The Mistletoe Inn (24 page)

He turned and walked away. For a moment all four hundred–plus of us sat in stunned silence. Then the audience burst into thunderous applause and a standing ovation. Zeke never returned to accept it.

When the house lights rose, I sat there, paralyzed with emotion. My face was streaked with tears. The people around me began to rise, moving out of the room slowly, as if in a daze. I just sat there wiping my eyes.

“Did you know any of that?” Samantha asked.

“I didn't know it was him.”

“You need to talk to him.”

Tears filled my eyes. “It's too late,” I said. “I already ruined it. He'll just think I want H. T. Cowell.” I breathed out slowly. “It's time for me to go home.”

With the crowds milling about it took us nearly half an hour to get a taxi. Samantha's flight was thirty minutes before mine, and I was a little nervous that she might miss it, but she wasn't. “Stop worrying about other people's worries,” she said. “You have enough of your own. Besides, I've slept in airports before. It's no big deal.”

“I'm going to miss you,” I said.

“No you're not,” she said. She kissed my cheek. “We're going to keep in touch.”

We got to the airport with a few minutes to spare. Samantha was on a different airline and we stopped at her terminal first. I got out with her.

“I'm so glad I met you,” she said.

“Me too. You saved me.”

“No, you saved me. You have my number. You need to come see me in Montana. I'll take you horseback riding after the snow's gone.”

“Next summer,” I said.

“Next summer is perfect,” she said. “I'm holding you to it.” We hugged. As we embraced she whispered into my ear, “I'm sorry things didn't work out with Zeke. But you wouldn't trade it, would you? I mean, how many people get to break H. T. Cowell's heart?”

I smiled sadly. “Just two of us, I guess.”

“You watch, you'll probably end up in one of his books. I can see it now:
The Mistletoe Inn
.”

“I hope not.”

“And I hope so.” She kissed me, then reached down and grabbed her bag. “Next summer,” she said. “Au revoir.”

“Good-bye,” I said. She turned and walked into the terminal. I got back into the taxi. “Delta, please.”

“Headed home?” the driver asked.

“Yes.”

“Just in time for Christmas. Did you have a good stay in Vermont?”

“I don't know,” I said.

The driver said nothing.

On the flight back to Denver my mind kept changing channels.
If only I had known the whole story,
I thought. But that's the point of love, isn't it? We never know the whole story. The true test of our hearts is how we respond with what we have. Zeke had put himself out there, and I had rejected him. I had failed miserably. I had failed him. He was a beautiful soul, more than I deserved. I hoped he was okay, then I thought,
Don't flatter yourself. He's H. T. Cowell. I'm sure there are already a thousand women lined up for the chance you just blew. Especially after his real love story hits the press. It's better than any of the love stories he's ever written.

The flight home was direct and, with the time change, I landed just before sunset at around 5 p.m. In my absence the city had been hit by several large snowstorms and from the air Denver looked like a ruffled, white linen sheet.

I picked up my bag and took the shuttle out to my car, which wasn't easy to find since it looked like an igloo covered with more than a foot of snow. I got my snow brush from the backseat, dug out my car, then drove home to Thornton.

My apartment was as dark and cold as I felt inside. I had
forgotten how quiet it was. I switched on the lights, turned up the heat, undressed, and took a warm shower. A half hour later, as my water heater began to run out of hot water, I got out and dressed, then went to make myself some dinner. My refrigerator was pretty much bare, so I made some ramen noodles, then drove to the grocery store to pick up some food.

As the cashier rang up the woman in front of me, I examined her purchases. Along with her groceries she had a mass-market paperback romance, the kind usually referred to as a “bodice ripper,” with a long-haired, bare-chested hunk on the cover.

“We don't sell as many of those as we used to,” the checker said to the woman. “These days, people just download them from the Internet.”

“I'm old-fashioned,” the woman said. “I still like the feel of paper. And I like to read in the bath. I'd probably just drop an e-book in the water.”

“I know what you mean. If I really like an author, sometimes I'll buy the e-book and the paper book.” She finished ringing the woman up. “That'll be forty-nine-oh-five. You can scan your card right there.”

