The Mistletoe Inn

  “What is it?”

  “Open it.”

  Inside the envelope was a letter from Trish Todd, an editor at the Simon & Schuster Adult Publishing Group. “What’s this?”

  “I took your book to my editor and she liked it. The letter says if you’re willing to make a few revisions, which I would be happy to help you with, they would like to offer you a contract.”

  I was speechless. I looked up from the letter. “You mean they’re really going to publish my book?”

  He smiled. “Yes they are. I also let them know that I would be helping to promote your book with my readers. If I still have any.”

  “The whole world is waiting for your next book,” I said. “Everyone is talking about it.” After looking at him for a moment, I said, “Why are you being so good to me?”

  He looked at me intensely, then said, “I thought you might ask that. And I am prepared with three answers. First, I’m a romance writer. I love happy endings. Second, because you are immensely loveable. And third, most of all, I heard the music and I wanted to dance with you.”

  I looked at him for a moment, then said, “And when the music stops?”

  A broad smile slowly crossed his face and he again took me in his arms and we kissed. When we finally parted he said, “When, and if, the music ever stops there’s no need to worry.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because when the music stops, that’s when we make our own.”

  EPILOGUE

  Zeke stayed with me the week after Christmas. I never went looking for a job; Zeke kept me too busy working on my book. Imagine being tutored by one of the world’s greatest authors. He taught me how to be vulnerable in print. He taught me to love my readers. He taught me how to write with honesty.

  It was an amazing experience to see how he coaxed words from thin air—like a magician. It seemed to me that his process was more like discovering a book than creating it. William Faulkner once said, “If I had not existed, someone else would have written me, Hemingway, Dostoyevsky, all of us.” Zeke believed that. He taught me to believe that as well.

  My life is new. On New Year’s Eve I went alone to my mother’s grave and took her a flower. An anthurium. Somewhere in a recently unlocked room of my mind I remembered that she loved anthuriums. I knelt down and kissed her stone and apologized to her. I thanked her for giving me life at the expense of her own. For the first time in my life I saw her not as a traitor or a failure but as a real person just doing her best. For the first time since I was a child I loved her again. And, not coincidentally, I felt her love.

  I tried to get my father to join Zeke and me for dinner that night at a fancy restaurant at the Bellagio. He wouldn’t budge. “I’m too old for all that New Year’s hoopla,” he said. “I just want to go to bed.” Later I learned why he had refused. At 12:01 on January 1, 2013, Zeke asked me to marry him. My father was awake when we got home. This time he was happy with my choice.

  The ring Zeke had given me that night was on loan from a jewelry store as he wanted to pick out our rings together. (It had a diamond that would have made Catherine McCullin salivate.) The next day we went ring shopping at Tiffany, and as we looked at settings fit for a princess I realized what I really wanted. That evening I asked my father if I could have my mother’s tiny half-carat rose-gold engagement ring. Nothing could have made my father happier. It made Zeke happy too.

  After our engagement Zeke went back with me to Denver to help move me out of my apartment. He also went with me to the dealership to get my things. I think he especially wanted to go after I told him the story of how Rachelle and Charlene had mocked me when I told them that I had dated H. T. Cowell. As I introduced Zeke to Rachelle and Charlene, he referred to himself as H. T. Cowell. It was the only time I’ve ever heard him do that. You should have seen their faces. We laughed about it all through dinner.

  Zeke had no problem with the idea of moving to Las Vegas, especially while my father was dealing with his cancer. He said that he had always wanted to live in the West. At first I thought he was just being kind, but I learned otherwise. He secretly wanted to be a cowboy, which he ended up writing a book about. (What woman doesn’t love a cowboy?) That summer he went with me to Montana to see Samantha and ride horses. He bought a ranch.

  My father’s surgery and post treatment were successful. Today he is three years in remission. We bought a home just ten minutes away from his. He’s still volunteering at the VA, but he’s also spending more time with Alice, who it turns out is a rabid H. T. Cowell fan. It’s kind of annoying.

  As you probably remember, Zeke’s return to writing rocked the publishing world, and I traveled all around the world with him on a book tour. London, Paris, Tokyo, Sydney, and Warsaw. He arranged the release of his third book to coincide with the release of mine, The Mistletoe Promise. Not surprisingly, both of our books hit the New York Times bestseller list—though of course his was number one and mine was eight. Still, I’m now a New York Times bestselling author. When we got the advance copy of the bestseller list I think Zeke was happier for me than for himself. Actually, I know he was. Yes, I know I hit the list because of his help—both with his help writing and his legion of fans—but it still feels wonderful. I feel like I’ve done something that matters. I actually get fan mail.

  On May 3, 2014, Zeke and I were married in San Gimignano, Italy, the birthplace of my father’s parents. Samantha was my maid of honor. She brought her new husband, Walter. He’s a great guy. For the record, I don’t think she settled. I’m now thinking of writing a love story that takes place in Italy, and I keep wishing that I had gone to that session at the Mistletoe Inn Writers’ Conference. You know the one—Putting The Rome Back in Romance. Our wedding made all the magazines, which was much better than the last time I got press.

