The Mistletoe Inn (19 page)

I didn't sleep well, and I didn't exercise the next morning. I didn't want to take the chance I'd see Zeke. I was embarrassed about how I had handled things. The worst part was that I wasn't even sure why it hurt so much. I knew that he hadn't wanted to hurt me. For that matter, why did I even care? Who's to say that he knew any more than anyone else? What I did know was that being with him had been the best part of the conference so far. Why had I ruined it?

I ordered breakfast from room service, then, after eating, climbed into the tub, where I stayed until the water started to turn cold. I got out and went back to bed, purposely missing the workshop. Today we were supposed to share our partners' critiques of our books, and the thought of that was about as welcome as a kidney stone.

Also, today was my day to meet with the agents, and I didn't want to face them already bloodied. Besides, maybe they'd disagree with Zeke and the whole thing would be moot.

I finally got out of bed around eleven. I dressed and did my hair, then went down to find Samantha. As I walked out into the lobby Zeke was sitting on one of the sofas. He immediately stood. “Kim.”

I started to turn away from him.

“Kim, please, talk to me.”

In spite of my regret, seeing him brought back the pain. Again my feelings overcame me. “Why? You found more things wrong with my book?”

He put his hand on my arm. “Look, I know how much it hurts to be criticized. Trust me, I've had more than my share. But all criticism isn't the same. Some criticism is mean-spirited and some is shared because someone cares. It's like . . . telling a friend they have something in their teeth.”

“In this scenario I'm your slob friend with something in her teeth?”

He raised his hands as if in surrender. “I'm sorry, bad example. I know last night shook you up, but it should have encouraged you.”

My eyes welled up. “Encouraged me to do what? Quit? Trust me, don't get a job as an inspirational speaker, because you suck at it.”

His brow furrowed. “You're not going to let me apologize, are you?”

Even though I could see how much he was hurting, I said nothing. Finally he breathed out slowly. “All right, I'll leave you alone. Good luck. I hope things go well for you when you meet with the agents today. I hope they're kinder than I am.” He turned and walked away.

As I watched him go a tear fell down my cheek. I felt sick inside. The moment I let myself be vulnerable, I got hurt. When would I learn?

As I sat there, Samantha walked up to me. “You'll never
believe what the brilliant workshop group F talked about today. Love and
wormholes
, and would it be ethically wrong to be in love with two different people if they lived in different dimensions. Honestly, I wanted to puncture my eardrums.” She stopped. “Are you okay? You look like you've been crying.”

I looked down so she couldn't see my eyes.

“Honey, what's wrong?”

After a moment I shook my head. “Nothing. Let's just go to lunch.”

At the table Samantha just stared at me. “Talk to me. What's going on?”

I took a deep breath. “You know I let Zeke read my book.”

“And?”

“He didn't like it.”

She blinked slowly. “And he told you that? I knew I didn't like him. For the record, he doesn't really look like George Clooney, I was just being nice. He looks more like George Costanza on
Seinfeld
.”

“No he doesn't,” I said, suddenly feeling protective of him. “He's beautiful. And he's sweet. He was just being honest.”

Samantha frowned. “How can he tell you your book stinks and still be sweet?”

“He didn't say it stinks. He had constructive criticism.”

“Now you're defending him? This is like that Stockholm syndrome.”

“This is nothing like Stockholm syndrome.”

“It's some kind of syndrome,” she said. “So what do you do now?”

“I don't know. He tried to apologize, twice, but I . . .” I took a deep breath. “I'll probably never see him again.”

“I'm sorry,” she said. “But cheer up. Don't you have your agents this afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“Good. Let me tell you what's going to happen. You're going to knock their socks off. And Zeke is going to be eating his words with catsup and French-fried potatoes.”

I just looked at her. She was the strangest and sweetest person I'd ever met.

“I love you,” I said.

She smiled. “I love you too,” she said, then added, “in a totally non-romantic way.”

“Thanks for the disclaimer.”

She kissed me on the cheek. “Anytime, sweetie. Anytime.”

The way the agent meetings worked was fairly standard for these kinds of conferences. I paid—actually my father had paid—a hundred dollars to meet with each agent. I gave the agent a copy of my manuscript, which he or she was obligated to read for fifteen minutes and then write a brief assessment.

The first agent I met with was Timothy Ryan, a twenty-seven-year veteran of the publishing industry. We met in a room with five other agents and authors.

As I settled nervously into my chair, Timothy looked down at his appointment list, then back at me. “You're Kimberly Rossi.”

“Yes, sir.”

“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.