“Just a moment.” He fanned through a pile of papers, then stopped on one. He looked over the paper, presumably his notes on my book, then back up at me with a stern, tense expression. “Your book is The Mistletoe Promise?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Is this the first book you’ve written?”
“Yes, sir. Can you tell?”
He just nodded slowly as he looked back down at his summary. He hesitated a moment, then said, “Obviously with our time constraints, I’m prohibited from giving you a complete evaluation of your work, but let me say this—I love the concept of your book, but there are two things that would keep it from selling to a publisher.
“First, your character development needs improvement. Specifically, your characters are too perfect. No one’s going to relate to someone that Pollyannaish. They need some skeletons in their closets, if you know what I mean.” He gazed at me, waiting for a response.
“I think so.”
“Second, I’m just not feeling it.”
I just looked at him for a moment, then said, “You’re not feeling . . . what?”
“The passion,” he said, gesturing with his hand. “The ‘it.’ I think you’re holding back, and you need to dig deeper. No one wants to read about a perfect life. There’s no interest in the mundane. The masses of readers buy romances because they want to see flawed people healed by love, you know what I mean?” Again he skewered me with his gaze.
“Someone told me that last night.”
“Well, you should listen to her. My feeling is, you can write, but I think you can do better than this. This novel almost feels like you’re faking the emotion. You need to take it up a few notches.” He took a business card out of his pocket and handed it to me. “I’m going to do something I rarely do. Here’s my contact information. Do not share this with anyone at this conference. You can send me your manuscript after you’ve fixed it, and I’ll give it another read. Like I said, I think you’ve got a great concept, and I think you have talent. If you’re able to make the changes I recommended, I might be able to do something with it.” He glanced down at his watch. “We’re out of time.”
I put the card in my purse, then slowly stood. “Thank you,” I said.
“Don’t mention it. Good luck.”
My next agent meeting was less encouraging but not dissimilar in tone. The agent was a woman named Rachel Bestor. She was a former editor for Hay House turned romance agent.
“It’s not doing anything for me,” she said bluntly. “Your protagonist, this Elise woman, she’s like a Girl Scout. Throw some dirt on her. Or show us her dirt. You’re not a bad writer, but this book doesn’t prove it.”
I walked away from the meetings more upset that I had wasted my father’s money than bothered by what the agents had to say. They had, essentially, told me the exact same things that Zeke had, yet I hadn’t blown up at them. And Zeke was much nicer about it.
I guess, in my heart, I knew that what Zeke was saying was true. Suddenly I understood why I had been so hurt by him. Deep inside I wasn’t listening for his critique of my book, I was listening for his critique of me. I never should have confused the two.
After meeting with the agents I felt obligated to call my father, which, as much as I dreaded it, I did the moment I got back to my room.
“How’s the conference?” he asked.
“Good,” I said. “I met with the agents today.”
“How did it go?”
“It wasn’t what I hoped. They weren’t interested in representing my book. I’m sorry I wasted your money.”
“Did they give you any hope of being published?”
“They both said I was a good writer. I mean, maybe they say that to everyone, but they seemed sincere.”
“How are you handling it?”
“You know how badly I handle rejection. How are you doing?”
“Hanging in there,” he said. “I’ve been feeling pretty tired. I had to cancel the motorcycle ride.”
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s just for now. I’ll get that surgery and be back in the saddle. And that’s what I expect of you. Get back in the saddle. I didn’t raise a quitter.”
I suddenly felt like a little girl again. “All right, Dad.”
“Other than this speed bump, have you had a good time? Have you learned anything?”
“It’s been a good conference. It’s been fun.”
“Have you made any new friends?”
“A few.”
“That’s good. You could use some new friends.” After a moment of silence he said, “You know I believe in you.”
“I know. Thanks, Dad. I’ll talk to you soon. I love you.”
“I love you more,” he said. Before hanging up he threw out once more, “Get back in the saddle.”
The moment I hung up I dialed the hotel operator.
“Hello, Ms. Rossi. How may I help you?”
“Could you connect me with one of your guests, please?”
“Of course, which room?”
“I don’t know his room number. It’s Zeke Faulkner.”
“Faulkner,” she repeated. “Just a moment, please.”
The phone rang at least half a dozen times before Zeke answered. “Hello.” He sounded a little groggy, as if he’d been napping.
“Zeke, it’s Kim.”
“Hi,” he said cautiously.
“Did I wake you?”
“Yes.”
“I met with the agents today.”
He was quiet for a moment, then obligingly asked, “How did it go?”
“They said what you did.”
He said nothing, which was even worse than an “I told you so.”
I took a deep breath and pressed on. “I called to say I’m sorry about how I acted last night. And today. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you’re willing . . . may we go to dinner tonight? I’ll pay . . . Or maybe we could just talk.”
He still said nothing.
I sat there for a moment in silence, then said, “All right. I know you want to punish me, and I deserve it. But please don’t. Please?”
I heard him breathe out.