  Speaking of which, two months after our wedding I got a call from Marcus. He knew about Zeke and my writing. He wanted to know if I would write a reference letter for him for a high school teaching position. I almost agreed until I thought about those young girls he would be around and declined.

  The most important thing Zeke has taught me about love has nothing to do with books. Romance novels are all about desire and happily-ever-after, but happily-ever-after doesn’t come from desire—at least not the kind portrayed in pulp romances. Real love is not to desire a person but to desire their happiness—sometimes even at the expense of our own happiness. Real love is to expand our own capacity for tolerance and caring, to actively seek another’s well-being. All else is simply a charade of self-interest.

  Zeke taught me that. Not through words but by example. He’s taught me how to dance. And we’re getting good at making our own music.

  My father was right all along. The best years of our lives are ahead of us.

  Turn the page for an excerpt from

  The Mistletoe Promise

  CHAPTER

  One

  I’m not ready for another Christmas. I haven’t been since 2007.

  Elise Dutton’s Diary

  NOVEMBER 1, 2012

  I hated the change; the commercial changing of the seasons was more obvious than nature’s. It was November first, the day after Halloween, when orange and black gives way to red and green. I didn’t always hate the change; I once looked forward to it. But that seemed like a lifetime ago.

  I watched as the maintenance staff of the office building where I worked transformed the food court. A large, synthetic Christmas tree was dragged out to the middle of the room, strung with white lights, and draped in blue and silver tinsel. Giant corrugated-styrene snowflakes were brought out of storage and hung from the ceiling, just as they had been every year for as long as I’d worked in downtown Salt Lake City.

  I was watching the transformation when I noticed him staring at me. Him—the stranger who would change everything. I didn’t know his name, but I had seen him before. I’d probably seen him a hundred times before, as we ate pretty much every day in the same food court: I n
ear the Cafe Rio with my sweet pork salad and he, fifty yards away, over by the Japanese food emporium eating something with chopsticks. Why was he looking at me?

  He was handsome. Not in your Photoshopped Abercrombie & Fitch catalog way—women weren’t necessarily stopping midsentence when he walked into a room—but he certainly did catch their attention. He was about six feet tall, trim, narrow-hipped, athletically built. He was always dressed impeccably—in an expensive, custom-tailored suit, with a crisp white shirt and a silk tie.

  I guessed he was a lawyer and, from his accoutrements, one who made good money. I, on the other hand, worked as a hotel and venue coordinator at a midlevel travel wholesaler booking educational trips for high school students. The company I worked for was called the International Consortium of Education, but we all just called it by its acronym, ICE, which was appropriate as I felt pretty frozen in my job. I guess that was true of most of my life.

  The lawyer and I had had eye contact before. It was two or three weeks back when I had stepped on an elevator that he was already on. The button for the seventh floor was lit, which was further evidence that he was a lawyer, since the top two floors of the tower were occupied by law firms.

  He had smiled at me, and I’d given him an obligatory return smile. I remember his gaze had lingered on me a little longer than I’d expected, long enough to make me feel self-conscious. He’d looked at me as if he knew me, or wanted to say something, then he’d turned away. I thought he had stolen a glance at my bare ring finger, though later I decided that it had just been my imagination. I had gotten off the elevator on the third floor with another woman, who sighed, “He was gorgeous.” I had nodded in agreement.

  After that, the lawyer and I had run into each other dozens of times, each time offering the same obligatory smiles. But today he was staring at me. Then he got up and started across the room toward me, a violation of our unspoken relational agreement.

  At first I thought he was walking toward me, then I thought he wasn’t, which made me feel stupid, like when someone waves at you in a crowd and you’re not sure who they are, but you wave back before realizing that they were waving at someone behind you. But then there he was, this gorgeous man, standing five feet in front of me, staring at me with my mouth full of salad.

  “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi,” I returned, swallowing insufficiently chewed lettuce.

  “Do you mind if I join you?”

  I hesitated. “No, it’s okay.”

  As he sat down he reached across the table. “My name is Nicholas. Nicholas Derr. You can call me Nick.”

  “Hi, Nicholas,” I said, subtly refusing his offer of titular intimacy. “I’m Elise.”

  “Elise,” he echoed. “That’s a pretty name.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Want to see something funny?”

  Before I could answer, he unfolded a piece of paper from his coat pocket, then set it on the table in front of me. “A colleague of mine just showed these to me.”

  I know a guy who’s addicted to brake fluid. He says he can stop anytime.

  I didn’t like my beard at first. Then it grew on me.

  He pointed to the last one. “This is my favorite.”

  I stayed up all night to see where the sun went. Then it dawned on me.

  “Is that what you do at work?” I asked.

