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

by J J DiBenedetto

  Sorry, I digress. Back to the story. Since the weather was so pleasant, I decided to take a walk, and I ended up downtown, and I finally found myself walking past the Esmerelda Theater, and it was a quarter to eight. So I decided, why not buy a ticket and watch The Shop Around the Corner?

  I did, and I loved it. Jimmy Stewart was amazing. I had no idea; I’ve only ever seen one other movie with him, and you can probably guess not only which one it was, but where I saw it. Don’t bother replying back over email – you can tell me your guess when we meet tonight, and I will be very disappointed if you’re wrong.

  Anyway, I am looking forward to meeting you tonight, and finally putting a face to the words I’ve been reading these last few weeks.

  Sincerely,

  The Duck-Man

  Marianne knew the answer. It had to be Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. And he had to have watched it in high school, in American History, or possibly in Civics. Mrs. Swanson, her own tenth grade history teacher, hadn’t shown it in class, because she didn’t believe in showing movies during class time, but she had assigned it, along with several other movies from the 1930’s and 1940’s, as homework. She needn’t have bothered in Marianne’s case, of course.

  It was encouraging that he’d gone to see the movie, and even more so that he’d enjoyed it. She wondered if Jack, the man she’d run into yesterday, had taken her advice and gone himself. She supposed she might have scared him off of it, with her dissertation – she really couldn’t call her little performance last night anything else – about it. But, as always, once she got started talking about a movie, especially one she really loved, she couldn’t help herself.

  Maybe she’d run into him again, and she could ask him. As he’d said, downtown Romance wasn’t that big. But right now, she needed to clear out the rest of her email, and at least half of the stack of papers and files on her desk, and listen yet again to the long voicemail Mary McKay had left, with her latest list of requirements for her production of A Christmas Carol on the 22nd. She’d already listened to the message four times, and she still only understood about half of what Mary had asked for in her near-impenetrable Scots brogue.

  Once that was done, she could go home, freshen up, pick out a suitable outfit, and then try to find a carnation somewhere, since she’d told the Duck-Man to look for one. Were they even in season? She ought to have told him to look for a poinsettia; you couldn’t go fifty feet without seeing one in someone’s window at Christmas time.

  Oh, well. Hopefully he’d appreciate the effort of finding a carnation, and, anyway, if it was good enough for Margaret Sullivan, it was good enough for her.

  Jack stared at the giant Christmas tree in the town square. He was, as always, a little surprised at how tasteful it was. It was decorated with white lights, not the rainbow of lights in every imaginable color that he would have expected. Of course, there were, at a conservative estimate, about a million or so lights on the tree, as well as strung everywhere else one could string lights – and some spots that he wouldn’t have thought it possible to – all around the square.

  He still had an hour to kill before his date with Esme. He didn’t know why he was so nervous about it. Now that he’d met Marianne, and struck up what he hoped was the beginning of a friendship with her, he didn’t need to use Esme to get close to her boss. So this was just a cup of coffee and a piece of pie with someone who wrote flirty, not to mention pretty clever, emails. What was there to be nervous about?

  Nevertheless, he’d checked out his appearance in every surface he came across. His hair was still neat, the collar of his shirt still looked just right, he hadn’t spilled any food or drink or anything else on himself. He might not have what it took to be a TV star or even a male model, but when he looked back at himself, there was nothing to be embarrassed about, either.

  He’d meet Esme, he’d eat with her, they’d talk pleasantly for an hour or so, and that would be that. Not a thing in the world to worry about.

  Now that was settled, Jack wandered across the square, then crossed Douglass Road and walked past the Esmerelda Theater and into Romantic Blooms. It was a date, after all, and Esme would appreciate flowers, even if there was no chance of tonight’s meeting leading to anything more.

  “Can I help you?”

  He hadn’t even seen the woman behind the cash register. It was the owner of the shop – Jack had seen her at the town meeting. Christine, Cindy, Charlene – her name had begun with a “C,” he was fairly certain.

