The Mistletoe Inn

I looked up at him. He was gazing at me with an insipid grin.

  “It’s a little warm,” I said. “If you like I can turn down the heat.”

  “No,” he said, a little thrown that I hadn’t fallen for his line. “I like it hot.” Then he started to hum that song, “. . . some like it hot, some sweat when the heat is on . . .” He was definitely sweating.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s your phone number?”

  “My phone number,” he repeated. “My phone number.” He pretended to look through his pockets. Then he said, “I seem to have misplaced it. Can I have yours?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  He just looked at me.

  “Your phone number?” I repeated.

  “It’s 555-445-3989.”

  I typed in the number. I hoped that the awkwardness had successfully dissuaded him but it hadn’t. A few minutes later he said, “Your name is Kimberly?”

  “Yes.”

  “May I call you Kim?”

  “Yes, you may,” I said, continuing typing.

  A beat later he asked, “What time?”

  I looked up. “What time . . . what?”

  “What time may I call you, Kim?”

  I breathed out slowly. “Okay, Mr. Craig . . .”

  “Tim.”

  “I’m flattered, Tim, but I’m not in the market right now, so you just hang on to those gems for some other lucky gal.”

  He slightly blushed. “Sorry.”

  “No need to be sorry,” I said. “Now, if you’ll just fill out your insurance information.”

  He silently filled out the paperwork. When he finished he said, “Are you almost off work?”

  I looked up from my computer.

  “Because, if you are, I’ll take you for a ride in my new car. Maybe we could go to dinner. Or something.”

  “Just a minute,” I said, standing. “May I get you some water?”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “I meant to cool you off.”

  “No, I’m good,” he said.

  “All right, I’ll be right back.”

  I walked into the employee break room and grabbed myself a ginger ale. My manager, Steve, was sitting at a table working on his iPad. Steve was a good guy, and one of my few real friends at the dealership.

  “Just kill me now,” I said. “Please.”

  “What’s going on?”

  “Mr. Beret is. He thinks the car should come with a dealer-installed woman.”

  “That would increase sales,” Steve said. “I wonder if it’s ever been done.”

  “You’re not being helpful.”

  “Sorry. Is it the GX?”

  “Yes.”

  “Wasn’t that Rachelle’s?”

  “Was. She asked me to take it for her. She had a hot date.”

  “Rachelle always has a hot date,” he said. “Want me to finish up for you?”

  “No. I just needed someone to commiserate with.”

  “Consider yourself co-commiserated.”

  “Thanks.”

  I started to walk back to my office when Steve said, “Just tell him you’re not interested in dating.”

  “Yeah, I did.”

  “It didn’t help?”

  “No.”

  As I walked back to my office I thought, Is that what everyone thinks about me?

  CHAPTER

  Three

  There have been seasons of my life when rejection rained down. And then there have been typhoons.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  In spite of the Denver traffic, my commute wasn’t too bad. I was glad to get home. For once I had plans for the evening. I had a second date with Collin, a man I had met at the dealership. He wasn’t buying a car—he was a vendor who sold tools to our service bay. I had gone to get a bottle of water from the waiting area and he was there drinking a coffee. He struck up a conversation by the coffeemaker, then asked me out.

  I stopped by the Java Hut for a coffee, then headed home. I lived in a decent but inexpensive apartment complex in Thornton, about a half hour from the dealership. Walking into my apartment with my hands filled with my coffee, purse, and mail, I heard my phone chirp with a text message.

  “You will have to wait,” I said to myself. I unlocked my door and went inside. I set down my coffee and mail, then dug through my purse for my phone. I lifted it to read the text message. It was from Collin.

  Sorry. Something came up. Rain check? I’ll call you.

  I’m sure you will, I thought. I sighed. I liked the guy. I felt like a rejection magnet.

  I started looking through my mail. There was a letter from the Boulder County Clerk’s office. I tore it open.

  IN THE DISTRICT COURT OF THE BOULDER JUDICIAL DISTRICT OF THE STATE OF COLORADO, IN AND FOR THE COUNTY OF BOULDER

  Kimberly Rossi,

  Plaintiff,

  vs.

  Marcus Y. Stewart,

  Defendant.

  Case No.: 4453989

  DECREE OF DIVORCE

  This matter came before the court on the seventh day of October 2012. It appears from the records and files of this action that a Complaint was filed and served upon the Defendant.

  The rest of the letter was just typical legal jargon, which basically said over and over that we were over. However, the last line stopped me.

  3. Name Change. Wife will retain the last name of Rossi.

  Rossi again, I thought. Back to where I started.

  The paper was dated and signed by the magistrate and judge. The formalities of our divorce had taken longer than I had expected, as Marcus had fought the divorce the whole way. He wasn’t trying to keep me, he was trying to keep his money.

  I don’t know why the letter made our separation feel any more official—I hadn’t seen Marcus for more than six months—but it did. He was a liar, a cheater, and he didn’t love me. So why was I so sad?

  I flipped through the rest of the mail. As a child, I had thought mail was something magical. There were handwritten letters, cards, and thank-you notes. Now it seemed to be nothing but circulars and junk mail—the physical equivalent of spam.

