The Mistletoe Inn

by Richard Paul Evans

  The crowd again applauded. As she walked away, the room lights went up and the Christmas music came back on. We all stood and began filing out to our workshops.

  “I hate that woman,” Samantha said.

  “She’s just trying to keep things running smoothly,” I said.

  “She doesn’t have to be such a witch about it.”

  “Where does your group meet?” I asked.

  “Probably in the men’s room.”

  “Give it a chance,” I said. “After the workshop I’m going to the presentation on How Not to Get an Agent. How about you?”

  “I wrote that down too,” Samantha said. “Want to get lunch after?”

  “Sure.”

  “All right. Wish me luck.”

  “Good luck,” I said.

  “I’m going to need it,” she grumbled as she walked away.

  CHAPTER

  Fourteen

  It turns out that the ship I passed in the night was headed to the same port. Actually, the same harbor.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  My workshop was in a small conference room near the grand ballroom. There were a dozen chairs arranged in an oval, and one was occupied by a pleasant-looking woman with gray hair. She wore a name badge with a gold presenter’s ribbon. I guessed her to be our group’s facilitator.

  “Welcome,” she said with a slight southern accent as several of us walked in. “This is group C. C as in Calhoun, Carlyle, Carroll, and Collodi. C as in cash cow. If you’re in the right place, please take a seat in the circle.”

  I sat down next to the facilitator, and she began checking our name tags against a list on a clipboard. The only person in the room whom I recognized was Heather, one of the two women I had talked to at the opening reception. She glanced at me and sort of waved. I sort of waved back.

  After nearly all the chairs were filled, a man, the only man in our group so far, stepped into the room. To my embarrassment, he was the same man I had seen in the exercise room that morning—the one who had helped me up after my fall.

  “Excuse me, is this group C?” he asked from the doorway.

  Our facilitator nodded. “Yes, this is C. And what’s your name?” she asked, checking her clipboard.

  “Zeke,” he said. “But I’m not on your list. Jill just told me to come here.”

  She looked back up. “Jill’s the boss. Would you mind shutting the door behind you?”

  “Not at all,” he said. He pulled the door shut, then came over to the circle. As he took the last vacant chair, I noticed several other women checking him out—some, like Heather, more obviously than others. He didn’t seem to notice.

  “All right,” our facilitator said. “My name is Karen Mitchell, and I will be facilitating this workshop every morning of the retreat. First, a little about me. I worked as an editor for Simon & Schuster Adult Division for about five years before I left to work for Avon, an imprint of HarperCollins, where I work today. What I plan to do with you in this workshop is similar to what I do for my published authors every day.”

  As she spoke I noticed that an older woman seated across from me kept leaning forward, as if she was having trouble hearing. Then I saw that she wore hearing aids in both ears.

  “Before we begin, we’re going to be together for a few days, so I think we should get to know each other a little better.”

  “Excuse me,” I said to Karen.

  Karen turned to me, looking slightly annoyed by my interruption. “Yes?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I think this woman might be having trouble hearing.” I turned to the woman. “Would you like to change seats?”

  The woman nodded emphatically. “Yes,” she said, her speech slightly impaired. “I have difficulty hearing.”

  We both stood and as we exchanged seats the woman touched my arm. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome,” I said.

  As I sat down I noticed the man looking at me. He smiled approvingly.

  “Okay, writers, onward. As I was saying, I’d like to begin by getting to know all of you a little better. I know how writers like to talk, especially about themselves, so you can do that on your own time. Right now you have two minutes to tell us your name, how long you’ve been writing, what you’re working on now, and what you’re most proud of. And be aware,” she said, lifting her phone, “I will be timing you. Let’s begin with you, darlin’.” She nodded to the young woman at her left who wore granny glasses and a peach-colored dress that could have doubled as a tent. I pegged her as one of those sweet timid gals who wrote Amish love stories. She looked terrified.

  “Me?”

  “Yes, darlin’. Go right ahead.”

  Still nothing.

  “Is this your first writers’ retreat?” Karen prodded.

  She nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Let’s begin with your name.”

  For a moment I thought the woman might faint from fright. “I’m Marci,” she squeaked. “I’ve been writing for about fourteen years, ever since I was fifteen. I’m currently writing a book called Gone with the Sin. It’s kind of a naughty love story set during Civil War times.”

  Didn’t see that coming.

  “I don’t know if I’ll ever publish it. My father’s the pastor at the First Methodist Church of the Lamb in High Point, North Carolina. He wouldn’t be very happy with me if he read it.”

  “We’ll address that later,” Karen said. “And what are you most proud of?”

  “I don’t mean to boast, but I won a writing contest last year sponsored by the Lions Club.”

  “Very good,” Karen said. “Next . . .”

  Honestly I didn’t hear many of the other introductions as my mind was elsewhere. Actually it was mostly on elliptical guy who, unlike me, seemed very much interested in what everyone else had to say. When it was his turn to speak he looked around the group. It seemed to me that his gaze lingered a bit on me.

  “Okay, this feels like an AA meeting. Hi, my name is Zeke. I’m a writing addict.”

