The Mistletoe Inn by Richard Paul Evans
As I lay in my luxurious bed surrounded by the opulence of the hotel and the sounds of a city that never slept, I took in a deep breath and smiled. My face was slightly warm and stubble burned from all our kissing and I liked the feel of it. This may have been the best day of my life. And there was still tomorrow. It wasn’t often that I looked forward to tomorrow.
CHAPTER
Twenty-five
To be in love is something. To be loved is everything.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
New York during the holidays is like a Christmas show with a million extras. Zeke woke me early and, wearing our hotel robes, we ate breakfast together in my room. Then I showered and put my only clothes back on and we walked to Saks Fifth Avenue. Zeke bought me more than just an outfit for the day. He spent more than a thousand dollars.
Then he took me to Tiffany and bought me a beautiful rose-gold “Return to Tiffany” heart tag pendant with a gold chain. He wanted to spend more on a different necklace, but I had always wanted a simple Tiffany heart, so against my protests, he bought me a matching heart bracelet to go with it instead.
As we were riding the elevator down from the second floor, Zeke asked, “Have you ever seen a Broadway show?”
“I’ve seen Jersey Boys,” I said. “In Vegas.”
“I liked Jersey Boys,” he said. “Who doesn’t like Frankie Valli? Is there anything else you’ve wanted to see?”
“Hypothetically speaking?”
“Yes.”
“I’ve always wanted to see Wicked. Have you seen it?”
“A few times. I got to see it with the original cast.” He took his phone out of his pocket. “Just look around for a minute. I need to make a call.”
I browsed through the first floor’s glass jewelry cases for about ten minutes before Zeke returned. “I’ve got us matinee tickets to Wicked,” he announced.
“How did you do that? Aren’t they sold out months in advance?”
“I know people,” he said.
Two hours later we were sitting in the second row in the middle section of the Gershwin Theatre.
The show was as good as I hoped it would be. Afterward, Zeke bought me a “Defy Gravity” T-shirt and took me to dinner at a wonderful historic restaurant called Keens Steakhouse.
“You should put this place in your book,” Zeke said. “It’s got great history. Do you know who’s dined here?” Before I could guess he said, “Teddy Roosevelt, Babe Ruth, Will Rogers, Albert Einstein, General Douglas MacArthur, ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody, pretty much the who’s who of humanity.” He smiled. “And Kimberly Rossi. Someday they’ll boast about you. One of America’s great writers.”
I couldn’t help but smile.
For dinner I ordered a petite filet mignon and a crab cocktail and Zeke ordered prime rib. As we ate Zeke asked, “Did you enjoy the show?”
“I loved the show.”
“I know Gregory Maguire.”
“Who?”
“Gregory Maguire. He’s the author of Wicked. Did you know how he came up with the name of Elphaba?”
“No.”
“It comes from L. F. B., the initials of L. Frank Baum, the author of The Wizard of Oz. And, for the record, Gregory has a beautiful singing voice.”
“Okay, you’re blowing my mind,” I said. “First it’s Catherine McCullin and R. L. Stine, now Gregory Maguire. How do you know these people?”
“Writers’ conferences,” he said. “I used to go to them all the time.”
“I went to a writers’ conference with Mary Higgins Clark, but we’re not best friends.”
“I never said we’re best friends. I’m just good at making acquaintances.”
“Like me?” I asked.
His expression immediately turned. “No. Not like you. Do you think I’m just playing around with you?”
“Honestly, I don’t know what you’re doing with me,” I said softly.
He was quiet for a moment, then his expression relaxed. “I’m sorry. Of course you don’t. You don’t even know me.” He took a deep breath. “I don’t often get close to people, especially women. But this time I have.” He looked into my eyes. “I’m afraid I’ve fallen in love.”
CHAPTER
Twenty-six
The reason we cage the past is sometimes only understood after we un-cage it.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
It was a short flight back to Vermont. We flew out of LaGuardia at nine and our plane landed in Burlington just a little after ten-thirty. We retrieved Zeke’s car and headed back to the inn. It wasn’t quite midnight when we arrived and Zeke parked his rental car just short of the portico, leaving it running to keep the heater on.
After leaning over and kissing him I said, “I’m curious, how hard was it to plan all that?”
“It was simple.”
“That was simple?” I said doubtfully. “We flew to Bethlehem, drove to New York, spent the night in the Waldorf Astoria, shopped Fifth Avenue, took in a Broadway show, had a fabulous dinner, then flew back to Vermont, and you call that simple?”
“Very simple,” he said. “I’m a simple guy.”
“You really think you’re simple?”
“I know I’m simple,” he said. “What you see is what you get.”
“You’re a lot of things, but you’re definitely not simple. You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery, or whatever Churchill said.”
“Really. What’s enigmatic about me?”
“The mind reels,” I said.
“Go on,” he said. “What makes me enigmatic?”