  Then I saw a letter from a publisher.

  “Please, please, please.” I tore open the envelope.

  Monday, October 12, 2012

  Dear Author,

  They didn’t use my name. Not a good sign.

  Thank you for giving us the opportunity to consider your manuscript. We read it with interest. While there was much to like about your book, we regret we will not be making an offer of publication. We do not feel that we are the right publishing house to successfully publish your book.

  Thank you for thinking of us, and we wish you every success in finding a publisher for your work.

  Yours sincerely,

  Sharlene Drexell

  Strike three. I sighed loudly. Actually, it was more of a groan. The universe must have conspired to bring me so much rejection at once. I was almost in a daze as I looked through the rest of the mail, which I did more out of habit than of interest.

  That’s when I saw the card for a writers’ conference at the Mistletoe Inn.

  CHAPTER

  Four

  There are people whom we’ve never met in person yet feel closer to than those we brush up against in real life.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  I must be on a wannabe-writer list somewhere. Six years ago I attended a two-day writing seminar in San Francisco and ever since then I’ve gotten notices every month about the latest writing conference, seminar, retreat, or authors’ workshop—a faucet I’d probably turn off if I had any idea where the spigot was. But this one looked interesting.

  THE MISTLETOE INN WRITERS’ RETREAT

  Attention Aspiring Romance Writers—

  Bring Your Brand of Love to the Mistletoe Inn!

  This Holiday Give Yourself a Once-in-a-Lifetime Christmas Gift.

  Writing Workshops • Panel Discussions

  Agent Pitch Sessions • Open Mic Rea
dings

  Special Keynote Speaker

  H. T. Cowell

  December 10–17, 2012

  $2,199 includes room / breakfast & lunch each day

  What especially caught my eye was the name H. T. Cowell—and not just because his name was printed in type twice the size of everything else on the piece. Cowell had earned twenty-point type. You probably remember him, or at least his name. He was once the bestselling romance writer in America.

  Actually he was one of the bestselling writers of any genre. He didn’t just dominate the genre, he defined it. What Stephen King did for horror, Cowell did for romance. He’s also the writer who made me want to be a writer. For years I read everything he wrote. And then, like the other men in my life, he was gone. The difference was, no one knew where he went.

  Cowell, who was reclusive to begin with—his books didn’t even have an author photo—was one of those literary-world enigmas like J. D. Salinger or E. M. Forster who, at the top of their game, disappeared into the shadowy ether of obscurity, like a literary version of Amelia Earhart.

  Of course, that just made him more intriguing to his readers. The year he stopped writing was the same year Danny left me. I think, on some level, I had fallen in love with H. T. Cowell. Or at least the idea of him. I couldn’t believe that after all this time he was coming out in public.

  I looked over the advertisement, then set it apart from the rest of the mail. The event was pricey, at least for me, but it was, as advertised, a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And right now I needed a once-in-a-lifetime experience. I needed something to look forward to. Frankly, I needed something to live for. I looked over the advertisement again.

  To book your space, call 555-2127. Or register online.

  I made myself some ramen noodles for dinner, then was turning on The Bachelor when my phone rang. It was my father.

  “Hey, Dad.”

  “Ciao, bella. How are you?”

  “I’m okay,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Bene, bene.” He sounded tired. “I wanted to make sure you’re still coming out for Thanksgiving.”

  “Of course.”

  “And Christmas?”

  “That too.”

  “Do you know what day you’ll be here?”

  “For Thanksgiving, Wednesday afternoon. I’m not sure about Christmas. What day is Christmas this year?”

  “It’s on a Tuesday.”

  “I’ll probably be out the Sunday before, if that’s okay.”

  “Great, but you might have to take a cab from the airport. There’s a chance I might not be back until late Sunday night.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “A group of us are taking a Harley ride over to Albuquerque.”

  “That sounds fun. Just be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  “You know, your Harley has two seats.”

  “Are you inviting yourself?”

  “I meant you might want to take a friend. A female friend.”

  “Well, don’t faint, but I’ve invited someone. I’m waiting for her to get back to me.”

  This was a first. “Does this someone have a name?”

  “Alice. She works down at the VA. We’ve been spending some time together lately.”

  “It’s about time.”

  “It’s nothing serious,” he quickly added. “I’m not really looking for anything but a little companionship.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  “How about you?” he asked. “Any new friends?”

  “Nothing special.”

  “No need to rush into anything. And I’m so glad you’re coming out. We’ll have a wonderful, relaxing time.”

  “That sounds nice,” I said. “Nothing like the dry desert heat to warm your bones. Especially at Christmas.”

  “Which reminds me. What do you want for Christmas?”

  “I don’t need anything,” I said.

  “I didn’t ask what you needed, I asked what you wanted. Besides, I’m just spending your inheritance anyway. You want it now or after I check out and taxes are higher?”

  “I’d rather you not talk about ‘checking out.’ You’re going to live forever.”

  “Ah, denial.” He was quiet a moment, then said softly, “We all check out sometime, baby.”

  “Can we please not talk about this?”

