The Mistletoe Inn (16 page)

“So who's more pathetic, the junkie or the dealer?”

“That's the question, isn't it?” I said.

“Indeed,” he replied. He looked me in the eyes. “I will admit that I'm very glad that I met you.”

“I'm glad I met you too.”

After a moment he said, “So back to your original question, why do I want to be a writer? Primal urges aside, I started writing because I'm not cutthroat enough to run a Fortune 500 company, I'm not handsome enough to be an actor or model, I can't sing, and I'm not coordinated enough to be a professional athlete. But I did win a tenth-grade creative-writing contest, so I went with my strength.”

“I disagree with you on the handsome part. You're definitely handsome enough to be an actor or a model.”

“You're being kind.”

“I'm being honest. The first time I saw you I thought, That guy is gorgeous.”

“Was that before or after you fell off the treadmill and hit your head?”

“I didn't hit my head, and it was before that. And thank you for reminding me that your first impression of me was that I'm a klutz.”

“I just thought you were flirting with me.”

“By almost killing myself? Really?”

“Any romance writer knows that showing vulnerability is a powerful lure. In the old days a woman would drop her handkerchief. You dropped a towel.”

“I dropped my whole body.”

“Even better,” he said. “It's the whole politically incorrect damsel-in-distress thing.”

I just laughed. “So after you decided to be a writer, then what?”

“I got an English degree and taught high school English for six years before I got into real estate.”

“And you like real estate?”

He shrugged. “It pays the bills better than teaching did.”

We ate awhile in silence, then he said, “So, moment of truth. May I see your book?”

I had actually forgotten that I had brought my manuscript with me. I leaned over and picked it up from the floor. “I can't believe I'm sharing it. When do I get to read yours?”

“Soon,” he said. He took the manuscript and immediately started reading.

“Don't read it now,” I said. “I'll be embarrassed.”

He looked up. “Has anyone read this yet?”

“Other than my father and the publishers that rejected it, you're the first one.”

“It's an honor,” he said. “I promise that I'll be gentle with my critique and effusive with my praise.”

“I just want to know if it's any good,” I said. “Or if I should stop writing.”

“Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” he said. “If you enjoy writing, you should write, whether
anyone else likes it or not.” He looked back down at the manuscript. “
The Mistletoe Promise
. Did you name it after this conference?”

“No. It's a coincidence. I named it that more than two years ago. What do you think of it?”

“I think it's an intriguing title.” He set my manuscript aside. “Would you care for dessert?”

“Not tonight,” I said.

He took a sip of wine, then said, “I'm eager to start reading your book. Shall we go?”

Zeke paid the bill, then we walked out to the lobby. “What floor is your room on?”

“This floor. It's right down that hall.”

“May I walk you to your room?”

“Yes, thank you.”

We walked down the short hallway, stopping at my doorway. “You're really in room 101?”

“Yes. Why?”

“It's Orwellian,” he said. “And strangely ironic. In Orwell's book
1984
, Room 101 is the torture room in the Ministry of Love, where people face their greatest fear.”

“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?

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.

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.”