The Mistletoe Inn

by Richard Paul Evans

  “They’re tortured in the Ministry of Love?”

  “It’s newspeak,” he said. “Kind of like American society today. Did you read the book?”

  “In middle school, but apparently I’ve forgotten it.” As I took out my card key I said, “And I am facing one of my greatest fears. I just hope you don’t hate my book.”

  “I’m not going to hate your book,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “I read the first paragraph.”

  “You can tell if a book’s good by the first paragraph?”

  “No. But I can tell if a writer’s good by the first paragraph.”

  I cocked my head. “You’re acting very confident for an unpublished author.”

  He smiled. “You don’t have to be a chef to know if the food’s good.”

  “Touché,” I said.

  “I’ll make you two promises. First, I promise that I will withhold all judgment until I’ve read the entire book. Second, I promise that I will be completely honest with you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I think.” I pondered what he’d said a moment, then added, “I’m not sure that I want that.”

  “Trust me, you do,” he said. “And remember, I also promised to be gentle.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  He looked into my eyes, then said softly, “Thank you for having dinner with me. You’re very lovely.”

  I suddenly felt a little flustered. “Thank you. So did you.”

  A large smile spread across his face. “I better go. I might be up all night reading.” There was an awkward pause, and I hoped that he would kiss me. Instead he put out his hand. “Good night.”

  I took his hand trying not to show my disappointment. “Good night. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  With my manuscript in his hands, he turned and walked away. I went inside my room and lay down on my bed. You’re very lovely. Thank you. So did you? That doesn’t make any sense. Then I said out loud, “Please like me anyway.” I couldn’t believe that I had only met him that morning. I remembered a line I had read in one of Cowell’s books: Love takes shortcuts. It certainly had. Then I had a strange thought. Is there really such a thing as a soul mate? If not, why do I feel like I’ve met him before?

  CHAPTER

  Eighteen

  I feel like I’ve stepped over the edge of a cliff.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  The next morning Zeke wasn’t in the fitness center and I wondered if he had really stayed up reading my book. My fears started in on me. What if he hated my book and was now avoiding me? I shook my head. Why do I always torture myself with the worst possible outcome?

  Coming back from the fitness center, I stopped in the dining room. I was running late and Samantha wasn’t there, so I grabbed a banana and yogurt and took it back to my room to get ready for the day. An hour later I walked into the workshop anticipating seeing Zeke, but he wasn’t there either. He still hadn’t arrived when our facilitator started the meeting.

  “Let’s see, who are we missing?” Karen asked, looking at her list. “Zeke is AWOL. Who is Zeke’s writing buddy?”

  Almost everyone looked at me.

  “I am,” I said, slightly raising my hand. “But I haven’t seen him this morning.”

  “Today we’re sharing, so you’ll need to pair up with another group,” she said.

  “You can come with us,” Heather said.

  I tried to look grateful for the invitation. “Thanks.”

  I had nothing to share. I had only brought three copies of my book, two for the agents and now Zeke had my third, so I spent the entire workshop listening to Heather and her writing buddy, an eighty-year-old woman, read chapter after chapter of the most cloying love stories ever penned and feigning interest. I was glad when the workshop was over.

  As I walked out of the room Samantha was waiting for me, her face twisted with disgust. “I can’t even begin to tell you how much I hate my workshop group. I swear they’re all freaks.”

  “And why is this?”

  “They spent the whole session arguing over who kisses better, a vampire or a werewolf. What they finally decided was that a vampire is good with its mouth and sucking, where the werewolf is in touch with its inner animal.” She breathed out. “What do you think?”

  I tried not to smile. “I think it comes down to whether you like hairy men or smooth ones.”

  “Good point,” she said. “I should have said that. Walter isn’t hairy at all. Like, my writing buddy is hairier than he is.”

  “Isn’t your writing buddy a woman?”

  “That’s my point,” she said. “I missed you at breakfast this morning.”

  “Sorry. I was running late so I just grabbed something and took it to my room.”

  “I thought maybe you’d run off with Clooney.”

  “No. I don’t even know where he is today. He skipped the workshop.”

  “He wasn’t in your workshop?”

  “No.”

  “But you did have dinner last night?”

  “Yes.”

  “And how did that go?”

  “It was nice.”

  “By ‘nice’ do you mean Walmart greeter nice or Brad Pitt nice?”

  “What are you asking?”

  “I’ll spell it out. Are. You. In. Love?”

  I stared at her. “I just met him yesterday.”

  “And your point is . . .”

  “My point is, I just met him yesterday.”

  She shook her head. “Seriously, you’re a romance writer. If you don’t believe in love at first sight, you might as well turn in your pen. Did you give him your book?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled triumphantly. “I knew it.”

  “You knew what? He’s my workshop partner. I was supposed to give it to him.”

  “Giving him your book is like standing naked in front of him.”

  “I didn’t stand naked in front of him.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  I shook my head. “You’re going to drive me crazy,” I said. “Let’s go. There’s a session on the roles of men and women in modern romance.”

