The Mistletoe Inn Read Free Page B

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
    A ttention A spiring R omance W riters—
    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 Readings
    S pecial K eynote S peaker
    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 neededsomething 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.
    â€œHey, Dad.”
    â€œ Ciao, bella . How are you?”
    â€œI’m okay,” I said. “How are you?”
    â€œ Bene, bene .” He sounded tired. “I wanted to make sure you’re still coming out for Thanksgiving.”
    â€œOf course.”
    â€œAnd Christmas?”
    â€œThat too.”
    â€œDo you know what day you’ll be here?”
    â€œFor Thanksgiving, Wednesday afternoon. I’m not sure about Christmas. What day is Christmas this year?”
    â€œIt’s on a Tuesday.”
    â€œI’ll probably be out the Sunday before, if that’s okay.”
    â€œGreat, but you might have to take a cab from the airport. There’s a chance I might not be back until late Sunday night.”
    â€œWhere are you going?”
    â€œA group of us are taking a Harley ride over to Albuquerque.”
    â€œThat sounds fun. Just be careful.”
    â€œI always am.”
    â€œYou know, your Harley has two seats.”
    â€œAre you inviting yourself?”
    â€œI meant you