The Mistletoe Inn (14 page)

“What do you mean,
if
he ends up coming?”

“Last night these women were telling us that he has a habit of missing events he's scheduled for.”

Zeke shook his head. “That's the first I've heard of that. What a cad.”

I looked at him. “Did you just call him a
cad
?”

“No.”

“Yes you did.”

“Is that even a word?” Samantha asked.

“It's a word,” Zeke said. “Archaic, but still wieldable.”

“No one says
cad
anymore,” I said.

“You're wrong, because I just did.”

“So you admit it.”

“I admit it,” he said. “Anyone, no matter how famous, who commits to an important event, then, barring some major emergency, doesn't show up, is a
cad
.”

“Yeah, you probably shouldn't meet him,” Samantha said. “He probably won't like being called a cad, whatever that is.”

“It would never happen,” Zeke said. ”Because if he does show up, he's not a cad.”

“He has a point,” Samantha said.

“I think you're just jealous,” I said.

Zeke thought for a moment, then said, “You're right, of course. We always throw stones upward, don't we?” He
turned to me. “It's easy to see why I
wouldn't
like him; men are always jealous of the other rooster in the coop. But the real question is, why do you like him so much? You were a loyal reader and he deserted you, along with millions of others.”

“It's his life,” I said. “It's not like he owed me anything. And his books helped me during a difficult time of my life.” I nodded slowly. “I look forward to seeing him. I just hope I'm not too disappointed.”

“I hope not too,” Zeke said. “I'd hate to see you waste all that money.”

“That would stink,” Samantha said.

“I'm also hoping that I might get the chance of getting him to sign something for me.”

“What is that?” Zeke asked.

“A first-edition copy of
The Tuscan Promise
.”

“You have one of those?”

I nodded. “I was one of the early readers. There were only five thousand of the first editions printed. I bought it for, like, fifteen dollars at the bookstore, but I saw a copy on eBay going for around nine thousand.”

“Nine thousand!” he said. “That's insane.”

“That's what it was going for.”

“You should sell it,” he said.

“I'm not going to sell it. To me it's worth more than the money.”

“You are a true fan,” Zeke said. “And for that reason alone I hope he shows.” He turned to Samantha. “What about you, Samantha? What brought you here?”

“A little of everything. Romance, Vermont in the winter, the energy of a writers' conference. But, mostly, Walt was driving me crazy. Frankly I would have gone to a basket-weaving class in Chernobyl to get away from him.”

“Who's Walt?” Zeke asked.

“No one,” she said, unconsciously leaning toward Zeke.

“He's her fiancé,” I said.

Samantha frowned at me.

“How is a fiancé ‘no one'?” Zeke asked.

“It's complicated,” Samantha said.

“Not really,” I said.

“No, not really,” she agreed.

Zeke smiled as he poked a fork into his lasagna, which I'm sure was cold by then. He took a bite, then asked me, “What's the rest of your day like?”

“Right after lunch I need to turn in my papers for the agent sessions on Thursday. The sign-up sheet in our packet said our introduction forms and manuscripts are due before one if we want the agents to review them.”

“I already turned mine in,” Samantha said.

“Did you sign up for an agent?” I asked Zeke.

“No. Not this time,” he said. “After you sign up, are you going to any more sessions?”

“I'm going to the Living the Dream presentation.”

Samantha said, “Isn't that the one by the guy who was calling himself John Grisham and hitting on us?”

“Yes, unfortunately.”

“Why are you going to that? He's a creep.”

“Yes, but he's a
published
creep,” I said. “So, as far as the
afternoon sessions, it's either Faux Grisham, Writing Paranormal Romance, or Exciting Punctuation, and I don't want to spend an hour learning about periods.”

“I hate periods,” Samantha said.

Zeke squinted. “What?”

“That's not what—” I stopped, too exasperated to explain. “Okay. Punctuation's out. And I don't care for the vampire-love-triangle stuff, so we're back to creepy John Grisham wannabe.”

“Well, I better come with you,” Samantha said.

I looked at Zeke. “Do you want to come? I don't think he'll hit on you.”