  “Sorry. So help me out here. What can I give you for Christmas? My mutual funds did well this year. I’d like to do something meaningful.”

  I hesitated a moment, then said, “Well, there is something.”

  “Name it.”

  “I wouldn’t ask for you to do the whole thing, but maybe you could help me with part of it. There’s a romance writers’ conference in Vermont that I’d like to go to.”

  “Still holding on to the dream?”

  “Barely,” I said.

  “I’m glad you are,” he said. “You’re such a talented writer. You hang on to it. Without dreams, life is a desert.”

  “With a love life like mine I should be writing horror, not romance.”

  “We’re Italians. We invented the word romance. So you just hang on to that dream until it happens. That’s what gets us up in the morning.”

  I sighed. “So what do you dream about?”

  “My daughter,” he said without hesitation. “Mostly. And her next visit. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “I can’t wait to see you, Dad. I love you.”

  “I love you too, girl.”

  CHAPTER

  Five

  Like a balloon, a full heart is easier to puncture.

  Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

  The next few weeks passed slowly. We had several major snowstorms, and business at the dealership was slow. There’s a predictable psychology of car sales and people don’t like to buy new cars in the snow, unless, of course, there’s too much snow and they suddenly need a four-wheel-drive vehicle.

  I was very glad for Thanksgiving break. I left work early Wednesday afternoon and drove myself out to the airport for my flight to Vegas.

  Much can be said about the Denver airport, and much is. There are groups of conspiracy theorists who believe that the Denver airport is the secret headquarters of the Illuminati, New World Order, or the Neo-Nazi party, evidenced by the fact that from the air, the airport purportedly looks like a giant swastika.

  My favorite theory is that the airport is an underground base for aliens. However, if the airport were run by aliens, you would think they would do a better job of managing things. A technically advanced civilization that can travel at light speed should, for instance, be able to get your luggage to you.

  And then there’s Blucifer, the airport’s famous thirty-two-foot, anatomically correct blue horse sculpture. With its blazing red-bulb eyes and crazed expression, the piece is enough to stir fear in the most seasoned flier. What adds to the sculpture’s lore is the fact that in a Frankenstein’s-monster sort of way, the creation killed its creator. Luis Jiménez, the sculpture’s artist, was crushed when a piece of the massive sculpture fell on him.

  Not surprisingly, the airport was slammed with pre-Thanksgiving traffic, and the security line at Denver International looked more like the start of the Boston Marathon than any sort of a civilized queue. The insanity didn’t ease after the security checkpoint, as every gate was thronged with travelers.

  As I was at the gate checking on a possible seat upgrade, a harried young father walked up next to me.

  “There’s been a mistake,” he said to a ticket agent, laying a stack of boarding passes on the counter in front of him. “They’ve scattered our seats throughout the plane.”

  The agent, who looked as if he’d had better days, glanced down at the passes, then back up. “I’m sorry,” he said gruffly, “the flight’s overbooked. There’s nothing I can do about it now.”

  “But we have four children,” he said. “Three of them are under four. Our flight’s already been delayed three hours. These k
ids are going crazy.”

  “You should have thought of that when you booked the tickets.”

  “I should have thought that you would delay the flight three hours?” the man asked.

  “A delayed flight’s always a possibility, sir. But I meant you should have booked your seats together.”

  “They were all booked at the same time six weeks in advance. There was no reason to believe that you would scatter them.”

  “I didn’t do anything to your seats,” he said defensively. “And it’s out of my hands. There’s nothing I can do about it.”

  I looked sympathetically at the frustrated man, wondering what he would do.

  “Can I talk to a manager?” he asked, doing his best to remain civil.

  “She’s not here right now,” the agent said. “We’re a bit busy.” He scooped up the passes and handed them back. “I’ll call you up to the counter when she can talk. But, like I said, the flight’s overbooked. I doubt there’s anything she can do.”

  The man took his passes and returned to a seat next to his wife, who looked equally stressed—more so after he relayed the information he’d just received.

  I was told that all the first-class passengers had checked in, so I took a seat directly across from the man and his family. I watched the exhausted couple become increasingly exasperated as their small children grew more impatient. About forty-five minutes later the man still hadn’t been called up so he returned to the counter. The agent spoke loud enough that I could hear him say curtly, “I told you I’d call you up when she had time.”

  The man again returned to his seat. Busy or not, there was no excuse for the agent’s rudeness, I thought.

  Another half hour passed when the man stood and walked back up to the counter. The gate agent stiffened as the man approached and I expected an explosive confrontation. Instead, the man said, “Hey, about my request. Don’t worry about it.”

  The agent looked at him with a blank expression. “What?”

  “It’s cool, really. You’re busy, don’t worry about it. We’re good.”

  The agent looked even more disturbed than before. “What?”

  “Look,” the man said calmly. “After four hours in this airport with these kids, we’re exhausted. If you’re offering free babysitting, we’re all over that. They can be someone else’s problems.” He turned and walked back to his seat, leaving the agent speechless. Less than ten minutes later the agent paged the man over the intercom, then said nothing as he handed the man a pile of boarding passes, presumably all next to each other.