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

by J J DiBenedetto

  But Superman could fly, and shoot heat rays from his eyes, and he saved the whole world. Anyone would forgive him a lie or two. Jack, on the other hand, could not fly except with a plane ticket, did not have the ability to shoot anything from his eyes, and he’d never saved anyone, let alone a whole planet. He didn’t think that Marianne would forgive his lies as easily as Lois forgave Superman’s.

  What if she never found out about his lie, though? He could probably convince his boss to take his name completely out of his report, once it was filed. Then, after her application was approved and the Esmerelda was declared a landmark, he could tell Marianne that he’d been transferred to the Office of Historical Preservation from the tourism board.

  That might work. She’d get her landmark status, and he wouldn’t technically be lying to her anymore about his job. But that still left the issue of the Duck-Man. Jack needed to get him out of the picture somehow, and he didn’t want to simply ghost Marianne. That was a crummy thing to do.

  What had Jimmy Stewart done in The Shop Around the Corner? He was in the same situation, wasn’t he? Jack began to laugh, just as he had the other night in the theater. That had been the funniest scene in the whole movie, the moment when Jimmy Stewart told Margaret Sullivan that he knew her pen-pal, and began to describe him to her.

  Yes. Definitely. That could totally work.

  It had been a wonderful night. Marianne hadn’t been on a date like that in – she couldn’t even remember, which meant it was far too long. And nothing had happened, not even a goodnight kiss. All it was, was a movie, half a meal and a dog walk.

  It was the dog walk that had clinched it. She’d never seen Asta take to someone new so quickly. Almost as quickly as she herself had taken to Jack. Or as quickly as Jack had taken to her, for that matter.

  It was a little bit odd that, after two dates, she still knew almost nothing about him beyond his last name. She didn’t have a phone number or email address for him, she had only a vague description of what he did for a living, and she didn’t even know where in Romance he was staying.

  She could have gone online and tried to look him up, but that was distasteful. Besides, she wasn’t very good at it. Maybe she could ask Jessie to do it. Her teenaged employee was frighteningly good at digging up information about people online, which probably explained why she’d gone through five boyfriends just since her senior year began in September.

  No, that wasn’t the way to go. He wasn’t being secretive, after all. It’s just that none of those subjects had happened to come up yet.

  But there was a subject that kept coming up, and Marianne wasn’t sure what to do about it. There was a new email from her Duck-Man this morning. He hadn’t waited for a response to his last email, he’d gone ahead and written again.

  Dear Esme,

  I know I ought to wait until I hear from you, but I have news that I need to share with you. In my last message, I said that I would be busy for the next three weeks on that major project with the Oregon Farmers Alliance. That remains true, but there is a complication.

  The Farmers Alliance will have to be put on hold for a week, or possibly two. My brother, who lives in Florida, called me last night. He’s having something of a crisis. His wife is on an extended business trip, and he’s been left alone with their child, which would normally be no problem.

  It is a problem this week, as it turns out. Pete (my brother, in case you didn’t guess) owns and operates a charter fishing boat. He just yesterday booked a job that he can’t pass up, and which will keep him on the water and without a moment to spare for anything else, for the next five days.

  I imagine you can see where all this is headed. Our parents aren’t really up to the task of minding a toddler for a full week at their ages; and there’s no other extended family living nearby. So Pete called me, and, well, what could I say? He is my brother, I have to help out.

  I will be flying down to Florida tonight, and returning sometime next week. I will try and keep up with my email and I hope that I’ll be reading a message from you by the time I get to the airport later today.

  That is, if you’ve forgiven me, of course. I live in hope.

  Sincerely,

  Your Duck-Man

  She had to give him props, as her high school employees would say, if they still used that phrase. Maybe it was out of date by now. Whatever the appropriate current term was, it applied to the Duck-Man. It took a lot of courage to stand up to your boss – not to mention the whole Oregon Farmers Alliance! – to do the right thing by your family.

  Marianne wondered if she’d be able to leave the Esmerelda for a week on basically no notice to help out a sibling. Not that she’d ever have to make such a decision; she was an only child, and had only two first cousins, neither of whom she had spoken to in months.

  What did this email mean as far as her feelings for Jack, though? If he and the Duck-Man were competing for her heart, the Duck-Man had made a major statement. Not to mention that, although she didn’t know his actual name, she now knew far more about his job and his family than she did about Jack’s.

