that goes around the block every morning. Plus, I think it would class the place up, from bookseller to barista.”

  “Your father hated the idea.”

  “I know, but what do you think of it?”

  “We would have to take out at least three bookcases to do it. What it comes down to is, books or coffee?”