The Mistletoe Inn (17 page)

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?”

“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 ever 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.”

“But they said that they didn't allow changes.”

“I'm sure they don't.”

“You mean you lied about Jill sending you to group C?”

“Not really,” he said. “I figured that Jill, being the head of the romance writers, was a staunch proponent of romance, so when I said Jill wanted me in group C, I was telling the truth, in a matter of speaking.”

I laughed. “I can't believe you did that.”

“Are you glad I did?”

“I'm very glad.” I picked at my meal, then said, “So is that what this is? A romance?”