“Thank you, but no. I've got some phone calls to catch up on. When should we talk about your book?”

“What about
your
book?” I said.

“I'm not sure it can be saved,” he said. “How about we meet for dinner in the dining room at . . . seven.”

“Seven is perfect,” I said.

He turned to Samantha. “Should I make reservations for three?”

“No,” Samantha said, looking disappointed. “I promised my freaky writing buddy that I'd have dinner with her.”

“Then it's dinner for two at seven,” Zeke said to me. “Don't forget your manuscript. I'll meet you in the lobby.”

“I'll see you then.”

He got up and left. After he was gone, Samantha said, “Wow, you're totally into him.”

“What makes you think that?”

Samantha shook her head. “Because if your smile was any bigger, the top of your head would fall off.”

“Okay, I think he's gorgeous and very nice.” I frowned. “I hope I'm not that obvious.”

“You are,” she said. “It's a good thing he likes you too.”

“Why do you say that?”

“He was here, right? And he just asked you to dinner? Really, do you need a weatherman to tell you which way the wind blows?”

“Bob Dylan,” I said. “You really think he's interested in me?”

Samantha shook her head. “You think? How can a romance writer be so blind to romance?”

“I don't know. I do better in fiction than in real life.” I sighed. “All right, let's go. We don't want to keep John Grisham waiting.”

Bready's talk should have been titled:
Narcissism: How So Little Success Can Swell a Head
.

Like everyone else at the retreat, I was hoping to hear an inspirational talk about how someone like me could break into the publishing world. Instead Bready basically made it sound like I'd be better off buying a lottery ticket and praying for success. Actually, he almost used those exact words. He said, “To keep your expectations in perspective, submit your manuscript to a publisher, then buy a lottery ticket. Your chances of winning the lottery are better.”

He then went on to attribute his own immeasurable success not to luck but to perseverance, hard work, and remarkable talent. (Surprisingly he left off charm and humility.) Seriously, it was like he was using the same message he had used flirting with me, except this time with a room of eighty people, many of whom were growing visibly annoyed with his hubris. A few walked out before he was done.

A useful, but discouraging, thing I learned from his presentation was that finding a publisher was only the beginning of the process. “Getting published is like qualifying for
the Olympics,” he said. “You still need to compete, and only a handful of the competitors bring home medals.”

Halfway through his speech he rediscovered Samantha and me in the audience and began focusing his remarks almost exclusively on us. It was agonizing. I've never been happier to see an hour pass, and as soon as he finished we hurried out of the session before he could trap us.

After we were outside the room, Samantha said, “If ego were money, that guy could pay off third-world debt.”

I laughed. “I'm sorry I dragged you to that. We should have gone to the punctuation class.”

“I'm not,” she said. “It was informative. I learned a lot.”

I looked at her doubtfully. “Really? What did you learn?”

“How some people live to sap the hope out of dreamers. It's like once they reach the top, they cut the rope.”

“You may be right,” I said. “Though I wouldn't say he's reached the top.”

“As high as he's going to get,” Samantha said. “So where to now?”

“You choose the next session,” I said. I took out my conference schedule. “We have three choices.
E-lectric: How to Heat Up the Internet with Your e-Book
.”

“That sounds important.”

“
Making a Six-Figure Salary on Four-Figure Book Sales: How to Make a Lucrative Living as a Midlist Author
.”

“That sounds boring.”

“And
Chopping the Writer's Block: How to Keep Writing When the Words Stop Coming
.”

“That sounds like something I need,” Samantha said.

“I was thinking the same thing. Let's go learn how to chop some writer's block.”

The main message of the writer's block lecture was that there is no universal cure for writer's block and you have to figure out for yourself what works for you—which made me think there was no reason to go to the class.

I did learn one thing of value. Walking sometimes helps. Thoreau believed that our legs are connected to our brains. I vowed to walk more.

After the conference I went back to my room to rest a little before dinner. I lay on my bed for a few minutes, then rolled over and looked at my manuscript. “
The Mistletoe Promise,
” I said. “By Kimberly Rossi.
New York Times
bestselling author.” I groaned.
Right
. I wondered if Zeke would hate my book.