I did learn one thing of value. Walking sometimes helps. Thoreau believed that our legs are connected to our brains. I vowed to walk more.
After the conference I went back to my room to rest a little before dinner. I lay on my bed for a few minutes, then rolled over and looked at my manuscript. “The Mistletoe Promise,” I said. “By Kimberly Rossi. New York Times bestselling author.” I groaned. Right. I wondered if Zeke would hate my book.
A few minutes before seven I freshened up my hair and makeup, grabbed my manuscript, and walked out to the lobby. Zeke was waiting for me, sitting on one of the crushed-velvet chairs, somehow looking even more beautiful than he had at noon. He stood as I entered. “Hi.”
“Hi,” I said, walking up to him.
“How were the rest of your sessions? Did you learn anything?”
“I learned that Bready guy is a cad.”
Zeke smiled. “See, it’s a useful word that bears repetition.”
The dining room was crowded with a long line of people waiting for a table. The hostess smiled at us as we walked in. “Good evening, Mr. Faulkner. Right this way.”
Zeke had reserved a small table for us by a window near the back of the room. The table was set with crystal and a flickering candle. He pulled my chair back for me, which, sadly, threw me a little. Apart from my father, I wasn’t used to being with a gentleman.
“I hear the tourtière is very good.” He looked up at me. “You’re not vegetarian, are you?”
“No. What’s tourtière?”
“It’s a Canadian meat pie that’s made with diced pork, veal, or beef. The chef here told me that he adds venison to it to enhance the flavor.”
“That sounds interesting,” I said. “Not interesting enough to actually order, but interesting.”
He smiled. “Vermont has some interesting food. Bonne Bouche cheese, Dilly beans, fiddlehead ferns, Anadama bread.”
“I have no idea what any of those things are.”
“Neither do I, and I’ve eaten all of them. But you can’t go wrong with Vermont dairy products. Especially their cheese.”
“I love cheese,” I said.
We shared some cheese with a duck sausage and cornmeal polenta appetizer, then Zeke ordered a bottle of wine. For my entrée I ordered the goat’s milk gnocchi with tomato and pine nuts, while Zeke had the Gloucester cod. After we ordered, Zeke said, “Tell me about yourself.”
“What would you like to know?”
“Let’s start from the beginning. Have you always lived in Colorado?”
“No, I was raised in Las Vegas.”
“Vegas. So you’re good with cards?”
“No. I don’t gamble.” Then I added, “At least not with money.”
“What took you to Colorado?”
“My ex, Marcus. He got a job offer in Boulder.”
“What did Marcus do?”
“He was a history professor. Now he’s just history.”
Zeke smiled. “That sounds like a country song. So things didn’t work out.”
“The Titanic didn’t work out. My marriage was a disaster.”
He chuckled.
“You want the story?”
“I love a good anecdote,” he said. “If you’re willing to share.”
“Why not?” I said. “Marcus and I had been not-so-happily married for about three years when he got the job offer in Colorado. I thought it would be good for our relationship, but two years after we moved, he was caught in a campus sting operation. Apparently he was ‘romantically’ involved with several of his students, trading grades for . . . favors.”
“Adds a whole new meaning to extracurricular activity,” Zeke said with a bemused expression. Then he said, “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t joke about that. It’s pretty horrific.”
“It was horrific.”
His brow furrowed. “Did that story make national news?”
“I’m afraid so.”
“I think I read about it. I’m sorry.”
“And, to add insult to painful injury, after everything hit, he left me for one of his students. Actually, two of his students. So I’m the one who ended up alone.”
Zeke shook his head. “That’s truly horrific.”
“Samantha thinks it’s good fodder for a romance.”
“More like fodder for a horror story,” Zeke said.
“That’s what I said. Especially when you add the prologue about my two unsuccessful engagements before Marcus. One left me at the altar, the other got signed by the Orlando Magic and ended our engagement with a text message.”
“Classy,” Zeke said. “Would I know the player?”
I remembered that Zeke lived in Florida. “You might. Danny Iverson.”
Zeke shook his head. “Sorry.”
“It was a while back,” I said. “He only lasted two seasons before his career fizzled.”
“That’s karma,” Zeke said.
I looked at him for a moment. “With my record, it probably seems weird to you that I want to be a romance writer.”
“Not at all. It makes perfect sense.”
“It does?”
“Absolutely. It’s like this. I have two brothers, Matthias and Dominic. When they were young they both wanted to play the piano. Even though Matthias was older, Dominic was naturally gifted and could play by ear.
“Once we were sitting around listening to the radio when a new Billy Joel song came on. It was ‘Vienna’ from the Stranger album. After it played Matthias said, ‘I wonder if they have sheet music for that.’
“Dominic walked over to the piano and played the song flawlessly. I’ve never once heard him practice. He never had to.
“Matthias was the opposite. He’d get up an hour before the rest of us every morning to practice piano. Most of the time it was agonizing listening to him, since he usually couldn’t go more than thirty seconds without hitting the wrong key. But he never gave up. He’d sit there day after day pounding away like he was chiseling a statue.