As the woman ran her credit card through the reader, the cashier said, “I heard on the news that H. T. Cowell is coming out with another book.”

The woman looked up with interest. “I thought he was dead.”

“No. He just stopped writing for a while. But he's come out of retirement.”

“I loved his books,” she said.

“Don't we all? I've already ordered it online.”

“Thanks for the tip.”

“No problem. Have a good day.” The cashier turned to me. “Evening, darling. Paper or plastic?”

“Plastic, please.”

She began ringing up my items. “That's a good deal on those red peppers. Do you have a customer discount card?”

“Yes. Right here.” I handed her my card.

She scanned it, then handed it back. “That will save you a little.”

As she bagged my purchases, I said, “I overheard some of your conversation. I've met H. T. Cowell.”

“Is that right? What was he like?”

Unexpectedly my eyes filled up with tears. “He was . . .” A tear fell down my cheek. I suddenly wished I hadn't said anything. “Sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.

The woman smiled a little. “I used to get the same way whenever I'd read one of his books. The man makes women cry for a living.” She finished ringing up my groceries. “Have a good evening.”

“You too.”

As I walked to my car I realized that I would never be able to escape him.

I was glad to be back at work on Monday morning. I needed something to get my mind off my pain. I had only been in my office for ten minutes before Steve came in.

“I'm so glad you're back. Rachelle's so distracted with her upcoming nuptials that she keeps making mistakes. How was your book conference?”

“It was a writers' conference,” I said. “It was good.”

“Good,” he echoed. “Well, if you hit it big with your book, that doesn't mean you can just leave us all behind.”

“I wouldn't be looking for my replacement anytime soon.”

His smile fell. “I shouldn't be sorry to hear that, but I am. You deserve a break.”

“Thanks, Steve.”

“Welcome home,” he said.

The day was busy. Car sales are always big right before Christmas. Our clientele were the kind of people who would call on Christmas Eve and say, “I want a new car for my husband delivered on Christmas Eve with a ribbon on it” and we'd move heaven and earth to make it happen. All morning long I had a steady flow of clients in my office. I finally got a short lunch break at one.

As I walked into the break room, Rachelle was eating lunch with Charlene, one of our newer salespeople. Rachelle looked up at me as I entered. “Hey, Kim, didn't you just meet H. T. Cowell at some conference?”

Now Zeke has followed me to work.
I nodded. “Yeah. He was the keynote speaker.” I walked over and took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator.

“That's so cool,” Rachelle said. “There was an article about him in
USA Today
this morning. And you know how no one knows what he looks like? There was almost a full-page picture of him. He's gorgeous.”

“What did the article say?” I asked.

“It said he's coming out with a new book and the movie rights have already been sold. And he finally told why he stopped writing. It was because his wife died. I mean, is that romantic or what? After all his success, she committed suicide.”

“Why would she do that?” Charlene said. “People die for that kind of life, not because they got it.”

“She didn't kill herself,” I said. “It was an accident.”

Rachelle shook her head. “No, she killed herself. I just read it in the paper.”

“Then whoever wrote the article got it wrong,” I said. “His wife was pregnant and died of a hemorrhage. It was an accident.”

Rachelle didn't back down. “And you know this because . . . ?”

“Because he told me,” I snapped. The sound of my voice fairly echoed, leaving me embarrassed. The two women just looked at me.

“H. T. Cowell told you how his wife died?” Rachelle said.

“You talked to H. T. Cowell?” Charlene asked.

“Yes.”

Rachelle looked at me skeptically. “You mean, like, not in a crowd, but one-on-one.”

I felt like I was talking to six-year-olds. Obnoxious six-year-olds. “Yes, I talked to him like we're talking now.”

Rachelle looked like it was all she could do not to laugh. “So you and H. T. Cowell are now BFFs.”

“I didn't say that.”

“But you're talking about really personal things . . .”

I breathed out slowly to relieve my annoyance with her. “Yes. We went on a few dates.”