CHAPTER
Thirty-two
We cannot run fast enough to escape some failures.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
On the flight back to Denver my mind kept changing channels. If only I had known the whole story, I thought. But that’s the point of love, isn’t it? We never know the whole story. The true test of our hearts is how we respond with what we have. Zeke had put himself out there, and I had rejected him. I had failed miserably. I had failed him. He was a beautiful soul, more than I deserved. I hoped he was okay, then I thought, Don’t flatter yourself. He’s H. T. Cowell. I’m sure there are already a thousand women lined up for the chance you just blew. Especially after his real love story hits the press. It’s better than any of the love stories he’s ever written.
The flight home was direct and, with the time change, I landed just before sunset at around 5 p.m. In my absence the city had been hit by several large snowstorms and from the air Denver looked like a ruffled, white linen sheet.
I picked up my bag and took the shuttle out to my car, which wasn’t easy to find since it looked like an igloo covered with more than a foot of snow. I got my snow brush from the backseat, dug out my car, then drove home to Thornton.
My apartment was as dark and cold as I felt inside. I had forgotten how quiet it was. I switched on the lights, turned up the heat, undressed, and took a warm shower. A half hour later, as my water heater began to run out of hot water, I got out and dressed, then went to make myself some dinner. My refrigerator was pretty much bare, so I made some ramen noodles, then drove to the grocery store to pick up some food.
As the cashier rang up the woman in front of me, I examined her purchases. Along with her groceries she had a mass-market paperback romance, the kind usually referred to as a “bodice ripper,” with a long-haired, bare-chested hunk on the cover.
“We don’t sell as many of those as we used to,” the checker said to the woman. “These days, people just download them from the Internet.”
“I’m old-fashioned,” the woman said. “I still like the feel of paper. And I like to read in the bath. I’d probably just drop an e-book in the water.”
“I know what you mean. If I really like an author, sometimes I’ll buy the e-book and the paper book.” She finished ringing the woman up. “That’ll be forty-nine-oh-five. You can scan your card right there.”
As the woman ran her credit card through the reader, the cashier said, “I heard on the news that H. T. Cowell is coming out with another book.”
The woman looked up with interest. “I thought he was dead.”
“No. He just stopped writing for a while. But he’s come out of retirement.”
“I loved his books,” she said.
“Don’t we all? I’ve already ordered it online.”
“Thanks for the tip.”
“No problem. Have a good day.” The cashier turned to me. “Evening, darling. Paper or plastic?”
“Plastic, please.”
She began ringing up my items. “That’s a good deal on those red peppers. Do you have a customer discount card?”
“Yes. Right here.” I handed her my card.
She scanned it, then handed it back. “That will save you a little.”
As she bagged my purchases, I said, “I overheard some of your conversation. I’ve met H. T. Cowell.”
“Is that right? What was he like?”
Unexpectedly my eyes filled up with tears. “He was . . .” A tear fell down my cheek. I suddenly wished I hadn’t said anything. “Sorry,” I said, wiping my eyes with my sleeve.
The woman smiled a little. “I used to get the same way whenever I’d read one of his books. The man makes women cry for a living.” She finished ringing up my groceries. “Have a good evening.”
“You too.”
As I walked to my car I realized that I would never be able to escape him.
CHAPTER
Thirty-three
Routine is the refuge of cowards, failures, and the wise.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
I was glad to be back at work on Monday morning. I needed something to get my mind off my pain. I had only been in my office for ten minutes before Steve came in.
“I’m so glad you’re back. Rachelle’s so distracted with her upcoming nuptials that she keeps making mistakes. How was your book conference?”
“It was a writers’ conference,” I said. “It was good.”
“Good,” he echoed. “Well, if you hit it big with your book, that doesn’t mean you can just leave us all behind.”
“I wouldn’t be looking for my replacement anytime soon.”
His smile fell. “I shouldn’t be sorry to hear that, but I am. You deserve a break.”
“Thanks, Steve.”
“Welcome home,” he said.
The day was busy. Car sales are always big right before Christmas. Our clientele were the kind of people who would call on Christmas Eve and say, “I want a new car for my husband delivered on Christmas Eve with a ribbon on it” and we’d move heaven and earth to make it happen. All morning long I had a steady flow of clients in my office. I finally got a short lunch break at one.
As I walked into the break room, Rachelle was eating lunch with Charlene, one of our newer salespeople. Rachelle looked up at me as I entered. “Hey, Kim, didn’t you just meet H. T. Cowell at some conference?”
Now Zeke has followed me to work. I nodded. “Yeah. He was the keynote speaker.” I walked over and took a can of Diet Coke from the refrigerator.
“That’s so cool,” Rachelle said. “There was an article about him in USA Today this morning. And you know how no one knows what he looks like? There was almost a full-page picture of him. He’s gorgeous.”