“Okay, I’ll say it. I’m an idiot and I’m not as smart as you. And I’m overly emotional. Is that what you want to hear?”
He exhaled. “No. That’s not what I wanted to hear. I would never say those things. Good night, Kim.”
“Good night,” I said weakly.
I slowly hung up the phone, hating myself. A dark little voice inside of me said, You sabotage everything. No wonder nobody wants you. You deserve to be alone for the rest of your life.
CHAPTER
Twenty-three
The problem with the past is that too often yesterday’s lessons were meant for yesterday’s problems.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
I tried to read but instead I mostly just lay on the bed and cried for the next half hour until my phone rang. I crawled over and answered it.
“Hello.”
“All right,” Zeke said softly. “Let’s talk.”
I wiped back my tears. “Okay. Where?”
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in five minutes. Bring your coat.”
I stood waiting in the lobby for what seemed a long time, wondering if he’d changed his mind. Then he came out of the elevator. He walked up to me, looking solemn but not angry. “Come,” he said. He took my hand and led me toward the front doors. “Let’s go for a walk.”
We walked away from the inn down the long, rutted drive, lit by the sparkling yellow-white lights of wrapped evergreens. The stars were bright above us and the night air was freezing and moist. We had walked maybe fifty yards when I said, “I’m really sorry.”
“Why are you sorry?” he asked.
I didn’t know if he was really asking or if he was making me own up to my bad behavior. “I was mean to you. You were only trying to help.”
He nodded. “I was trying to help.”
“T
he agents said the exact same thing you did. Only you were kinder.” I looked at him. “How did you know what they’d say?”
“It’s always easier to critique from the outside,” he said. “You would have seen it if it wasn’t your own book.” His voice seemed lighter. Forgiving.
“I feel so embarrassed.”
“No one wants to hear criticism. I don’t.”
I swallowed. “I don’t think I was really angry about the book.”
“I know.”
I looked at him quizzically. “How did you know?”
“Because every book is about its author. You felt attacked by me, even though I wasn’t attacking you. You were fighting shadows.”
I looked into his eyes. “What does my book say about me?”
“You’re writing about a fake romance, one in which the characters draw up a contract to define the relationship.” He looked into my eyes. “You’ve been hurt and you want a guarantee that you won’t be hurt again.”
I just nodded.
“It’s understandable,” he continued. “You’re afraid to put your hand back on the stove. That’s not weakness, that’s intelligence. But wisdom is knowing that we need love and knowing when it’s safe and whom to trust.”
“It seems like it’s never safe,” I said.
“I know,” he said softly. “But it’s an illusion. The thing is, we use past relationships like maps to navigate new ones. But it doesn’t work that way, because every human, every relationship is different. It’s like trying to use a map of Las Vegas to get around Vermont. It won’t work. That’s why so many people get lost.” He looked at me. “I don’t know everything that’s happened to you in your life, but I think there’s more to your hurts than your divorce and failed engagements. I think there’s something deeper you’re afraid of.”
I stopped walking and looked at him. “What’s that?”
He looked deeply into my eyes, then said, “I think you doubt that you’re worthy of love.”
For a while I couldn’t speak. I was afraid to look at him. When I finally did he was looking at me lovingly. “Let me tell you something I want you to never forget.” He leaned forward until our faces were inches apart, then I closed my eyes as he pulled me into him and kissed me. When we finally parted I was breathless. He said to me, “No matter what anyone says or does, you are worthy of love. You always have been. You always will be. And I’m safe for you. You can trust me.”
Then he pulled me back into him. As we kissed, tears rolled down my cheeks. I had never felt so loved.
CHAPTER
Twenty-four
My life has been filled with surprises. Far too few of them were welcome.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The next morning Zeke knocked on my door around nine. I opened it wearing an oversized T-shirt and my sexiest pink sweatpants.
“Good morning,” I said, the smile from the night before still lingering.
He leaned forward and we kissed. “What are you doing today?” he asked.
“More of this, I hope.”
He smiled. “I meant the conference. Is there anything you can’t miss?”
“That depends on the offer.”
“I thought we’d spend the day together. I want to take you somewhere.”
“Somewhere?”
He nodded. “Somewhere.”
“I have to get dressed.”
“Okay. But hurry.”
“Why do I need to hurry?”
“Because we have a very tight schedule to keep.”
“Can I have a half hour?”
“I can give you twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ll be in the lobby. And dress warm.”
“I’ll hurry,” I said.
Fifteen minutes later I walked out into the lobby. Zeke was standing next to the front doors checking his phone messages. He looked up at me and smiled. “That was fast.”
“Where are you taking me?” I asked, offering him my hand.
“Someplace Christmasy,” he said.
“I don’t like Christmas.”
“I know.”
“Is Christmasy even a word?”
“If you understood it, it’s a word.”
“Really, where are we going?”
“Remember what I said last night about trust?”
“Yes.”
“This is where you show that you trust me.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’m all yours.”
