A Reel Christmas In Romance (Christmas In Romance Book 4)

by J J DiBenedetto

  Dear Esme,

  I am not “averse to sentiment and absurdity.” I can be as sentimental, and as absurd, as the next person. You can ask my grandparents about the former, and every one of my high school teachers about the latter.

  I simply prefer both of those things in moderation. Alas, moderation is not a quality commonly found in this town. I suppose it’s my own fault. What else could I have expected from a town named Romance?

  I am heartened to learn that you will not be showing An Affair to Remember. At least that’s one small victory for sanity.

  Speaking of sanity, don’t you think it’s a little bit crazy that we email back and forth almost every day, in what I like to think is a friendly manner, and yet we’ve never met in person? In the interest of remedying that oversight, I would be happy to buy you a coffee (I suspect you are one of those people whose coffee orders contain multiple adjectives; I hope against hope you will prove me wrong!), and perhaps even a piece of pie?

  Hoping to hear back soon,

  The Duck-Man

  There was no question – that was clearly an invitation to a date. But it was absurd, wasn’t it? She didn’t know his name, let alone anything else about him! And he didn’t know hers! What kind of person asked you on a date before they even asked your name, or offered theirs?

  On the other hand, what did she really have to lose? He’d suggested coffee and pie, which was low pressure, definitely one point in his favor. And a second point for him was that he’d left the details to her. At least, that’s how she chose to interpret the absence of any suggestions as to day, time, location or means by which they would recognize one another.

  There wasn’t any reason not to meet him, was there? And, anyway, if a reason did occur to her later, she could simply not show up, then write an appropriately contrite apology email with a suitably plausible excuse afterwards.

  What the heck, right?

  Esme had written him back within an hour of his message. Clearly, she was smitten with him.

  Jack stood up from his computer, shaking his head. He’d just used the word “smitten.” Granted, it was just in his head, he hadn’t actually spoken it aloud, but still. This town was getting to him. Assimilating him. Sane people, people who lived in sane places, didn’t use words like “smitten.”

  At least Esme’s apparent feelings for him would make his task easier. She’d surely be thrilled to help him get close to Marianne Carter, not to mention giving him plenty of information herself.

  Greetings, Duck-Man,

  I accept your offer. And, yes, to ensure that we are both on the same page, I consider this a formal, official date. Our first, in fact.

  Believe it or not, I wasn’t always so forward. But, working with high school students, whose love lives are fraught with miscommunications both deliberate and unintentional, and which make the average Three’s Company rerun look like high art in comparison, I have learned that clear and direct communication of intentions and expectations is vital if there is to be any possibility of a successful relationship.

  (how’s that for a run-on sentence? Mr. Patterson, my tenth grade English teacher, would weep in despair if he read what I just wrote!)

  Let’s meet tomorrow (in the interest of clarity, I’m talking about Monday, December 10th) at 7 PM. You will find me at a table in Sweet Hearts Pastry and Treats on Pear Street. anxiously awaiting you. I will be wearing a red carnation somewhere on my person, or possibly in my hair, or at any rate it will be in plain sight in my immediate vicinity.

  And to answer your question, I’m afraid I must dash your hopes. As you suspected (feared?), I do prefer my caffeinated beverages heavily adjectived (is that a word? I guess it is now. Sorry again, Mr. Patterson!). In the interest of satisfying your curiosity, I will wait for you to order, so you can judge for yourself whether you are willing to be seen in public with someone who orders overly complex coffee.

  Until tomorrow,

  Esme

  Jack didn’t know anyone who wrote emails like that. It was almost as though she were transcribing a quirky voiceover narrator who described everything she saw and did with frequent asides and snarky commentary.

  Come to think of it, that was probably exactly how Esme wrote her emails. He wondered if she was like that in person, too, or if she was one of those people who was only eloquent in pen or at a keyboard, but painfully shy face to face.

  Probably the former; most of the people he’d met so far in town were quite comfortable expressing themselves. Not rude, not by any means, but so filled with passion that they couldn’t help but say what they thought and felt. Living in a town called Romance, a place dedicated to passion, even the shyest residents probably absorbed that attitude through osmosis.

  Maybe the whole town should have applied to be declared a state historical landmark, not just the theater.

  Marianne had been going over the theater’s books all afternoon. On the surface, business seemed fine, the CPA assured her once a month that everything was fine, but there was no substitute for a thorough review to make sure. It wasn’t just a business, it was her family legacy, and she had no intention of damaging it through carelessness.

  If those people in Salem ever got around to approving her application to declare the theater a State Historical Landmark, it would help cement that family legacy. Of course, it would only prevent the Esmerelda from being torn down, it wouldn’t guarantee that she could stay in business.

  But for now, things all looked good. She was operating solidly in the black, customers were filling the seats, and there really were no more excuses for staying cooped up in this tiny office any longer, were there?

  She made her way around the printer stand, by the stack of boxes and over the pile of papers nearly a foot high, and finally out into the hallway and down the stairs. One of these days, she’d straighten up, or maybe even figure out a better place to work from, where there’d actually be room to breathe. But that was a problem for another day. For now, she was hungry, and the only thing that would satisfy her was a cheeseburger and chili fries from Della’s Diner over on Main Street.

