Christmas in Bethel

Chapter Twenty-One

You can tell a lot about an author by what he writes. And what he doesn’t.

Beth Stilton’s Diary

My room was bright, on the south side of the house, the windows facing toward the bay.

There was a king-sized bed with a white duvet cover and pale blue pillows. The headboard was taller than me, simple with a textured gray fabric cover. At the foot of the bed was a wicker chest.

“You’ve got your own bathroom and walk-in closet. Just make yourself at home.”

“How many rooms are there in the house?”

“There are eight bedrooms and eleven bathrooms.”

“You have eleven bathrooms?”

“I know. Go figure. I think whoever built this leviathan might have had a problem with incontinence.

“I’ll show you around after dinner. If you want to put your things away, I’ll get dinner out of the oven.”

“Thank you. I won’t be long.”

After he left, I sat on the bed. I felt different than I had in New York. It wasn’t just the privacy or setting. It was that I no longer felt the need to hide myself from him.

What I said to him about not knowing me was true. But the opposite was just as true.

Other than the abuse he had shared, I knew little of the hardships he had faced as a child.

The truth was, I knew more about him through his books than I did in real life.

I was curious to see just how much the writer and the man aligned.