“You didn’t like it?” She tried to keep the incredulity out of her voice, but she failed completely.
“It’s not that,” Jack said. There was that hesitation again. “It’s just – the plot was kind of unbelievable, don’t you think? How could she go the whole movie and not realize Jimmy Stewart was her pen-pal?”
She had an answer for that. “Suspension of disbelief. You have to accept the premise at face value, otherwise you’ll never enjoy anything.” He did have a point, though. It had always struck her as stretching things a little that Margaret Sullivan – and Judy Garland, and even Meg Ryan – didn’t find out who their pen-pals were for nearly two hours. And she had to admit that it was unfair that in every case it was the woman who was in the dark, while Jimmy Stewart and Van Johnson and Tom Hanks all knew the truth.
If it was her in Margaret Sullivan’s place, she wouldn’t have been fooled. She’d have seen through Jimmy Stewart in ten minutes, and things would have taken a very different turn.
Why had he lied to Marianne? Why hadn’t he told her he was her pen-pal, and then hopefully settled down to pie, coffee and a long conversation about The Shop Around the Corner?
He’d even lied to her about his reaction to the movie. He’d loved it, and she would have been thrilled to hear that. But maybe that was why. They were acting out the plot of the movie, after all, or at least he was. She had no idea. All she knew was that he’d been borderline rude to her for no apparent reason, and then she’d been stood up.
He could have told her the truth, and still kept silent about why he was in town. They could have had a very pleasant date, and maybe it would have led to another date, and from there, anything was possible.
But now it was all ruined. After last night, it was unlikely that Marianne would be very forthcoming with the information he’d need to make his recommendation about the theater to his boss. And she was equally unlikely to want to continue the email relationship with her Duck-Man.
Still, the Duck-Man had to email her, and say something, however inadequate it might end up being. And then he had to figure out some other way to research the theater and its impact on the town.
He wrote the email, and re-wrote it, and re-wrote it again. After an hour and a half, he felt that it was as good as it was going to get, and he hit send. Then he ventured outside. There was a definite chill in the air; it was colder now than it had been last night, and his heavier coat was back in his apartment in Salem.
Well, suffering built character. Pete, his older brother, never missed the chance to tell him that, especially when Pete was the one causing the suffering. Jack supposed he couldn’t really blame Pete too much, though. They were eight years apart, and six-year-old Jack seriously cramped fourteen-year-old Pete’s style. Jack doubted he’d have been any more patient if their roles had been reversed. Thankfully, things had improved quite a bit in the last few years, especially after Pete got married and had a child of his own.
What the heck, maybe his older brother might have something useful to say about this whole mess.
“Jack? What’s wrong?” His brother’s voice was alarmed.
“Nothing. I just wanted to talk to my big brother,” Jack said. Why would Pete assume anything was wrong?
“Since when do you call me in the middle of the workday just to chat?”
What was his brother talking about? It was just nine o’clock in the morning.
Except that it wasn’t nine o’clock in the Florida Keys, three thousand miles to the east, where Pete Nelson ran his chartered fishing tours. It was noon, which pretty much was the exact middle of the workday. He was obviously even more rattled than he thought about last night’s events, if he could forget the time difference. “Sorry, Pete. I wasn’t thinking,” he said. “I just – you know what, I’m man enough, I can admit it. I need some advice.”
He told his brother everything. It felt good to unburden himself, to not have to measure every word and try to remember which lie he’d told to whom.
Pete didn’t understand. “Why do you have to lie about any of it? Why can’t you just tell everyone what you’re doing? It’s not like you’re trying to cheat anybody. You’re trying to help this woman. I don’t see the problem.”
Jack hadn’t at first, either. He’d made the same argument to his boss, and she’d told him, “You have to be neutral. And I have to convince the whole Historical Preservation Committee that you really are neutral when you give me your recommendation, so I have to believe you are. If I don’t, if there’s even the slightest hint of any kind of bias, for any reason, I have to factor that in. It’s happened before.”
He explained that to Pete, along with the story his boss had told him, about the library in Eugene that had been denied landmark status – and subsequently torn down, to be replaced by condominiums – because there were questions about how friendly the investigator there had gotten with the woman who ran the library. His report, recommending that the library be approved as a landmark, had been thrown out completely.
“I can’t let that happen. I have to be totally objective, so if I say the theater should be approved, they’ll listen to me.”
His brother laughed, which Jack didn’t appreciate at all. “And you think it should be?”
“Absolutely. Marianne works so hard on that place, and if we make it a landmark, she’ll be protected against anybody who wants to ruin it.”
Another laugh. “But you’re not biased at all.”
“Fine!” He had asked for this, hadn’t he? “I’m totally on her side! I want her to get her status, I want her to be able to keep the theater forever, I want her to have everything she wants.”
This time Pete didn’t laugh. “And you want her to know you helped her get it.”
That was it. That was exactly it. It was the one thing he couldn’t have. And it had to be the reason he’d acted like such a jerk last night. “I can be the hero, or I can get the girl, but I can’t do both.”