  Of course, there’d be a price to pay. Whenever she ate a big, greasy meal like that, she had to balance it with a workout the next morning. She’d spent years watching movies where rail-thin women ate ridiculously large meals, yet never seemed to gain an ounce or an inch despite apparently never exercising, but she had not figured out the magic that made it possible. So the penance for her cheeseburger, fries – and milkshake, naturally – would be at least an hour at the gym tomorrow.

  “Hey!”

  Marianne was so engrossed in thinking about her dinner and subsequent workout that she didn’t see the man she’d just bumped into until, well, she’d bumped into him.

  “Oh, my gosh! I’m so sorry!”

  He wasn’t especially tall – yes, he was taller than her, but that wasn’t saying much. If he was five foot eight, that was being generous. He had short, dark hair that still had somehow managed to get itself blown all over the place in the wind. And he had pretty, expressive brown eyes.

  He also had two hands, which he was using to feel his face for any injuries. Marianne was fairly certain he was doing that just for show. She hadn’t run into him that hard!

  “No apology necessary,” he said, even as he pressed on his nose as if to ensure it wasn’t broken, which it obviously wasn’t.

  “No, really,” Marianne answered. Now he was – oh, this was absurd! – he was checking to make sure he still had all his teeth. It had to be a joke. He was making fun of her, right? Maybe she did deserve a little ribbing, for walking right into him the way she had. “Nothing’s broken, there’s no blood, and all your teeth are still there. I’m no doctor, but I think you’re going to make it.”

  If she’d wanted to be cruel, she could have pointed out that even if there was any blood, it would hardly be noticeable
on his flannel shirt. But, truth be told, the shirt looked good on him, as did the black jeans, which she usually didn’t like on anyone.

  “I guess I’ll take your word for it,” he said, extending a hand to her. “Jack Nelson, by the way. I’m new in town, so I figure I can’t pass up the chance to get to know anybody, right?”

  She shook his hand. “Marianne Carter. I can’t speak for the whole town, but I can welcome you on behalf of the Esmerelda Theater.”

  He raised an eyebrow at that, but why? Was he surprised that a woman owned it? Or maybe it was her youth, which was kind of unusual, she supposed. If she didn’t own the theater and she had to guess who did, her first instinct would not be a twenty-eight year old. But she hadn’t even said she owned it anyway, so what was the deal with his reaction?

  “Really?”

  “Is it such a surprise I own it?” She hadn’t meant to say it quite that bluntly, but the words came out of their own accord.

  He laughed. It was actually a very pleasing laugh, or at least it would have been if it hadn’t been directed at her. “No. It’s just a surprise that you led with what you do. That’s more of a big city thing to do.”

  She felt more words readying themselves to spill out, but she caught them before they could escape. He wasn’t actually wrong, now that she thought about it. The theater wasn’t the first thing she usually talked about when she introduced herself, nor did she immediately ask someone what their job was, the first time she met them.

  On the other hand, this was a small town, and while she certainly didn’t know everyone personally, if you told her a name, she probably knew where they worked, how long their family had lived in Romance, and a dozen other things about them. And everyone knew she owned the Esmerelda, so there was never any need to tell anyone she did.

  “I guess you’re right,” she said after a moment. “Honestly, I can’t tell you the last time I met someone totally new to town, so I’m a little rusty with the proper etiquette.” Who was the last newcomer she’d met? Maybe Lucas Chase’s wife, Dori. She’d moved here from New York City, and she and Lucas had rented out the theater for their engagement party back in the spring.

  “I guess I am, too,” Jack said, a hint of a twinkle in his eye. At least, Marianne thought she saw one. “Anyway, you seemed pretty intent on wherever you were headed, so I probably shouldn’t keep you.” Was there the slightest plea there? Was he trying to delay her, to spend a few more minutes talking?

  Was he interested in her? She hadn’t been on a date in months, and now two men in one day were hitting on her? First the Duck-Man over email, and then Jack here on the street. Maybe it was fate trying to tell her something. If this were a movie, it definitely would be.

  “I was just thinking about an early supper. I’m headed over to Della’s Diner. Have you been there yet? The chili fries are to die for.”

  “Is that an invitation?” There was definitely a twinkle this time.

  Was it? She had a date tomorrow night. She couldn’t two-time the Duck-Man, could she? But that was absurd. She hadn’t actually gone out with her email pen-pal yet, so how could she two-time him? Besides, maybe Jack here was the obstacle that the Duck-Man would have to overcome in order to win her heart. That’s how it usually worked in the movies.

  “Yes, it is. So come on already. I’m starving.”

  “I swear I’ve seen you someplace before,” she said, as she tucked into her chili fries. Was she serious? That was one of the oldest lines in the book.

  “Really? You can do better than that for a pickup line,” Jack replied. “Besides, you already picked me up, so you don’t need one anyway.” He had wanted to get close to her, and now he didn’t even need to cozy up to her mysterious coworker to do it.

