The Mistletoe Inn (21 page)

Zeke had booked a sedan, a white-pearl Lincoln Town Car, to drive us to New York. I hated to leave Bethlehem, but I was excited to finally see Manhattan. The ride was about two hours but it didn't seem that long. I wished it would have been longer. Much longer. The steel-gray leather-upholstered seat of the car was soft and spacious, and Zeke held me the entire way.

About forty minutes out of Manhattan we began to kiss and we didn't stop until the car stopped on Park Avenue at the front doors of the Waldorf a little after midnight. The driver had to clear his throat to announce that we'd reached our destination. Zeke had the most delicious kisses.

I had wondered if Zeke had planned for us to share the same room, but I should have known better. He was a gentleman. Still, I have to admit that I was a little disappointed. We kissed some more, then said good night. After I closed the door to my room I thought of calling my father to tell him where I was, but I quickly decided against it. Based on my history with men, he'd want to know all about Zeke and he would probably hate him before he even knew him. I didn't want my father to hate him.

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.

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.”

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 designer clothes. And then life went on and I saw how they treated others. And me. Eventually, I got sick of their pretense and their fraudulent personalities. Frankly, I didn't want to be with someone who was that much work.

“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.”