  “Just looking. I’ve got a date tonight.”

  The woman – Carla? Catlin? – smiled. Beamed, really, from ear to ear. He assumed that anything romance-related produced that reaction pretty much anywhere in Romance, and doubly so in a flower shop. “Oh, that’s wonderful! What’s her favorite color? Whatever it is, I’m sure we’ve got something that she’ll love.”

  Jack gave her an embarrassed grin. “I don’t know, actually. Tell you the truth, we’ve never actually met. I guess you could call it a blind date.”

  She beckoned him to the counter. Cheryl! That was her name, there on the business cards in the little holder next to the cash register. “That’s so romantic! Well, hopefully it will be, anyway. You can’t go too far wrong with roses.” Jack was about to point out what a cliché roses were, but Cheryl beat him to it. “I know, I know. Roses might seem overdone, but everyone buys them for a reason.”

  There were a lot of roses, in colors Jack hadn’t known they came in. “I’ve got my pick, don’t I?”

  Cheryl came out from behind the counter and led him to the roses. “A dozen might be a little overwhelming for a first date. And a single red rose could seem a bit overdramatic.” That was one word for it. Jack could think of others. “What about this?” She pointed to a vase full of flowers that were almost, but not quite, purple. “Lavender. Do you know what a lavender rose represents?” Jack didn’t. “Enchantment, majesty, and, best of all, love at first sight.” She paused, for what Jack could only assume was dramatic purposes. “What could be better for a first date? Just one, it’ll make quite the impression, don’t you think?”

  Jack doubted that Esme knew the meaning of a lavender rose anymore than he’d known it before he’d stepped into the shop. Still, it was the thought that counted. “You’re the expert. I’ll trust your judgment.”

  Cheryl clapped her hands. “Wonderful! I think it’s just the perfect choice. And you know what? I won’t even charge you for it, as long as you promise you’ll come back here to buy those dozen roses for your second date. Deal?”

  Jack didn’t have the heart to let her down. “Deal.”

  Romantic Blooms had come through for her. Why had she wondered where she’d find a carnation? Of course Cheryl Montgomery had exactly what she needed, and they’d agreed that wearing it in her hair was the perfect choice.

  She still had half an hour before she was supposed to meet the Duck-Man, so she strolled across the street to the town square. It was beautiful – Romance had outdone itself this year. The tree, the white lights twinkling everywhere, the smiles on the faces of just about everyone she passed – it was perfect.

  Well, almost perfect. She thought she saw Jack Carter on the other side of the square, and the sight of him – if it was him – stirred up feelings. Irrational feelings. Annoyance, for one, but what reason did she have to be annoyed at him? And guilt, but guilt for what? She’d done nothing for which she ought to feel guilty.

  If she were a character in a movie, if she were Jean Arthur or Barbara Stanwyck, those irrational feelings would be a clear sign that she was interested in Jack. But that was nonsense. Obviously. Real life wasn’t like the movies. Everything would be better if it was, but it wasn’t. Her irrational feelings were just that, irrational. They had no reason, and they’d pass soon enough, and that would be that.

  She tried to distract herself by looking at all the happy couples strolling hand in hand. The
re was one – Izzy Sutton, the owner of the Interlude Inn, and her fiancé, Chase Lockhart. It was always weird to see him walking around like any ordinary person, when she couldn’t turn on the radio without hearing one of his songs. And rumor had it that Izzy was the writer of most of his hits.

  Marianne waved to them, and they both waved back, but they were clearly very interested in whatever they’d been talking so intently about before she’d attracted their attention. Probably their wedding, which was scheduled to take place on Christmas Eve.

  Over there, staring up at the town’s Christmas tree, was another couple. Her plumber, Lucas Chase, and his wife, Dori. Dori spotted her, and waved her over.

  “Hey, Marianne,” Dori said. “What are you doing outside the theater? Whatever happened to ‘the show must go on?’”

  “It is going on. The kids can handle everything for a few hours.” The kids, and Charlie Bates, the projectionist, who was eighty years old if he was a day.