“Even though he never got as good as Dominic, Dominic eventually lost interest and stopped playing. Matthias is now teaching music at a university and plays for a large Methodist church on Sundays.” Zeke looked intensely into my eyes. “I understand why you want to write. We don’t appreciate the things that come easy to us as much as we do the things we have to work for. I think that’s true for love as well.”
No one, including me, had ever understood my dream. I was at a loss for words. After a moment I asked, “What about you? Have you ever been married?”
His expression fell. “I was. For seven years.”
“Was,” I said. “That sounds ominous. What happened?”
“She left me.”
“Why?”
“Now there’s a question,” he said.
“You’d take her back if you could?”
“That’s not an option, but yes, I would.”
I sensed that he didn’t want to talk about it. “I’m sorry.”
“Life happens,” he said. He took a deep breath, then looked back at me. “So, back to you. Do you have siblings?”
“No. I was an only child.”
“And your parents are still in Vegas?”
“My father is. My mother died when I was young.”
“How did she die?”
I lied. “She had breast cancer.”
“I’m sorry,” he said. “How old were you when she died?”
“I was eleven.”
“I’m really sorry,” he said. “Are you close to your father?”
“He’s my best friend.” To my surprise, my eyes began to well up. “I’m sorry. He has cancer.”
“I’m sorry he has cancer,” Zeke said. “That must be especially hard since you already lost your mother to it.”
I didn’t reply.
“What kind of cancer does he have?”
“Colon cancer.”
“What stage is it in?”
“Three A.”
He nodded slightly.
“Then his odds are still good.”
I was surprised that he knew that. “That’s what he said.”
“Does he have good care?”
I shook my head. “It’s been an issue between us. He’s a Vietnam veteran, so he goes to the VA hospital. I don’t think the care is that good. He needs surgery and chemo, but they won’t even get him in until next February.”
“Why are they waiting so long?”
“That’s what I asked him, but he just shrugged it off with ‘it’s just how it is.’ What makes it worse is that Las Vegas has one of the top cancer institutes in the country.”
“The Henderson Clinic,” Zeke said.
I looked at him. “How did you know that?”
“Years ago I did some business with them,” he said. “It’s a state-of-the-art facility. They have one of the highest recovery rates in the world.”
I nodded. “That’s what I heard. I wish he’d go there. But he never would.”
“Why not?”
“He’d never spend the money. He’d rather die and leave what money he has to me.” I suddenly felt angry. “He’s so stubborn. He paid for this whole conference up front, then told me I had to go. He said he’d be disappointed in me if I didn’t go.”
“And his disappointment matters to you?”
“Yes, it matters. He’s lived his whole life for me. He’s my hero.”
To my surprise, Zeke suddenly looked moved as well. “Why was it so important to him that you came?”
“He knows it’s my dream to be a writer, so he wants that for me. But now I think I want it more for him.”
“I can see why he’s your hero,” Zeke said. He thoughtfully took a sip of wine. After he set his glass back down he asked, “Does he think he’s going to die?”
I thought it a peculiar question. “No.”
“Then he probably won’t.”
“Why do you say that?”
“It’s just a theory, but I think we know our time. Maybe it’s more cause than effect, but I think we have a sense of when we’re going to die. Not always, of course. But sometimes. I’ve heard at least a dozen stories of people who spontaneously put their affairs in order before dying unexpectedly, like in a car accident.”
I pondered the assertion. “With him, I don’t know,” I said. “He’s a war vet. He thinks he’s indestructible.”
Zeke shook his head. “None of the war vets I know think they’re indestructible. Not after what they’ve seen.”
Again I was filled with emotion and I dabbed my eyes with my napkin. “May we talk about something else?”
“Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay. Thank you for asking about him.”
For a moment we sat in silence. Then he asked, “When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”
“I was barely twenty. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said it was Cowell who made me want to write. It was one of those really hard times in my life. My first engagement had fallen through a month earlier when I came across The Tuscan Promise. It was the first book of Cowell’s I read. It was also the first time a book really made me feel loved. I didn’t know how that was possible. I thought, this is like spiritual alchemy, turning ink into emotion. It was the closest thing I could imagine to magic. I wanted to be a magician like that.”
Zeke looked at me thoughtfully. “That was the most beautiful reason I’ve ever heard for someone wanting to be a writer. You have a poet’s heart.”
“Thank you,” I said. “Have you read that book?”
He nodded. “It was a long time ago. Honestly, I don’t remember much about it.”
“I mostly remember how I felt when I read it.” I breathed out. “What about you? When did you know you wanted to be a writer?”
“I was fourteen and the book was The Hobbit. It was the first time that a book had transported me to a different world. More than anything I wanted to write fantasy, so I started writing every day. Today we’d call it fan fiction, but I wrote about the world Tolkien had created with orcs and hobbits and trolls. I was a total nerd. Then, two years later, I fell in love for the first time and that changed everything.” He grinned. “It was like a child’s first taste of sugar. I’ve had a sweet tooth ever since.”