  “Yeah, you should definitely go to that one,” she said.

  In spite of my denial, Samantha was right on two accounts. First, she’d detected that giddy, butterflies-in-the-stomach feeling I couldn’t shake. Second, what Samantha had said about sharing my book was true. I felt naked and vulnerable and afraid. I wished I hadn’t given it to him. I wasn’t looking forward to his critique.

  CHAPTER

  Nineteen

  Today’s lecture on gender roles reminded me of a quote from Camille Paglia: “Woman is the dominant sex. Men have to do all sorts of stuff to prove that they are worthy of woman’s attention.” I wish I found that more true in my life.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  The session on gender roles in modern romance was more interesting than I thought it would be. The presenter challenged the notion that a romance novel should be about helpless women and dominating men. Instead she proposed that in the true romance, it is the female who subjugates and tames the male by exposing his vulnerabilities. She quoted romance novelist Jayne Ann Krentz as saying, “the woman always wins. With courage, intelligence, and gentleness she brings the most dangerous creature on earth, the human male, to his knees.”

  I wished that had happened in my real life. It seemed like I was always the one who ended up broken.

  Samantha and I had lunch together, then I went back to my room to rest a little before the next session. I noticed that the message light on my phone was flashing.

  “Kim, it’s Zeke. Sorry I missed you. If you don’t have plans, I’d love to get together again for dinner. You can call my room, it’s number . . .” He hesitated. “Actually, I don’t know if this room has a number. Just call the hotel operator and ask for me. Bye.”

  I pushed zero on the phone. The operator answered. “How may I help you, Ms. Rossi?”<
br />
  “Could you please connect me with Mr. Zeke Faulkner?”

  “Do you know what room number that is?”

  “No, sorry.”

  “Just a moment, please.” There was a long pause. “Here you go. Have a good day.”

  Zeke answered on the third ring. “Hello.”

  “Zeke? It’s Kim.”

  “Good, you got my message. Thank you for calling.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’d love to go to dinner again.”

  “Excellent,” he replied.

  “I missed you in workshop today. Busy with work?”

  “No, I was in my room reading your book.”

  “Really?”

  “I told you that I would. I’m just about finished. So what are you doing before dinner?”

  “Samantha and I are going to the Catherine McCullin speech.”

  “I saw that she’s here. Mind if I tag along?”

  “Of course not. I’ll meet you in the lobby.”

  Catherine McCullin’s presentation was the final session of the afternoon. I met Samantha standing outside the ballroom. “I saved us seats,” she said.

  “Zeke’s joining us,” I said. “So we’ll need one extra.”

  “You found Clooney?”

  “He called,” I said.

  “Good, and no problem with the seats. I already saved us three.”

  “Why did you save three?”

  “I didn’t want anyone sitting next to me,” she replied. “But I’m okay with Clooney.”

  “Why don’t you go ahead and sit down and I’ll wait for Zeke,” I said.

  “All right. We’re in the front row, left of center.”

  “How do you get such good seats?”

  “I’m aggressive,” she said, walking to the ballroom.

  Less than a minute later, Zeke walked out of the elevator. He smiled when he saw me. “Hey, beautiful.” He kissed me on the cheek. “Thank you for letting me join you.”

  “I’m glad you are. Samantha’s already inside with our seats.” I desperately wanted to ask him if he’d finished my book but decided to wait for him to bring it up.

  As we walked together into the ballroom I asked, “Have you ever read one of McCullin’s books?”

  Zeke shook his head. “No. Fictionalized Hollywood gossip isn’t really my thing. I’m not interested in the real stuff, why would I want a fictionalized version? How about you?”

  “I’m the same. I’ve only read one of her books. It was my first and last.”

  We found Samantha in the front of the room and sat down.

  “Did you know McCullin has sold more than a hundred million books?” Samantha said to us. “I want to be her.”

  “Be careful of what you wish for,” Zeke said softly.

  Everyone went wild when McCullin came out onstage. Her speech was titled The Limousine Lifestyle of the Bestselling Author and consisted mostly of name-dropping and celebrity gossip until the end of her talk, when she focused on personal spending sprees that included a $10,000 laser haircut, a $218,000 pair of high heels shoes with thirty carats of diamonds, and a very long story about the time she made her pool boy fill her hot tub with Perrier because she liked the feel of its “effervescence on her skin.”

  “It took more than two thousand of those quart bottles,” she said. “He drained every 7-Eleven, Safeway, and Walmart between Beverly Hills and Burbank.”

  Everyone in the audience seemed amused by McCullin’s anecdotes. I was bothered by them. Successful or not, she wasted more than six thousand dollars on soaking in tingly water while my father, who had worked hard his whole life, couldn’t get the health care he needed. The more she went on with her stories the more I wanted to walk out of the session. I glanced over at Zeke. He didn’t look happy either.

  After her speech was over the house lights went up while McCullin was still on the stage, thronged by the local press as well as conference attendees wanting her autograph.

  “That was something,” Zeke said dully. I nodded in agreement.