“Adulthood sucks, doesn’t it?”
Yes. Yes, sometimes it truly did.
Marianne awoke with a splitting headache, which hadn’t happened in six months. She’d also broken up with her last boyfriend six months ago. She was fairly certain that was no coincidence.
She showered, dressed, ate a bowl of cereal – she didn’t feel equal to the challenge of cooking on the stove this morning – and headed to work. On her way out, she had to slam the front door shut, which did nothing at all to ease her headache.
It had been sticking for months, one of many minor problems around the house that she never quite got around to handling. It was a beautiful little house, or at least it could be, given some money, which she had, and time, which she didn’t. It never ceased to amaze her just how much work it took to keep up with two bedrooms, one and a half bathrooms and a grand total of eight hundred and twenty-three square feet, or how easy it was to fall behind in doing so.
Whatever free time and excess energy she had for painting, refinishing, cleaning and minor repairs was taken up by the Esmerelda. This morning, for example, there were seats that needed fixing, four bathrooms to be thoroughly cleaned and new cleaning supplies ordered, that checkup of her HVAC system to be scheduled, and – God, how had she forgotten this? – a walkthrough of the lights with her electrician, Josh Chadwick. With the live performance of A Christmas Carol coming up in only twelve days, she had to be sure the wiring could handle everything Mary McKay was going to bring in.
When she got to the theater, she discovered another task. Jessie had left a note that there was something wrong with the cash register. Marianne had moved the theater into the twenty-first century last year, replacing the ancient mechanical cash register with an iPad linked to a receipt printer and a cash drawer that was supposed to open automatically when a sale was completed, except according to Jessie, the drawer wasn’t opening automatically, or manually for that matter.
She spent twenty minutes fiddling with the settings on the iPad, then she rebooted the wireless router that served the whole building, all to no avail. In the end, she had to pry the drawer open with a screwdriver, only to find the real problem: someone had stuck a wad of chewing gum inside the drawer, which had effectively glued it shut.
Red Berry Triple Mint chewing gum, to be specific, which Jessie happened to be partial to. So now there was yet another item on the to-do list: a conversation with her teenaged employee about not chewing gum when she was working the box office.
She didn’t have the heart to tackle the bathrooms or the broken seats just yet, so Marianne went up to her office. She finally scheduled the HVAC appointment, after ten minutes of small talk with Lucas Chase’s talkative aunt, and confirmed with Josh Chadwick for his inspection at eleven o’clock. Then, not totally sure she actually wanted to do it, she opened up her email.
Dear Esme,
Please forgive me. I really have no excuse for last night, but I would like to explain my failure to show up for our date.
I was dragged into a conference call with my boss, and her boss, and the President of the Oregon Farmers Alliance at six o’clock last night. It lasted for three hours, and by the time it was over, my brain was completely fried. As soon as I hung up, I went into the bathroom, washed my face, went to my bedroom and collapsed on the bed.
I woke up at two in the morning, still dressed in my clothes from the day, including my shoes, and it was then that I realized I had missed you, and, worse, I hadn’t even had the decency to contact you. All I can say in my defense is that, as I said, my brain was fried.
If it makes you feel any better, as tedious and awful as you might imagine a three-hour conference call with the President of the Oregon Farmers Alliance to be, the reality was worse. So at least you can take comfort in the fact that I suffered last night.
I would ask you for a second chance to meet, but after last night’s call, I will not have anything resembling free time for at least the next three weeks. On the plus side, I will be tethered to my computer at all times, excepting bathroom visits and twenty minutes a day in the shower, so if you are willing to think about whether you might want to consider the possibility of forgiveness, I will be able to communicate regularly over email.
Again, I am sorry, and at some point in the future, once this new project is done, I dearly wish to make it up to you.
Sincerely,
The Duck-Man
Well, as apologies went, that wasn’t too bad. It was certainly plausible. If he’d been using his cell phone for the conference call, he wouldn’t have been able to text her, not that he knew her number anyway. And if he’d had to actively participate, focusing his full attention on the call, he couldn’t have gotten on his computer and emailed her. Fair enough.
And she was pretty sure that if she’d been stuck on a three hour conference call, the last thing she’d want to do once she got off would be anything computer-related. Everything he said made sense, and, anyway, standing her up one time was hardly worthy of the death penalty. She could forgive him.
Not right this minute, though. She’d let her unconscious mind mull it over while she got on with the rest of her day, which started with Josh Chadwick, who was probably waiting for her downstairs at this very moment.
He was. Her electrician was very politely trying not to tap his foot in impatience, which she appreciated. She gave him an apologetic smile. “Josh, sorry I’m late. You know how it is, running your own business. Always something else to take care of.”
He nodded. “I know exactly what you mean. Don’t worry about it.”