  “Speaking of handling things,” Lucas chimed in, “I’d like to get your check-up scheduled. I haven’t looked at your HVAC system in three years, Marianne.”

  “Let her be, Lucas,” Dori told him. “She’s obviously got something else on her mind tonight.”

  How could she know? “I’m just taking a walk on a pleasant winter evening.”

  “First, it’s not technically winter yet,” Dori told her. “Second, you’re pacing, not walking. And, third, you’re wearing a dress, and you’ve got a flower in your hair, which I don’t think I’ve ever seen before.” She was wearing a dress, that was true, and it was billowing around her in the breeze. It was also true that she didn’t generally – or ever, really – wear flowers in her hair.

  “I am not pacing!”

  “Changing the subject, too,” Dori said. “You’re going on a date. A first date, I bet, or you wouldn’t be so agitated about it.”

  “I am not agitated!”

  But that was clearly a lie. She sounded agitated enough to her own ears, of course Dori would see it, too.

  “It’s your business, I don’t mean to cause any trouble,” Dori said, grinning now. “I’m just making an observation.”

  “She does that. She’s very observant,” Lucas said, putting an arm around his wife.

  “Well, she’s right,” Marianne admitted. “A first date, and a blind date. So, yeah, I’m a little nervous, I guess.” She’d also let time get away from her; if her watch was correct, she was supposed to be over at Sweet Hearts Pastry & Treats in five minutes. “And I’m about to be late, so I hope you’ll forgive me, but I have to go.”

  So she went, and she made it inside the bakery at 6:59 PM – one minute early. All the tables were occupied, either with couples or larger groups, except for one, so she sat herself down at it. The Duck-Man wasn’t here yet. Or, at least, she assumed he wasn’t. He could be, though. She was the one who’d told him how to identify her; he had not reciprocated.

  There was nothing to do but wait. She didn’t order anything; she was prepared to split the bill, or even buy his coffee and pie, but she wanted to give him the chance to offer before she did. If he thought, as she did, that this was a real, official date, he would try to pay for her. If he didn’t do that, then she’d know that they had their wires crossed.

  To pass the time – not that she expected to have to wait long - she reached into her purse and pulled out a book. She’d grabbed it off the bookshelf in the spare bedroom this morning without even looking at what it was. Now that she saw what she’d taken, it didn’t bode well. She’d taken an old, beat-up paperback edition of Shakespeare’s Great Tragedies. It included four of his plays, and the first one – what else would it be? – was Romeo and Juliet.

  But she was no star-crossed teenage lover from a feuding family, and tonight’s blind date couldn’t possibly end with a murder followed by a double suicide. Right?

  Jack had lost track of time. It was ten after seven, and he hoped that Esme wasn’t the impatient type. Not that anything could come of tonight, but there was still no call to be rude to her.

  The bakery was on Pear Street, around the block from Della’s Diner, or at least that’s what Esme had said, and there it was. He could see in the window that every table was occupied, with either a couple or a foursome. Except for one, near the back, with a lone customer.

  A woman. In a flattering blue and white dress. With a flower in her hair. A red flower. Unless he was completely wrong, a carnation. It was Esme.

  And Esme looked a lot like – exactly like, in fact – Marianne Carter.

  There was only one possible explanation for that: contrary to his assumptions, which were obviously faulty, Esme was Marianne Carter.

  It was a quarter after seven when Marianne finally gave in and bought herself a coffee. Or, more accurately, a double mocha latte, with cinnamon, and whipped cream on top. The Duck-Man, whenever he finally showed, could buy her pie, and since he’d made her wait, she’d let him do it.

  “Here you go,” the server said. Not just any server, Savannah Miller, who did most of the baking here, as far as Marianne knew.

  “You usually work mornings, don’t you? I can’t remember the last time I saw you here after dark.”

  Savannah shrugged. “Just filling in. Marcia works the closing shift, but she called in sick, so I’m helping out tonight.” She glanced at the empty seat across from Marianne. “Looks like you’re waiting for someone.”