  As we were crossing in front of the stage, McCullin suddenly turned toward us and shouted, “Zeke, baby. Call me.”

  Zeke gave her a short wave but continued on with the flow of the crowd. I looked at him with amazement. When we got outside I said, “You know her?”

  “The impressive thing,” Samantha said, “is that she knows him.”

  Zeke looked uncomfortable. “Not really; we met at a writers’ conference a while back.” He looked at me. “It’s nothing.”

  I was still a bit stunned. “You met at a writers’ conference and she remembers you?”

  “So, I’m unforgettable.”

  “Did you see her diamond ring?” Samantha asked. “It covered like three knuckles. I don’t know how she could lift her hand with that rock on.” She turned to Zeke. “Would you introduce me to her?”

  “I’d rather not,” he replied. “She’s not exactly . . . cordial.”

  “She seemed cordial to you,” Samantha said.

  “He means to the little people,” I said.

  Samantha frowned.

  “So, what did Mr. Unforgettable think of her presentation?” I asked.

  Zeke scratched his head. “She’s an entertaining speaker, but I’m not a fan of conscienceless excess. There are millions of people in this world who can’t find healthy drinking water, and she’s joking about bathing in Perrier.”

  I was glad that he felt the same way that I did. “I know, right? And $200,000 shoes? I’d pay my father’s hospital bills. And others’.”

  “I know you would,” he said.

  “Do you think she really did those things?” Samantha asked.

  Zeke nodded. “Yes. I’m sure she did.”

  I excused myself and went back to my room to freshen up, then met Zeke in the waiting area of the hotel’s dining room. Again we didn’t have to wait to get a table. In fact, we sat at the exact same table as the night before.

  “Why don’t we have to wait like everyone else?” I asked.

  “I tipped the hostess,” he said. “They must not get paid much.”

  “I’m not complaining,” I said.

  As he pulled out my chair for me, I said, “I’m still a little shocked that Catherine McCullin knows you.”

  “I’m sure she knows a lot of people.”

  “But she asked you to call her, which means she thinks you have her phone number.” I looked at him. “Do you?”

  “You’re not going to let up on this, are you?” he asked.

  I shook my head.

  “We had dinner once. But, like you said about her books, first and last time.”

  “I’m impressed. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”

  “That’s true of everyone,” he said. “There’s always more to the book than the cover. Even a bad book.”

  “Are you a bad book?” I asked flippantly.

  To my surprise he turned serious. “There are better books on the shelf.” He lifted his menu. “Now what will you be having?”

  A few minutes later, the waiter came and took our orders. I ordered a salmon salad and Zeke ordered the prime rib with sweet potatoes.

  After the waiter left I leaned forward in my seat. “So what do you think of my book?”

  “I’m still reading it.”

  “But what do you think of it so far?”

  “I’m not going to tell you until I read the final word. You wouldn’t judge A Farewell to Arms until the last page, would you?”

  “If Hemingway asked me what I thought of the first chapter, I’d tell him. Just tell me if you like what you’ve read so far.”

  “I’ll tell you this. You can definitely write. That’s all I’ll say for now.”

  I took a deep breath. “Fair enough.” I took a drink of wine. “I had this thought today. There’s more than a hundred writers here. There’s probably a hundred more of these conferences around the country. I’m guessing that less than one in ten thousand will eve
r make a living writing, which means our odds are better in Vegas.”

  “That’s not hopeful,” Zeke said.

  “I’m just being realistic,” I said. “So what if what we write is never published?”

  Zeke’s expression took on an exaggerated gravity. “If an author writes a book and it’s never published, did the book exist?”

  “I’m being serious,” I said. “Sometimes I wonder why we bother to write at all.”

  Zeke looked suddenly thoughtful. “John Updike said, ‘We’re past the age of heroes and hero kings. . . . Most of our lives are basically mundane and dull, and it’s up to the writer to find ways to make them interesting.’ ” He looked into my eyes. “Writing is life. Sometimes it’s all that remains of civilizations.

  “Do you know where the oldest writings were found? On tortoise shells. The Chinese carved histories into tortoise shells, then broke them for divination. We know of their wars and strivings from tortoise shells. From their writings. We write, therefore we are.”

  “I like your brain,” I said.

  He leaned forward and smiled. “Me too.”

  A few minutes later our waiter brought out our food, which was again delicious. We ate for a while, then I said, “There’s something I’ve been wondering.”

  He looked up from his meal. “Yes?”

  “Why did you pick me as your partner?”

  “I told you. I thought your book sounded interesting.”

  I was hoping for more. “That’s the only reason?”

  He looked at me for a moment, then said, “No. When I first saw you in the fitness center I hoped that you were with the romance writers. I wanted to get to know you better. Call it chemistry.”

  “In school I was good at chemistry.”

  “Clearly.”

  “And then we ended up in the same workshop,” I said. “That was a nice coincidence.”

  “It wasn’t a coincidence,” he said.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I wasn’t supposed to be in group C. I changed because that’s where you were.”