  What did it mean that this nameless man whom she’d never met in real life was more willing to open up to her than the man she’d been on two actual, in-person dates with?

  His email had put the Duck-Man firmly back in Marianne’s good graces.

  My fair Duck-Man,

  I think I can call you that again, having read your last message. I’m so impressed at your devotion to family. If I had a brother or sister (which I don’t, in case you were wondering), I’m not sure I’d be willing to fly 3,000 miles (or more, maybe? I know it’s 3,000 from here to the East Coast, and then you have to go south, too, so it’s probably 3,500 or even 4,000 miles) just to help him or her babysit.

  I’m also not sure I’d be willing to risk the wrath of the Oregon Farmers Alliance to do it.

  Does the Farmers Alliance have wrath? They probably do, so more credit to you for braving it.

  Here’s the deal. I was annoyed when you missed our date, but I see now that you are a man (a Duck?) who takes his responsibilities very seriously, which I totally respect. So, first, you are forgiven. Second, email me when you’re ready to return to Romance, and I will personally drive out to pick you up at the airport, and we will have that coffee and pie.

  No, scratch that. We will have a full dinner, which I will buy, and then a movie, which will also be my treat (OK, that’s not nearly as much of a gesture, since I work at the theater, but it should still count for something).

  Fair enough?

  You’re probably already at the airport, and if you’re like me, you hate typing out messages of any length on your phone. And then you’ll need some time to recover from the jet lag, and settle in with your brother, so I don’t expect a prompt reply. Just get back to me in a couple of days, so I know you got this, and that you accept my offer. OK?

  Have a good flight, and give my regards to your brother and niece/nephew (you didn’t specify whether it’s a boy or a girl, and now that I’m reading these words over, I realize my regards won’t mean anything to them anyway, since they don’t know me).

  Sincerely,

  Esme

  It had been followed almost immediately by a second message.

  Hey, Duck-Man,

  I can’t let you leave without making a confession. You deserve to know who it is that’ll be meeting you at the airport next week. You’ve obviously guessed by now that my name is not really Esme (I hope you have, anyway!), and I feel it’s only fair for me to tell you who I really am.

  So allow me to introduce myself. My name is Marianne Carter, and (in case you don’t already know) I am the owner of the Esmerelda Theater.

  I just thought you ought to know.

  Safe travels!

  Marianne

  The first message had been exactly what he’d hoped to hear. She�
��d bought the Duck-Man’s story completely; phase one of his plan had worked to perfection. But her second email had upped the stakes. He had a couple of days before she’d expect an answer, but the next time the Duck-Man wrote her, what excuse would there be for not giving her a real name?

  He’d just have to move up the timetable and begin phase two tonight, that’s all there was to it.

  Marianne heard a low, distant roar and looked up. It was an overcast evening, and for some reason, the only time she ever heard planes overhead was when the weather was cloudy. Maybe if she’d paid more attention in ninth grade science she’d know why that was.

  For now, she wondered if that was the plane the Duck-Man was on. More likely, though, it was inbound to Portland, making a big circle while it waited for traffic to clear at the airport.

  She could have gone to the airport to see him off. She’d given it serious consideration. It was the sort of thing a movie heroine would do – run to the airport to catch her man before he got on the plane, so she could confess her feelings in person.

  Unfortunately, real life wasn’t quite as simple. She had no idea which airline he was on, which city in Florida he was flying to, or if it was a direct flight at all. He might have to fly into Dallas first, or Phoenix, or Denver, or any of probably a dozen other possibilities. And even if she knew which flight he was on, you couldn’t go to the gate to send someone off anymore; if you didn’t have a ticket, you had to stop at the security checkpoint and make your goodbyes there.

  So she gave it up as a lost cause for the moment, and busied herself with theater business. But now, with everything in the office sorted out for the day, and the six PM show in the capable hands of her teenaged workforce and her octogenerian projectionist, she had nothing further to busy herself with.

  She walked down the street, to the corner of Douglass and Scott, and it occurred to her that one place the Duck-Man might be staying was the Interlude Inn. Surely Izzy Sutton would tell her if he was, and maybe she could even be convinced to divulge some personal details about him. The woman wrote love songs, after all. Surely she could appeal to Izzy’s romantic spirit.

  “Hey!”

  Marianne looked down to see – God, she’d done it again! – Jack, on the ground in front of her.