“What did the article say?” I asked.
“It said he’s coming out with a new book and the movie rights have already been sold. And he finally told why he stopped writing. It was because his wife died. I mean, is that romantic or what? After all his success, she committed suicide.”
“Why would she do that?” Charlene said. “People die for that kind of life, not because they got it.”
“She didn’t kill herself,” I said. “It was an accident.”
Rachelle shook her head. “No, she killed herself. I just read it in the paper.”
“Then whoever wrote the article got it wrong,” I said. “His wife was pregnant and died of a hemorrhage. It was an accident.”
Rachelle didn’t back down. “And you know this because . . . ?”
“Because he told me,” I snapped. The sound of my voice fairly echoed, leaving me embarrassed. The two women just looked at me.
“H. T. Cowell told you how his wife died?” Rachelle said.
“You talked to H. T. Cowell?” Charlene asked.
“Yes.”
Rachelle looked at me skeptically. “You mean, like, not in a crowd, but one-on-one.”
I felt like I was talking to six-year-olds. Obnoxious six-year-olds. “Yes, I talked to him like we’re talking now.”
Rachelle looked like it was all she could do not to laugh. “So you and H. T. Cowell are now BFFs.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you’re talking about really personal things . . .”
I breathed out slowly to relieve my annoyance with her. “Yes. We went on a few dates.”
Rachelle looked so incredulous I thought she was going to burst out laughing. “You dated H. T. Cowell?” she said.
“Yes, I dated H. T. Cowell. Why is that so hard to believe?”
The two women just grinned like they were sharing an inside joke.
“I don’t know,” Rachelle said. “Why wouldn’t we believe that you’re secretly dating one of the most famous writers in the world?”
Both women continued to gape at me. After a moment I said, “You’re right. I wouldn’t believe it either. Why would he date someone like me?”
I took my drink back to my office, shut my door, and cried.
CHAPTER
Thirty-four
I’m not sure where home is anymore, but I want to be there.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
My father called that night on the way home from work. “You didn’t call.”
“Sorry. I wasn’t feeling well last night. How are you feeling?”
“I’m fine,” he said dismissively. “How was the rest of the retreat?”
“It was fine.”
“For as much as it cost, I expected more than fine.”
“Sorry, it was great. It was much better than the San Francisco one.”
“How was Cowell? Was he worth the money?”
I hesitated. “I’d rather not talk about it.”
“So the conference was good, but Cowell was a disappointment.”
“I didn’t say that. It’s just . . .” There was a long pause. “It’s just complicated.”
I’m sure my father knew that there was more; he could read me like a Times Square billboard, but he also knew when not to press. “You’re still coming out for Christmas, aren’t you?”
“Yes. I’ll be there Sunday night if that’s okay.”
“Of course.”
“I’d come sooner if I could, but work’s crazy and I was gone all last week.”
“I understand.”
I sighed. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
“Maybe it’s time you moved back, girl.”
For the first time ever I didn’t launch into a defense. After a moment I said, “Maybe it is.”
To my surprise my father didn’t jump on my concession. Either he was too surprised or he heard the defeat in my voice. Probably the latter. He finally said, “I’m just glad you’re coming when you can. You’re Christmas to me.”
“Thank you, Dad. I’ll see you Sunday night.”
As I hung up the phone I pushed out the thought that this might be the last Christmas we’d ever have together.
CHAPTER
Thirty-five
Finally, good news. Finally.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The Las Vegas casinos do a large advertising push outside the United States during the holidays, so the airport is always crowded around Christmas with international tourists. My plane landed at nine-thirty, and after fighting the crowds for almost an hour, I retrieved my bag and met my father at the curb.
As usual he got out of his car to greet me. I was stunned when I saw him. As thin as he already was at Thanksgiving, he’d probably lost another ten or more pounds. Also, his eyes looked hollow and ringed as if he hadn’t slept well for a while. It took effort not to show my concern. In spite of his condition his face beamed with joy. “How was your flight, sweetie?”
“You know, the usual holiday insanity.”
As he put his arms around me I could feel how different his body was. The cancer was taking its toll. I still couldn’t believe that they were making him wait until February to operate. It was obvious to me that at the rate he was deteriorating, February might be too late.
“It’s so good to see you,” he said, kissing my cheek. He opened my door and took my bag and set it in the backseat. I sadly noticed that he had a little trouble lifting my bag. He’d lost muscle as well.
As we were driving away from the airport he turned off the radio, then said to me, “I have some good news.”
I looked over at him. “You’re getting married.”
“I said good news.”
“Tell me.”
“I have a new oncologist.”
“At the VA?”
He smiled, excited to answer. “No, at the Henderson Clinic. And they’re going to operate this coming Friday.”
My heart leapt. “What?”
“It gets better. The doctor’s name is Lance Bangerter. He’s ranked as one of the top-five colon cancer experts in the country.”