  “Pretty much. That and computer solitaire,” he said, folding the paper back into his pocket. “How about you?”

  “Candy Crush.”

  “I mean, where do you work?”

  “On the third floor of the tower. It’s a travel company.”

  “What’s it called?”

  “I.C.E.”

  “Ice?”

  “It stands for International Consortium of Education.”

  “What kind of travel do you do?”

  “We arrange educational tours for high school students to historic sites, like Colonial Williamsburg or Philadelphia or New York. Teachers sign up their classes.”

  “I wouldn’t think there was a lot of travel on a teacher’s salary.”

  “That’s the point,” I said. “If they get enough of their students signed up, they come along free as chaperones.”

  “Ah, it’s a racket.”

  “Basically. Let me guess, you’re a lawyer.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “You look like one. What’s your firm?”

  “Derr, Nelson and McKay.”

  “That’s a mouthful,” I said. “Speaking of which, do you mind if I finish eating before my salad gets cold?”

  He cocked his head. “Isn’t salad supposed to be cold?”

  “Not the meat. It’s sweet pork.”

  “No, please eat.” He leaned back a little while I ate, surveying the room. “Looks like the holiday assault force has landed. I wish they would take a break this year. The holidays depress me.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Because it’s lonely just watching others celebrate.”

  It was exactly how I felt. “I know what you mean.”

  “I thought you might.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I just noticed that you usually eat alone.”

  I immediately went on the defensive. “It’s only because my workmates and I take different lunchtimes to watch the phones.”

  He frowned. “I didn’t mean to offend you. I’m just saying that I’ve noticed we’ve both spent a lot of time down here alone.”

  “I didn’t notice,” I lied.

  He looked into my eyes. “So you’re probably wondering what I want.”

  “It’s crossed my mind.”

  “It’s taken me a few days to get up the courage to come over here and talk to you, which is saying something, since I’m not afraid of much.” He hesitated for a moment, as if gathering his thoughts. “The first time I saw you I thought, Why is such a beautiful woman sitting there alone? Then I saw you the next day, and the next day . . .”

  “Your point?” I said.

  “My point is, I’m tired of being alone during the holidays. I’m tired of walking through holiday crowds of humanity feeling like a social leper.” He looked into my eyes. “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Tired of being alone during the holidays.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m good.”

  He looked surprised. “Really?”

  “Really.”

  He looked surprised and a little deflated. “Oh,” he said, looking down as if thinking. Then he looked back up at me and forced a smile. “Good, then. That’s good for you. I’m glad you’re happy.” He stood. “Well, Elise, it was a pleasure to finally meet you. I’m sorry to bother you. Enjoy your salad and have a nice holiday.” He turned to leave.

  “Wait a second,” I said. “Where are you going?”

  “Back to work.”

  “Why did you come over here?”

  “It’s not important.”

  “It was important enough for you to cross the food court.”

  “It was important. Now it’s moot.”

  “Moot?” I said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s moot.”

  He looked at me for a moment, then sat back down. “I just thought that maybe you felt the same way about the holidays as I do, but since you’re good, you clearly don’t. So what I was going to say is now moot.”

  I looked at him a moment, then said, “I might have exaggerated my contentment. So what were you going to say that is now moot?”

  “I had a proposition to make.”

  “Right here in the food court?”

  “We could go to my office if you prefer.”

  “No, here in public is good.”

  “I’ll cut to the chase. Socially, this is a busy time of year for me. And, li
ke I said, I’m tired of being alone during the holidays, going to all my company and client dinners and parties alone, enduring everyone’s sympathy and answering everyone’s questions about why a successful, nice-looking attorney is still single. And, for the sake of argument, we’ll say that you’re also tired of doing the holidays solo.”

  “Go on,” I said.

  “As one who would rather light a candle than curse the darkness, I say that we do something about it. What I’m proposing is a mutually beneficial holiday arrangement. For the next eight weeks we are, for all intents and purposes, a couple.”

  I looked at him blankly. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Think about it,” he said. “It’s the perfect solution. We don’t know each other, so there’s no deep stuff, no pain, no bickering. The only commitment is to be good to each other and to be good company.”

  “And being good company means ending up back at your place?”

  “No, I’m proposing a purely platonic relationship. Maybe we publicly hold hands now and then to sell the facade, but that’s the extent of our physicality.”

  I shook my head skeptically. “Men can’t have platonic relationships.”

  “In real life, you’re probably right. But this isn’t real life. It’s fiction. And it’s just until Christmas.”

  “How do I know you’re not a serial killer?”

  He laughed. “You don’t. You could ask my ex, but no one’s found the body.”

  “What?”

  “Just kidding. I’ve never been married.”

  “You’re serious about this?”

  He nodded. “Completely.”

  “I think you’re crazy.”

  “Maybe. Or maybe I’m a genius and everyone will be doing this in the future.”

  I slowly shook my head, not sure of what to think of the proposal or the proposer.