The Mistletoe Inn by Richard Paul Evans

few weeks I spent most of my time after work revising my novel, but you can only do that so many times before the words all start to look the same. It’s simple psychology. After you’ve driven the same route a thousand times, you stop noticing the landscape. My father was right, a retreat would be helpful. Still, after he had sacrificed so much, the pressure of going to the conference was heavy. What if it didn’t work out? How would I tell him that no one wanted my book?
    To add pain to my misery, Rachelle and her new boyfriend were now talking marriage and I was suddenly her confidant. It was like she got some sadistic pleasure out of telling me how happy she was and, twisting the knife, how certain she was that I would someday find someone nice as well, managing to wrap her condescending tone in faux magnanimity.
    As the days went on, my father’s cancer was always in the back of my mind, lurking in the shadows like a stalker. I was relieved when he finally had his first appointment with an oncologist at the VA a week after I’d flown home. He called me that night after work.
    â€œWhat did he say?” I asked.
    â€œActually, it was a cancer care team,” he said. “And, generally speaking, they were pretty positive about things. Other than the cancer, I’m quite healthy, so surgery is an option. They’re recommending a partial colectomy followed by some chemo.”
    â€œWhen are they going to operate?”
    He paused. “Sometime next year. Maybe next February.”
    â€œ Maybe next February? They’re making you wait?”
    â€œIt’s just the way it is. They’re backlogged.”
    â€œThat’s too long,” I said. “It could spread. There’s got to be something we can do. Someone we can talk to.”
    â€œThere’s no need to get so upset. If it was more urgent, I’m sure they would have scheduled me sooner. They’re not going to take chances with someone’s life.”
    â€œYou don’t know that,” I said. “Bureaucracy kills people. This isn’t right. I’m going to make some calls. I’m going to talk to your oncologist.”
    â€œI talked to my oncologist,” he said. “He said this is what they can do.”
    â€œBut is it what they should do?”
    â€œHe said that he’ll do all he can. He can’t break the rules, but sometimes he can bend them. So stop worrying about me; everything will be okay. You’ve got a writing retreat coming up. You need to be focused.”
    â€œHow am I supposed to be focused when I’m worried about you?”
    â€œYou just focus on knocking them dead at that retreat. That’s what I want.”
    I sighed. “I’ll do my best.”
    â€œI love you.”
    â€œI love you too, Dad.” As I hung up the phone, I wished that I had never told him about the retreat.

CHAPTER
Ten
    Sometimes there’s a fine line between trepidation and excitement.
    Kimberly Rossi’s Diary

The morning of December 10th I parked my car in the long-term parking lot of the Denver Airport and took the shuttle in to the terminal. There wasn’t a direct flight from Denver to Burlington, Vermont, so I had a three-hour layover in Detroit, where I ate lunch and wandered through the airport. In a magazine shop I watched people browse through the books. How would that be? I wondered. To have a book on one of those shelves?
    It was dark when my cab drove up a pine-lined lane to the Mistletoe Inn, each of the trees wrapped with white Christmas lights.
    â€œIt looks cozy,” I said.
    â€œYeah,” the driver said. “It’s a real nice place. Kind of fancy.”
    The inn was decorated for the season with twinkling, draped garlands running the length of the hotel, glowing against the snow-blanketed backdrop of the deep purple night.
    As I got out of the taxi, a young man wearing a long blue wool coat with black piping and a black