Even though my father was merging onto the freeway I leaned over and hugged him. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!” My eyes welled up. “You have no idea how much this means to me.”
“I think I do,” he replied. “And thank God. He’s the one who arranged it.”
“I thought your insurance didn’t cover the institute.”
“It doesn’t,” he said.
“I don’t care,” I said. “Whatever it takes. I’ll give you every penny I have.”
He looked at me lovingly. “I know you would, sweetheart. But you don’t have to. Things have worked out. Fate has smiled on me.”
“It couldn’t smile on a more deserving man.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said. “But the longer I live the more certain I am that God is in the details.”
We pulled into the driveway. My father wouldn’t let me carry in my bag, and even though it pained me to see him struggle with my suitcase, I knew it would be demoralizing to him if I didn’t let him take it. As we walked into the house I noticed the fish tank was gone.
“Where are your fish?”
“They died,” he said, shaking his head. “So I sold everything. I guess I chose the wrong hobby.”
I looked around the house. As usual, my father had put up his Christmas tree in the front room to the side of the television. It was one of those expensive fake PVC ones that looked real. It had red and silver baubles and strings of flashing colored lights and a lit star on top. There were presents under the tree, which I knew were for me. I was dismayed that in addition to the conference he’d bought me more gifts.
“Those had better not be for me,” I said.
“Who else would they be for?” he said.
“You already gave me the writers’ retreat.”
“Let an old man have his fun.”
“You’re not old,” I said. Then I smiled. “But you are fun.”
After we were in my room, my father said, “I guess I’ll turn in. I’m sure you’re exhausted; it’s almost midnight in Denver.”
I knew that he was much more tired than I was, but I said, “Good night, Dad. I’ll see you in the morning.”
As he started out of my room I said, “Dad.”
He turned back.
“Thank you for changing your mind about that clinic.”
He smiled. “Remember, sweetheart. Our best years are still to come.”
After he left I undressed, turned out the light, and climbed under the covers. As I lay in bed I actually smiled. Things hadn’t been going my way lately, but now the most important thing had. My father was getting the care he needed. I didn’t know how we’d pay for the treatment, but at the moment, I didn’t care. All that mattered was that he had a chance. I knew that in spite of all my pain I was still a very lucky woman. It made me sad that I wanted to call Zeke and tell him.
CHAPTER
Thirty-six
Change is coming. I don’t know how I know this, but I can feel it.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
I got up early Christmas Eve morning, put on my sweats, and went for a walk. The temperature was in the high sixties, again a veritable heat wave compared to Denver. Why do I live in Denver?
There was already heavy traffic on the main roads, and I guessed that the procrastinators were out in force frantically pursuing those last-minute Christmas purchases.
Looking out over the horizon I breathed in the luxurious dry desert air. It was time for a change in my life. A new year was coming. A new year, a new life. Denver is a nice city but Las Vegas was home. I was finally ready to come home. I needed to be home. My father would need help through his recovery. I owed him that. More than that, I wanted to help him. He was the one person who had never let me down. It was about time I returned the favor.
The more I thought about moving back the more it made sense. There were dozens of car dealerships in Las Vegas and at least three Lexus dealerships. With my experience and references I wouldn’t have trouble finding a job. I would miss Steve. But not anyone else. Not Rachelle. Definitely not Rachelle.
The idea of moving home filled me
with joy. I wasn’t scheduled to be back at work until January 2. That gave me the entire week after Christmas to find employment and get things in order. I just needed to make it through Christmas.
CHAPTER
Thirty-seven
For individuals, as for nations, there are days that live in infamy.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
The power of Christmas is its capacity to evoke memories. For most, the familiar songs and decorations bring back cherished feelings of Christmas past—fond memories of shared experiences with family and loved ones.
For my father and me, that power was turned against us and Christmas brought out the worst of memories. Crippling memories. Christmas Day 1995 was the day we found my mother dead.
For me 1995 carried its own special horror. It was still morning. I had opened my presents with my father, as my mother was in bed with a migraine.
I still remember what I got that year. Trauma has a way of indelibly linking the incidentals to the profound. I received boxes of Swedish Fish and Lemonheads, some clothes, the album Pieces of You by Jewel, and my big present, a Sony Discman CD player.
I had just opened the last of my gifts when my father got up to check on my mother. It seemed that he was gone a long time and I put on my earphones and started listening to “Who Will Save Your Soul” on my new CD player. Even with the music playing I heard him cry out. I ran into the bedroom to find my father on his knees bent over my mother’s still body. He was sobbing.
CHAPTER
Thirty-eight
The truth will set us free not only from external shackles but, more often than not, our own.
Kimberly Rossi’s Diary
When I got back to the house, my father was in the kitchen making breakfast. Christmas music was playing.
“Good morning,” he said.