“Thanks,” she said, leading him into the theater and up the stairs, then through the little door in the back of the balcony that led to the projectionist’s booth, and the main wiring closet for the whole building. “I figured you’d want to start here.” Josh didn’t quite shudder at the state of her electrical system, but Marianne could tell he was forcing himself not to. “It’s not that bad, is it?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he shined a flashlight into the closet, tracing one of the thicker cables with his free hand. “I’ve seen worse,” he said, finally. “But I’d really like to replace the whole lot.”
She’d known Josh going back to grade school, and she knew he’d never try to cheat her. “Really?” He didn’t answer at all this time. He just stared into the closet, until she got the message. “I guess you’re right. It’s probably way overdue. But how long would it take you to do it?”
He turned off the flashlight, stepped out of the closet. “A setup this complicated? Three weeks.” He must have seen the panic in her eyes, because he patted her arm to calm her down. “Maybe two, if I drop everything and get some help in. Can you live with two weeks?”
“What are the chances that we have a problem and the whole place burns down if I don’t do it?”
He laughed. “Like I said, I’ve seen worse.” Then the laughter faded, and he looked all around. “But you do have a lot of wood paneling in here, and I’d guess those plush seats are pretty flammable, and doesn’t movie film burn like nobody’s business?”
Yes. Yes, it did. “When you put it that way, I can live with two weeks. But can we at least hold off until after Valentine’s Day?”
“I’ll need that long to clear my schedule anyway.” She wasn’t happy about the prospect of closing for two weeks, but she’d rather be safe than sorry. How would it look if she let the theater burn down in the middle of her application to have it declared a historical landmark?
With the plan thus agreed upon, she and Josh went through the rest of the theater, room by room. He took plenty of notes, but he didn’t find anything that would be an immediate problem, even with the extra lights and probably a sound system, too, that Mary McKay would be bringing in.
It took almost two hours before Josh was finally done. Before he could escape into the lobby and get to his next client, there was one more thing he could help her with. Marianne grabbed his hand. “Josh, can I ask you one last question?”
He looked down at her hand holding his, then met her eyes. “That depends on what it is.”
“You remember back in high school, spring of our junior year?”
Now he pulled his hand away from her. “Marianne, I’m engaged now. You know that.”
She laughed, more at her own foolishness than his reaction. “It’s nothing like that. I just need a male perspective. Back then, when you were giving me a hard time every day in study hall…”
Now he laughed, too. “And chemistry, and English class…”
“Yeah. Exactly,” she said. “You liked me, right? But you couldn’t come out and say it, so you teased me instead, right? That is what it means, when a guy does that?”
“I don’t think I ever thought it out like that, but, yeah, I guess so.” He grinned. “Are you asking me because you’ve got somebody doing the same thing to you now?”
“You always were pretty smart, Josh.”
“Thanks,” he answered. “It helps, being engaged to a therapist.” Marianne had forgotten what Josh’s fiancée did for a living. “I can’t help but pick up a few things here and there.”
That was good enough proof for her that Jack Nelson’s teasing last night had been his way, maybe unconsciously, to flirt with her. The next question was, what was she going to do about it?
It was something she’d have to figure out for herself. She certainly wasn’t going to ask Josh, or anybody else, what to do.
The day went by with no email from Marianne, not that Jack had really expected one. If their places had been reversed, he would have needed a while to think things over, before he responded to a woman who’d stood him up.
He’d come up with a totally reasonable story to explain why he’d missed her last night, and the fact that his lie was so believable made him feel e
ven worse about it. But what else could he do? A lie or two and some hurt feelings were a small price to pay for helping to get her theater declared a landmark. Weren’t they?
He’d been cooped up in his furnished rental apartment all day, poring over a stack of books he’d borrowed from the town hall. He’d been amazed to find a whole shelf of scrapbooks there, one for each year running from 1920, a decade before the Esmerelda Theater had been built, straight through to 1980, a decade before his own birth. Apparently there’d been a town historian, who’d taken her job quite seriously.
Nobody could tell him much about the woman who’d held that position for sixty years, not even whether she’d been paid or was a volunteer. The current mayor, Adam Walker, who’d lived in the town most of his life, had no idea. Whoever she was, whyever she did it, the old historian had captured every event of any significance in the town, and the Esmerelda showed up frequently.
Rather than make copies of all the pages of interest, he’d noted down the dates of the newspaper articles that had been pasted into the books. Surely there was an intern back in Salem who could go to the library and spend a few hours – or days – in the library printing out pages from old microfilms. If there even were old microfilms.
That was a problem for another day, though. Jack’s back hurt from being hunched over the table, and his eyes hurt from straining to read small, faded print, and his brain hurt from all the information he was stuffing into it.
He needed some fresh air. He put the scrapbooks aside, grabbed his jacket and ventured outside. It was just four blocks to the town square, and as he walked by the big Christmas tree, he saw Marianne Carter out in front of her theater. He turned away; he didn’t want to make things even worse. But it was too late. She had spotted him.
“Jack!”
A Reel Christmas In Romance (Christmas In Romance Book 4) Page 4