“Okay, to begin with, why are you single? Why would any woman in her right mind leave you? It would be like driving a Rolls-Royce over a cliff. You’re the whole package. You’re kind, you’re fun, you’re smart, and you kiss like a Hoover vacuum cleaner . . .”
One brow rose. “Is that a good thing?”
“That’s a good thing,” I said. “You’re very, very good-looking . . .”
“Thank you.”
“I’m not done,” I said. “You must have a lot of money, but you’re not obsessed with it. And you know more about books than anyone I’ve met, but you aren’t published. So no, you’re not as simple as you think you are. In fact, you’re so complex it’s scary.”
“Scary?” he said. “In one minute I went from ‘not simple’ to ‘enigmatic’ to ‘scary.’ Explain scary.”
“They say if it’s too good to be true, it is. You should have that yellow caution tape wrapped all around you, because you’re way too good to be true.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“I don’t know if it is one,” I said. “Because too good to be true leaves a lot of questions unanswered.”
“Such as?”
“The big one?”
He just gazed at me with an amused smile. “If you have a question, just ask. I’ll give you a simple answer.”
“Okay, here’s the big one.” I took a deep breath as he looked at me in anticipation.
“Go on,” he said.
“I’m building up to it. It’s a big question.”
He grinned.
“Here goes. Why do you like me?”
He looked at me. “That’s it? That’s all you got?”
“Yes.”
“Simple. Pretty much for every reason you just said about me. You’re kind, smart, funny, fun, grateful, and beautiful.
“And to answer your question, why am I single? Because until now, I’ve chosen to be. There have been other women in my life and many of them have been smart and stunningly beautiful and yes, at my age, chemistry is still important. But something about my chemistry has changed. I’ve found that when someone is beautiful on the outside but spiritually dark inside, all that outer beauty is just lipstick on a pig.”
I smiled at the metaphor.
His tone turned more serious. “When I was younger and more full of myself, I wanted to be with the cool people—the clever, arrogant ones with the snarky comebacks
“And I didn’t want to entrust my heart to women who were so full of themselves that they could hardly see me through their Gucci sunglasses. I wanted someone real. Someone who would laugh at the same stupid things I laugh at and think it’s fun to stop in a little café and eat bratwurst and beer-cheese soup. I wanted someone who would worry if she had hurt someone’s feelings or would help a complete stranger.”
I thought about what he was saying. “You mean like the hearing-impaired woman in our workshop.”
“Exactly,” he said. “That’s when I knew you were more than a pretty face. You were the only one who noticed that she was struggling. But you didn’t just notice, you spoke up and changed seats with her. You showed compassion.” He looked down for a moment, then back up. “That’s what my wife would have done.”
I looked at him softly. “You speak almost reverently of your wife,” I said. “But she left you. Why did she leave?”
He was quiet for a moment, then said, “It wasn’t her choice to leave. She was five months pregnant when she had a hemorrhage in the night and died. I wasn’t with her. I should have been, but I wasn’t. I was away on a business trip. I wasn’t there when she needed me.” His eyes welled up. “Now you know my simple truth.”
As I looked at him my eyes filled with tears too. I pulled him in to me and, for a moment, just held him against my breast. Then I said, “There’s something I need to tell you too.”
Sensing the gravity of my tone he sat back up.
“When you said the other night that you felt I was hiding something, you were right.” I took a deep breath and leaned back to look into his eyes. “My mother didn’t die of cancer. She committed suicide.”
Zeke frowned. “I’m sorry.”
“You’re the first person I’ve ever told that to. Ever. I didn’t even tell my husband.”
“He didn’t know how your mother died?”
“No. But he wouldn’t have cared anyway.”
He continued to look at me sympathetically.
“As long as I knew her she struggled with depression. By the time she killed herself, it was her fifth attempt. The first time she tried I blamed myself. I wasn’t even ten years old and I was certain that it was my fault.
“By her third attempt, I was eleven, and my feelings had changed. I was scared and confused, but more than that, I was angry. I wondered how I could mean so little to her that she could just leave me. What does that say about me?” I looked at him. “I’ve carried the shame of her abandonment my entire life.
“Since then I’ve looked for validation of myself in every relationship and ended up holding so tight that I squeezed the life out of them. I just wanted someone to prove to me that I was worth sticking around for. I wanted to know that I was worth loving. But the more I chased it, the faster it fled. Knowing your self-worth isn’t something others can validate. You either believe it or you don’t. I never have.”
“Faith,” he said softly. “Having a sense of self-worth is an act of faith.” He looked at me for a moment, then said, “Kim, your mother wasn’t running from you. She was running from herself. When someone’s depressed, it’s like they’re trapped in a burning high-rise. No one wants to jump out of a sixteenth-floor window, but if it’s that or be burned alive, they don’t feel like they have a choice. I know.”
“How do you know?”
“I’m not as far removed from it as you might think.”
Something about what he’d said filled me with fear. “What do you mean?”