  The women to both sides of me giggled.

  “First, I have some advice for Marci. Daddy doesn’t need to know—that’s what noms de plume are for. As for my writing, all I really know about the book I’m working on right now is the price: twenty-four ninety-five in hardcover.”

  Everyone laughed again.

  “Oh . . . and what I’m most proud of is my eight years of sobriety.”

  Everyone clapped.

  “Thank you,” Karen said. “Hopefully by the end of our retreat you’ll have more of your book to share than a price.”

  “That would be remarkable,” he said.

  He glanced over at me and I smiled.

  The next two women to speak, Adele and Maureen, were friends who had come to the conference together. They were co-writing a paranormal romance about shark vampires who were, to quote Adele, “stud-muffin surfers by day, and toothy good-guy sharks by night who keep the waves safe.”

  When it was my turn to speak, my mouth went dry. “My name is Kim,” I said. “I’ve written just one book. I mean I’ve almost written it. It’s not completely finished, but I’ve already amassed an impressive collection of rejection letters.”

  A few people laughed.

  “It’s a Christmas romance called The Mistletoe Promise.”

  “Provocative title,” Karen said. “Tell us about it.”

  “It’s about a lonely woman who is recently divorced and has had a string of bad relationships. Then during the holidays, she’s approached by a man with a proposition: he doesn’t want to spend the holidays alone, so he proposes that they pretend to be a couple until December twenty-fourth. Since he’s a lawyer, he writes up a contract.”

  “Interesting premise,” Karen said. “I’ll be curious to see where you go with that.”

  “Me too,” I said.

  This time almost everyone laughed, even though I hadn’t meant to be funny. I glanced over at Zeke. He was looking at me, but I couldn’t read
his expression.

  After we finished going around the circle Karen said, “Okay, we’re just about out of time. When we meet tomorrow I’m going to have you read a passage from your writing, so pick something that you feel comfortable sharing, hopefully something from the book you’re currently working on.

  “Also, here at the Mistletoe retreat, we believe in the buddy system. So before we break today I want each of you to find a writing buddy, someone from this group, to work with for the next six days. This buddy is someone you will share your writing with and get a little constructive criticism from before sharing with the rest of us.

  “There’s an odd number of people in the room, so one of the groups will need to be a threesome, in a strictly nonromantic sense. Since Adele and Maureen are working on the same book, I suggest that the two of you find someone to join you. We have five minutes before we dismiss, so please don’t leave until you’ve found a buddy. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  We all stood, looking around at each other. Adele and Maureen quickly cornered Marci and I noticed Heather moving in on Zeke when he walked up to me. “It’s Kim, right?”

  He didn’t really need to ask, as I was wearing a name tag.

  I always get a little tongue-tied around handsome men. “Yes. I’m Kim.”

  “Zeke,” he said. “I’m the guy from the gym . . .” When I didn’t say anything he said, “I helped you when you fell . . .”

  “I remember.”

  “You’re okay, right?”

  “Yeah. I probably won’t need surgery.”

  He smiled. “Good. Would you like to be my writing buddy?” Before I could answer he added, “If you had someone else in mind, it’s all right. No pressure.”

  I brushed a strand of hair back from my face. “No. I’d like that. Thank you for asking.”

  “Very good,” he said. “I thought the premise of your book sounded really interesting.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “And I thought the price of your book sounded very . . . reasonable.”

  He laughed. “I hope so. So I guess our next step is we should plan a time to get together.”

  “I was just going to my next seminar, but we could meet for lunch.” Then I remembered that I had already committed to lunch with Samantha. “Oh wait. I already promised a friend that I’d meet her.”

  “Later, then?”

  “No, why don’t you join us? I’m sure she won’t mind. We’ll be in the dining room.”

  “Great,” he said. “Then I’ll see you around noon. I’m looking forward to working together.”

  As he turned and walked off I noticed a few of the women looking at me. Heather looked utterly dejected.

  Lucky me, I thought.

  CHAPTER

  Fifteen

  The gorgeous man asked to be my writing partner. What critic is it within me that automatically questions his motives or judgment?

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  The next presentation on my schedule was titled How Not to Get an Agent. The presenter was Laurie Liss, one of the principals of Sterling Lord Literistic, a New York literary agency. Liss’s claim to fame, among other things, was discovering an unknown, first-time author named Robert James Waller, who wrote a book called The Bridges of Madison County, which not only made Waller a kajillion dollars but helped catapult Liss to the big time and earn her a coronation from the New York Times as The Queen of Schmaltz.

  The truth was I hadn’t sent my book to an agent out of ignorance. An agent, I thought, was just another hurdle I could bypass by going directly to the publisher, not realizing that I was in effect dooming my chances, as publishers rarely look at unsolicited manuscripts.

  There were about forty other people at the presentation and Samantha and I took our seats near the front of the room. Liss revealed what she called Liss’s List, a list of don’ts when trying to find an agent. I scrawled down the five things that drove Ms. Liss “insane.”

  1. Don’t tell me that your husband/wife/mother/etc. thinks your book is fantastic. Big surprise: they’re either biased or don’t want to hurt your feelings and probably both.