Just then the waiter brought out our meals. After we had both started eating I said, “What was her name? Your first love.”
He smiled shyly and I thought he looked cute. “Linda Nash,” he said almost reverently. “She had long blond hair, Windex-blue eyes, and go-go boots.”
“Go-go boots?”
“Go-go boots.” He laughed and shook his head. “Man, I was smitten. I had never felt that kind of angst before, like pain and ecstasy in the same breath. She’d look at me and my mind would go blank.”
“Did she like you back?”
He shook his head. “I have no idea. I was a kid. I never even told her how I felt. Her father was a salesman and her family moved away the next year. But the damage was done. Falling in love was transformative, because that’s when I realized that all stories, at their core, are love stories. Whether you’re talking about Star Wars or East of Eden.
“At first I went a little overboard and just wrote love letters, sonnets, poems, syrupy stuff—things that would never be published, but I wrote for the joy of writing. And I fell in love with falling in love.”
“Most men aren’t like that.”
“Probably more than you think,” he said. “They just don’t use women’s language to express it.”
“I’ve never thought of it that way,” I said. “So that’s why you wanted to write romance?”
“Maybe,” he said.
“Maybe?”
“At one of these conferences an author told me that when he was sixteen he was walking through a mall when he saw a man signing books for a long line of women and it occurred to him that if you want to get a girl, there was no better way than being a writer of romance. Smart man, I thought. Where else would women looking for romance line up to meet you? Of course musicians figured this out millennia ago.”
“So is that really why you want to be a writer? To meet women?”
He looked at me with a hint of a smile. “On some deep, primal level—much deeper than I’d be willing to admit—that’s probably true. I think Freud would argue that’s true of all male endeavors.”
“Men are pathetic,” I said.
“And women wear high heels, why?”
“To play off men’s pathetic nature.”
“So who’s more pathetic, the junkie or the dealer?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?” I said.
“Indeed,” he replied. He looked me in the eyes. “I will admit that I’m very glad that I met you.”
“I’m glad I met you too.”
After a moment he said, “So back to your original question, why do I want to be a writer? Primal urges aside, I started writing because I’m not cutthroat enough to run a Fortune 500 company, I’m not handsome enough to be an actor or model, I can’t sing, and I’m not coordinated enough to be a professional athlete. But I did win a tenth-grade creative-writing contest, so I went with my strength.”
“I disagree with you on the handsome part. You’re definitely handsome enough to be an actor or a model.”
“You’re being kind.”
“I’m being honest. The first time I saw you I thought, That guy is gorgeous.”
“Was that before or after you fell off the treadmill and hit your head?”
“I didn’t hit my head, and it was before that. And thank you for reminding me that your first impression of me was that I’m a klutz.”
“I just thought you were flirting with me.”
“By almost killing myself? Really?”
“Any romance writer knows that showing vulnerability is a powerful lure. In the old days a woman would drop her handkerchief. You dropped a towel.”
“I dropped my whole body.”
“Even better,” he sai
d. “It’s the whole politically incorrect damsel-in-distress thing.”
I just laughed. “So after you decided to be a writer, then what?”
“I got an English degree and taught high school English for six years before I got into real estate.”
“And you like real estate?”
He shrugged. “It pays the bills better than teaching did.”
We ate awhile in silence, then he said, “So, moment of truth. May I see your book?”
I had actually forgotten that I had brought my manuscript with me. I leaned over and picked it up from the floor. “I can’t believe I’m sharing it. When do I get to read yours?”
“Soon,” he said. He took the manuscript and immediately started reading.
“Don’t read it now,” I said. “I’ll be embarrassed.”
He looked up. “Has anyone read this yet?”
“Other than my father and the publishers that rejected it, you’re the first one.”
“It’s an honor,” he said. “I promise that I’ll be gentle with my critique and effusive with my praise.”
“I just want to know if it’s any good,” I said. “Or if I should stop writing.”
“Those two things have nothing to do with each other,” he said. “If you enjoy writing, you should write, whether anyone else likes it or not.” He looked back down at the manuscript. “The Mistletoe Promise. Did you name it after this conference?”
“No. It’s a coincidence. I named it that more than two years ago. What do you think of it?”
“I think it’s an intriguing title.” He set my manuscript aside. “Would you care for dessert?”
“Not tonight,” I said.
He took a sip of wine, then said, “I’m eager to start reading your book. Shall we go?”
Zeke paid the bill, then we walked out to the lobby. “What floor is your room on?”
“This floor. It’s right down that hall.”
“May I walk you to your room?”
“Yes, thank you.”
We walked down the short hallway, stopping at my doorway. “You’re really in room 101?”
“Yes. Why?”
“It’s Orwellian,” he said. “And strangely ironic. In Orwell’s book 1984, Room 101 is the torture room in the Ministry of Love, where people face their greatest fear.”