“I read somewhere that authors are twice as likely to commit suicide than the average person.” He looked into my eyes. “They’re right.”
Fear’s grip tightened. “What are you saying?”
He hesitated for a moment, then said, “It was right after my wife died when I tried to kill myself.”
“What?”
“I tried to kill myself by overdosing on painkillers. I was revived at the hospital. I’m alive today because I botched my suicide attempt.”
At that moment something happened to me. Something I couldn’t explain and couldn’t resist. An evil slithered from the darkest recesses of my mind, a fear I hadn’t felt since childhood, a thick black serpent that wrapped around my chest, cinching tighter and tighter until I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t think.
At that moment I wasn’t in Vermont. I was a little girl standing in the doorway of her mother’s bedroom looking at the blood running down her mother’s arms, screaming at her to put down the knife. Everything around me turned to white. I began shaking uncontrollably. “No.”
Zeke reached out for me. “Kim . . . what’s going on?”
“No,” I said, suddenly drawing away from him. “No. I can’t do this. I can’t go through that again.”
“Kim, I’m not suicidal. Listen to me. It was a really hard time.”
“Life is always hard. It’s always hard. I can’t do it. I can’t.” Tears ran down my cheeks in a steady current. I felt like the world was spinning. I felt nauseous. “I’m so sorry, I can’t.”
“Things are different now. It was a phase. A dark phase.”
My body was shaking and I began rocking back and forth. “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”
“Kim, I won’t leave you. Ever. I promise.”
I covered my eyes with my hand. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe you. There are no promises in hell.” Leaving my bags of presents, I opened the car door and ran into the hotel.
The night was a blank. I don’t remember going back to my room. I don’t remember getting undressed or hiding under the covers. All I remember was darkness.
CHAPTER
Twenty-seven
Why must I prove to myself over and over that I am my own worst enemy?
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The conference was over. Everything was over. I woke to someone knocking on my door. “Kim? Honey?”
I lay in bed with the lights out, the closed shutters glowing from the morning sun. I felt as if I had an emotional hangover. I didn’t want to see anyone. I wanted the outside world to just go away. I wanted to go away.
“Kim, it’s Samantha. Are you there? I’m going to call security.”
“Hold on,” I said, groaning. I got up, pulled on a robe, then walked to the door, opening it just enough to peer out.
Samantha looked at me with a concerned expression. I’m sure I looked awful. “Honey, where have you been?”
“I went away with Zeke.”
“Did he do something to you?”
“No. I left him.”
“May I come in?”
I moved back from the door. Samantha stepped into the room and put her arms around me. “I’m so sorry.”
After a minute I asked, “Do you know what day it is?”
“It’s Monday,” she said.
“What time is it?”
“It’s almost nine. Hotel check-out time is eleven. And I have news. Cowell’s confirmed. He’s speaking at noon. What time is your flight home?”
My mind was so jumbled that it took me a moment to remember. “Three, three ten. Something like that.” I sat down on the corner of the bed. Samantha sat next to me. She took my hand and held it in her lap.
“I don’t even care if I see him,” I said.
“Zeke?”
“Cowell,” I said.
“Of course you do,” Samantha said. “You’ve waited years for this. You’re not going to miss it. I won’t let you.”
“I just can’t go out.”
“No,” she said. “You’re going through with this. No excuses, no regrets. You’ll be angry at yourself if you miss it.”
After a minute I took a deep breath. “All right.”
“All right you’ll
I nodded. “I still need to get ready and pack.”
“Okay. I’ll go save us some seats.”
“It’s not until noon.”
“There’s already a line. This is going to be huge. So don’t you dare stand me up. I’ll be inside the ballroom waiting for you with a seat.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Promise?”
“I promise.”
She hugged me. “I’m sorry things didn’t work out.” She kissed me on the cheek, then walked out of the room.
I lay back for almost twenty minutes, then undressed and went in to shower. I sat under the hot water for a long time, trying to avoid a panic attack. My mind was a labyrinth of thoughts. I had waited years to meet H. T. Cowell. So why was my mind fixated on another man?
CHAPTER
Twenty-eight
Ironically, what makes an author popular is not shouting to the masses but rather quiet, solitary whispers.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
More than two hours before Cowell’s speech the room was already filled to capacity. There were at least quadruple the number of people in the room than had even attended the conference. I knew that Cowell’s return was a big deal to me, but I had failed to realize that it was a big deal to millions of people—like finding Jimmy Hoffa’s body big. There were television cameras lining both walls of the ballroom and at least a couple dozen photographers sitting on the floor in front of the dais.
I looked around for Samantha for nearly ten minutes, finally finding her in the front row. “How did you get front-row seats?” I asked.
“When I left your room they had the ballroom doors locked and there was already a long line to get in, so I sneaked in through the employee service entrance.”
“You were serious about getting a good seat,” I said.
“I did it for you,” she said. “After the man bomb I thought you needed it.”
“Thank you.”