  2. Don’t offer me a bribe, especially a portion of the enormous amount of money you’re going to make off your book. I’ll just hang up on you. I take a percentage anyway.

  3. Don’t send me a photo. I don’t care what you look like. The other agents in the firm will hang it up on our bulletin board and draw on it with a Sharpie.

  4. Don’t ever slip pages under a bathroom stall. I will be so offended that you disregarded my privacy that I will use your pages as toilet paper, or at least send them down the toilet and probably clog it, making a huge mess of the bathroom. And yes, this really happened.

  5. Don’t ever claim to be the “next big thing.” You don’t know that. I don’t know that. No one knows that. It’s presumptuous and embarrassing for you.

  As we walked out of the session Samantha said, “I wonder if she’d be my agent.”

  “I thought she was kind of snarky.”

  “A good agent needs to be snarky,” Samantha said. “The snarkier the better. In the publishing world you swim with the snarks.”

  “At least you know what not to do to get her,” I said. “Don’t follow her into the bathroom.”

  “How much do you want to bet that someone will still do that at this conference?”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” I said. “We are a desperate lot.”

  “I just wish she had told us the five things we should do.”

  “Number one should be write a good book,” I said. “I’m hungry, let’s get some lunch.”

  We returned to the same dining room where we’d had breakfast. I recognized several people from my workshop.

  “There’s John Grisham,” I said.

  “He’s not really Grisham,” Samantha said.

  “Yeah, I know that,” I said. “I’m just not so sure that he does.”

  We found an empty table near one of the windows and put our bags on it, then went over to the buffet table. The day’s main courses were chicken cordon bleu, sausage lasagna, and vegetarian lasagna. I opted for the chicken and Caesar salad.

  I gave the woman at the cash register one of my conference meal vouchers and went back to our table. Samantha was already eating.

  “How was your workshop group?” I asked. “As bad as you thought?”

  “I’ve decided the F stands for freaks,” she said. “Just about everyone but me is into paranormal romance. But it was okay. They gave us playing cards to pair us up with writing buddies.” She took a bite of food and I waited for her to finish chewing to continue. “I drew the queen of hearts, which I figured was a good omen. How about you? Did they pair you up with someone?”

  “Yes. But we picked our own buddies.”

  “Did you have any men in your group?”

  “Just one,” I said.

  “We didn’t have any. He wasn’t that one guy, was he?”

  “Which guy?”

  “You know, the hot one who’s got the whole Clooney thing going? Handsome, cool glasses, a little older.”

  “You mean Zeke?” I said.

  “You know his name?”

  “He’s in my group. And I met him earlier in the gym.”

  “I want to meet Zeke.”

  I cut into my chicken. “You will.”

  Samantha looked impressed. “I love your optimism. It’s quantum physics—you make your own reality. Just throw it out to the universe and it’s going to materialize.”

  “In this case it’s going to materialize sooner than you think. He’s going to be joining us for lunch. He’s my workshop buddy.”

  Samantha looked at me incredulously. “Clooney’s your workshop buddy.”

  “He’s not Clooney, but yes.”

  “I told you I was in the wrong group. The closest thing to a man in our group was this one chick who writes werewolf love stories. She looked like one of them.”

  “Like a man or a werewolf?”
r />   “Both.”

  “That’s mean,” I said. “And here’s Zeke now. Watch your tongue.”

  Zeke walked directly up to our table, his hands in his pockets. “Hi.”

  “Hi,” I returned. “Zeke, this is my friend Samantha. Samantha, this is Zeke.”

  Samantha just stared at him. “You can call me Sam,” she said.

  “But Samantha is prettier,” he replied.

  “Samantha’s good,” she said.

  Zeke turned back to me. “Still all right if I join you?”

  Before I could answer Samantha said, “Please.”

  “Thank you.” He pulled out a chair and sat down.

  “Did you want to get some food?” I asked.

  “What are we eating?”

  “I’m having the chicken cordon bleu. It’s good.”

  “It looks good. I’ll be right back.” He stood and walked toward the buffet tables. Samantha’s eyes were glued to him the whole way.

  “He’s better looking than Clooney,” she said.

  “No one’s better looking than Clooney. Why do you say that?”

  “Clooney’s not real. Who knows how much of what you see is Photoshop.”

  “He’s a movie star. You can’t Photoshop movies.”

  “Of course you can. It’s called special effects.”

  “Clooney isn’t a special effect.”

  “He has a special effect on me.”

  I grinned. “You’re insane.”

  Zeke returned a few minutes later with a plate of lasagna and vegetables. As he sat down I said, “You changed your mind about the chicken.”

  “You didn’t tell me there was lasagna. I love Italian.”

  “Kim’s Italian,” Samantha said.

  I wanted to slap her. Zeke just smiled. As he raised a fork to his mouth, Samantha asked, “Where are you from?”

  He put his fork down. “I’m originally from Alexandria, Virginia. But more recently I live in Florida.”

  “Florida,” Samantha said. “Beautiful beaches, beautiful weather.”

  “If you don’t mind an occasional hurricane,” Zeke said.