  “OK, it’s a cheesy line, but I meant it! I know I saw you, I think it was last week, but I can’t remember where.” She scrunched up her forehead and half-closed her greenish-blue eyes, clearly trying to force herself to recall where she’d seen him. Jack considered helping her out, but it didn’t seem wise. She’d only ask why he, as a visitor to Romance, would have bothered to attend a town meeting, and then he’d have to tell her another lie, on top of lying about where he worked and how that work had brought him here.

  He’d told her the same story he told anyone else who asked: he was in Romance to evaluate the effectiveness of the town’s tourism marketing efforts, he’d probably be here a month or so, and when he was done and the final report was written, he’d be happy to send them a copy if they wanted it. So far, nobody had taken him up on that offer, for which he was grateful.

  “Probably just passing by on the street,” he said. “Downtown isn’t that big.”

  Marianne grinned. She did that a lot. He supposed he’d smile a lot, too, if he owned a thriving business, and a major chunk of real estate, before the age of thirty. “It’s big enough. I think I’d like it better if it was a little smaller. I’d get more foot traffic walking past the theater that way. You’d be surprised how many people I run into who don’t know what’s playing, and I’m the only movie theater in town.”

  He didn’t ask the first question that came to mind, which was: why would anyone come to her theater in the first place? Obviously they did, or she wouldn’t be in business. And it was equally obvious that she took a great deal of pride in the theater, and worked hard to keep it in pristine condition. He’d gone once so far, and he’d been impressed at the way it retained the look and feel it had had when it was first built, but at the same time had enough modern features and amenities to make seeing a movie there a comfortable experience.

  All that aside, though, he didn’t see why people would pay even five dollars to watch movies that were decades old, and which they could see for free any time they wanted at home. Especially because none of them had the big special effects and stunning visuals of modern movies, which were the only reason to spend the money (and pay for parking, and buy overpriced drinks and popcorn) to go to a movie theater these days.

  If Marianne Carter could give him a sensible answer to that question, it would go a long way towards convincing him to recommend that the Esmerelda Theater get the landmark status she had applied for.

  “Seems like you already do pretty well with the traffic you get now,” he said. “I have to admit, I’m a little surprised you get so many customers. Everybody’s already seen all the movies you show, haven’t they?”

  Her eyes flashed. Clearly he’d hit a sore spot. “I wish! I’d do double the business I do now if more people had seen my movies already. Educating people about why they need to see them is the hardest part of my job.”

  He noted that she said “my movies” as though she had some ownership of them. “Well, then educate me. Why do I need to see The Shop Around the Corner?”

  She told him. She told him in exhaustive detail, over ninety minutes, according to his watch, which was probably longer than the actual movie was. He now knew – not that he’d probably remember – all about the cast of the movie, and the various remakes of it over the years, and why this version was by far her favorite, although the remake with Judy Garland and Van Johnson had a lot to recommend it as well, including a small role for Buster Keaton.

  Thankfully, he knew who Buster Keaton was; Jack didn’t want to imagine what her reaction would have been if he’d said, “Who’s that?”

  Despite all the facts, and her obvious – almost infectious – enthusiasm, he still didn’t understand why he needed to see the movie. The farthest he was willing to go was, “Maybe I’ll try to see it one night this week.”

  “Maybe?” She didn’t quite shout, but her eyes were blazing, and her hands were shaking with, if not rage, than at least indignation. “After all that, the best you can give me is maybe?”

  He supposed he could go to the show tonight. It wasn’t as though he had any other plans. And he really ought to see the theater in action again as part
of his evaluation. “OK, I’ll go tonight, are you happy now?”

  She calmed down a bit. “Yes. Yes, I am.” Her hands were no longer shaking. “You know what, I’ll even treat you. I can’t go myself tonight, but just tell Jessie – she’s working the box office, pretty girl, talks a mile a minute, anyway, tell her I said you get in for free.”

  He hadn’t expected that. “Really? That’s generous of you.”

  “Well,” she said, grinning now, “you could buy some popcorn, so it won’t be a total loss for me. And you can find me tomorrow and tell me what you thought of the movie. Fair enough?”

  A free movie, and another date – if that’s what this had been – with Marianne? That was definitely fair enough.

  Marianne really wanted to email the Duck-Man to tell him about last night. He’d definitely appreciate the story. Except, would that be weird? Telling him about a date she’d had – if it was a date – the night before she was supposed to go on her first date with him?

  Maybe it would be a good test of the depth of his feelings for her. Not to mention an indicator of whether or not he got jealous easily. That would be good to know, right?

  On the other hand, it was something that Margaret Sullivan or Judy Garland might have done, confiding in their pen-pal without the slightest idea that the man they were writing to and the man they’d just met were one and the same.

  But when she read the Duck-Man’s latest email, she immediately forgot all about her encounter.

  Dear Esme,

  I know we’re meeting tonight, but I simply had to share this with you right away (OK, several hours after the fact, but I wasn’t going to turn the computer on and email you at eleven o’clock at night).

  I had no plans last night, and I wasn’t especially interested in the Sunday night football game on TV, so I decided to take a walk. It was a pleasant evening, not too cold – actually, why am I telling you about the weather? We live in the same town, you know perfectly well what the weather was like last night.