  There was no point in denying it. “Yeah. He’s just a little late, that’s all. I’m sure he’ll be here soon.”

  Savannah left her to her coffee and her book. She waited another five minutes and checked her email, but there was nothing from her date. She began to tell herself that it wasn’t like him to be so late, but that was ridiculous. How did she know what was or wasn’t like him? Discovering things like that was the whole point of a date, which it was starting to look like wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  “Penny for your thoughts?”

  The voice, a man’s voice, with a hint – or more – of humor in it, startled her, and she came very close to snorting vanilla latte out of her nose. She took a moment to collect herself before she looked up to see whose voice it was.

  “Jack?”

  “At your service, Ms. Carter.” Of course he was in a good mood. He wasn’t being stood up for a date. “Are you waiting for someone?”

  He sat himself down in the chair opposite her. “What makes you think that?” She knew better than to answer a question with a question. All that ever did was confirm the answer was yes.

  “Well, you’re the only person who’s sitting alone,” he said, with a minimal amount of smugness. She suspected he was trying to suppress it for her sake, which she appreciated. “And you don’t have pie, which tells me you’re waiting for someone to buy it for you.” Before she could respond to that, he smiled apologetically. “Or for someone to share it with. Either way, you have to be waiting for someone, because I don’t see any other way you could resist the aroma coming out of the kitchen.” He sniffed deeply, and despite herself, she did, too.

  She had no argument against his logic, or the tempting smell of fresh apple pie. But she didn’t need to tell him who she was waiting for. “I’m meeting a friend. They’ll be here shortly.” He raised an eyebrow at her use of the plural pronoun, which she now realized was a mistake. Obviously she was only waiting for one person, because there was only one open seat. And if she’d been meeting a girlfriend, she’d have said “she” rather than “they.” All she’d done was confirm she was waiting for a man – a date – who obviously should have been here already.

  “Well, whoever they are,” Jack said, still smiling, “they’re very rude to keep you waiting.”

  Why did he care? Was he jealous? She’d worried that her meal with Jack yesterday might count as two-timing the Duck-Man, but maybe she had it backwards. Could Jack have ta
ken their dinner for more than it was? Was that why he was teasing her?

  The last time a man – well, a boy, really – had seriously teased her was in junior year of high school. Josh Chadwick had given her a hard time for a solid three weeks in the spring, but he’d never actually asked her out. And having been raised on a steady diet of thoroughly old-fashioned romantic advice gleaned from classic movies, it never occurred to her to ask him. Which was a shame, because he was cute, and she would definitely have said yes if he’d asked her.

  “They will be here shortly. And if they don’t show up, I am perfectly capable of ordering pie for myself, thank you very much.”

  He took the hint. “Well, then I won’t keep you,” Jack said, standing up. “I hope your friend gets here soon.”

  She’d just been borderline rude to him, and he’d done exactly what she’d meant for him to do, but now Marianne wondered if that was really the best course of action. Maybe she should invite him to stay, and let the Duck-Man, if he ever did show up, see them together. Let him see that she had other options, that there was another man who desired her company, if he couldn’t be bothered to show up on time.

  No. That wasn’t fair. Maybe the Duck-Man got caught up at work, wherever that was. Or his car had a flat tire, and his phone died so he couldn’t email her. There were dozens of legitimate and totally innocent reasons why he wasn’t here and hadn’t contacted her. And, anyway, she wasn’t the game-playing type. It wasn’t in her nature to try and make someone jealous, even if it did usually work in the movies.

  “I’m sure he will.” There. She’d said “he” rather than “they.” No games, no tricks. “But it was nice talking to you. By the way, did you go to the show last night?”

  “I did,” he said. He said it a little hesitantly, which meant that he hadn’t enjoyed it. But how was that possible? Anyone who didn’t like The Shop Around the Corner was – Marianne didn’t know. It was inconceivable that anybody could walk away from that movie and not be completely charmed by it.