Outside, a pristine, crystalline blanket of snow lay snugly across the grounds of the resort, shimmering beneath the morning sun. Zeke’s car was waiting for us just a few yards from the front doors. He retrieved the key from the valet, opened my door for me, then we sped away.
A half hour into our drive I asked, “Are we going back to Burlington?”
“Sort of.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we’re going to Burlington so we can leave Burlington.”
“Now I’m more confused.”
“We’re flying out.”
“Really?”
“You’ll enjoy this,” he said.
“I should have called Samantha,” I said. “She thinks we’re having lunch.”
He smiled.
We parked the car in the airport’s covered parking lot, then hurried through the terminal. As we approached the check-in counter, I said, “May I ask where we’re going besides someplace ‘Christmasy’?”
“Bethlehem.”
“Israel?”
“Bethlehem, Pennsylvania. Christmas City, USA.”
A half hour later we boarded the first-class section of the plane. We flew from Burlington into Newark, then took a smaller plane into ABE, the Lehigh Valley International Airport in Allentown, Pennsylvania. In all, our flights were less than three hours and we arrived at our destination around four in the afternoon.
“Let me tell you about Bethlehem,” Zeke said. “It was named Bethlehem on Christmas Eve 1741 before America was even a country. They have one of the most famous Christmas markets in America called the Christkindlmarkt. There’s music and shops, artisans, and really great food. I think you’re going to love it.”
We took a cab from Allentown and it was already starting to get dark as we pulled into the Christmas village in the center of the Bethlehem Historic District. The streets were beautifully lit for the season and crowded with tourists. In the center of the town we passed a massive Christmas tree.
As I got out of the taxi, my senses were assaulted by the sweet-smelling wares of the outdoor vendors—candied nuts, kettle corn, caramel-dipped fruits and chocolate—all sharing the crisp air with the sounds of school and church choirs and street musicians.
We stopped on one corner to listen to an elderly man dressed in army fatigues and a thick army jacket play “Winter Wonderland” on a saxophone. Zeke tipped him a twenty-dollar bill and the man was so pleased that he asked Zeke if he could play a request for his “lovely lady.” I asked him to play “Silver Bells,” which he did beautifully. Zeke gave him another twenty.
For dinner we stopped at a little German shop and had a meal of bratwurst with sauerkraut and cheese-beer soup, and to drink we had Glühwein, a delicious hot red wine seasoned with mulling spices and raisins.
I don’t know if it was more the wine or my heart, but I was intoxicated. The mood around the city matched the music inside of me and I felt jovial and festive and free. I hadn’t had that much fun for as long as I could remember. Especially not at Christmas.
For several hours we wandered among the booths of artisans, admiring their creations. We spent time watching a glassblower and Zeke bought me a glass ornament to commemorate the evening.
As the night waned it occurred to me that we wouldn’t be going back to Vermont. “Where are we staying tonight?”
“The Waldorf Astoria.”
“There’s a Waldorf Astoria in Bethlehem?”
“No. It’s in New York.”
“We’re spending the night in New York?�
�
“Have you ever been there?”
“No. I’ve always wanted to. When are we going back to the conference?”
“Tomorrow night,” he said. He smiled. “Don’t worry, you’ll be back in time to hear your beloved author and get your book signed.”
“You didn’t tell me we were spending the night. I don’t have anything to change into.”
“I think you might be able to find something to wear in New York,” he said. “I’ll take you to Saks Fifth Avenue as soon as they open.”
I looked at him. “Why are we going to New York?”
“It’s Christmasy,” he replied.
“Christmasy,” I repeated.
“You wrote about New York in your book. I thought you ought to at least go there and take some notes. It’s always better to see what you’re writing about. Otherwise you miss the details that really make a book. Like where we are now. Smell the air. What do you smell?”
I took in a deep breath. “Cinnamon and sugar, from the man over there making candied almonds. And I smell wassail.”
He smiled. “Details, details. Books are like life. It’s all in the details.”
Zeke had booked a sedan, a white-pearl Lincoln Town Car, to drive us to New York. I hated to leave Bethlehem, but I was excited to finally see Manhattan. The ride was about two hours but it didn’t seem that long. I wished it would have been longer. Much longer. The steel-gray leather-upholstered seat of the car was soft and spacious, and Zeke held me the entire way.
About forty minutes out of Manhattan we began to kiss and we didn’t stop until the car stopped on Park Avenue at the front doors of the Waldorf a little after midnight. The driver had to clear his throat to announce that we’d reached our destination. Zeke had the most delicious kisses.
I had wondered if Zeke had planned for us to share the same room, but I should have known better. He was a gentleman. Still, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed. We kissed some more, then said good night. After I closed the door to my room I thought of calling my father to tell him where I was, but I quickly decided against it. Based on my history with men, he’d want to know all about Zeke and he would probably hate him before he even knew him. I didn’t want my father to hate him.
The Mistletoe Inn Page 13