  “We have to stop meeting like this, Jack,” she said, laughing. What else could she do?

  “You could have broken my nose!” It wasn’t broken, or even bruised.

  “You’re fine. But I am sorry,” she said, extending a hand to help him up. “I was just – I don’t know, lost in thought, I guess.”

  “If you want to get lost, that’s your business, but don’t do it out on the street with other people around.” He tried to sound annoyed, but she could hear that it was just an act. The grin he was fighting to suppress didn’t help his cause any.

  “Well, I found you, so it’s OK,” she said. “And just to show I’m really sorry, how about I buy you an omelet?”

  “An omelet? It’s almost six o’clock in the evening.”

  What did that have to do with anything? You could eat breakfast food any time of day. Everyone knew that. “Yes, an omelet. Have you been to the Good Egg yet? They say it’s a three egg omelet, but I think it’s more like four. Anyway, it’s good, and I’m buying, so come on.”

  He followed her into the restaurant. It was a definite point in his favor that, every time they’d met so far, he’d gone along with whatever she suggested. At some point, she assumed he’d probably object to something, or even have a suggestion of his own, but perhaps not. He wasn’t a resident, maybe he was deferring to her not out of chivalry, but simply because she knew the town better than he did.

  Whatever the reason, he was eating with her again. Which made this their third date. Which in the civilized world of her old movies didn’t really mean much, but in the terrifying modern world of dating meant quite a bit. Except that they hadn’t even kissed yet, or even held hands. Surely he had no expectations along those lines tonight. Hopefully, anyway.

  Half an hour and several eggs later, he dropped a bombshell. Not that he had any idea what he was saying.

  “I was over at Sweet Hearts this morning. You know, the pastry shop?”

  “The one that’s a couple of blocks away from my theater? Yes, I’m aware of it.” She hadn’t meant to be quite so snarky, but she couldn’t help herself. Thankfully, he ignored it.

  “Anyway, I was having some coffee, and this guy was at the table next to me, and I wouldn’t have paid any attention, but I haven’t seen anybody like him in Romance before.” She had no idea where this was headed, so she just nodded for him to continue. “He was – I don’t want to say a hippie, because that’s cliché and everything, but that’s kind of what he was.”

  She still wasn’t sure why he was telling her this. “What do you mean by hippie?”

  “Well, for one thing, he smelled. I mean seriously. Like he hadn’t bathed in a week. Or washed his clothes in a month.” That was odd, she had to admit. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen someone like that in town. But she didn’t say anything, she just let him go on. “And he had buttons and patches all over his backpack. ‘Make love, not war,’ and ‘ban the bomb’ and ‘legalize drugs’ and that kind of thing. And the pack was all beaten up, like he’d had it his whole life, you know?”

  “It’s a free country. He had as much right to be there as you did.” She hadn’t seen this judgmental side of Jack before, and she didn’t know what to think about it. Although, to be fair, if the guy really did smell like he hadn’t bathed in a week, she probably wouldn’t have been thrilled that he was sitting next to her, either.

  “Sure, you’re right. It was just interesting, that’s all. And he had this old laptop, it looked like a brick, it must have been ten years old. I was amazed that it even had wifi.”

  She was curious despite herself. “How do you know it had wifi?”

  “He was booking a plane ticket.”

  It couldn’t be, could it? That would be the coincidence of all time. “Where to?”

  Jack laughed. “I wasn’t looking over his shoulder. I’m not a voyeur.” Of course he wasn’t, and it was jumping to conclusions to think he would have spied on this random hippie. “But I do know, because he was talking to himself. Muttering, really. It was kind of unnerving, tell you the truth.”

  Marianne tried, and failed, to keep the impatience out of her voice. “Where, Jack?”

  “Florida. Key West, to be exact, by way of Atlanta. He was going on and on about how Pete, whoever he was, was waiting for him, and he needed the quickest flight he could find. He was talking to the computer, yelling – well, not yelling, it wasn’t loud, but it was like angry whispering, you know what I mean?” She nodded. It was all she was capable of. “Really angry whispering. Kind of the way these crazy conspiracy people go on when they’re writing out their manifestos, you know?”

  It was her Duck-Man. It had to be. Flying on short notice to Florida to meet with someone named Pete? It had to be him.

  Which meant that her pen-pal, to whom she’d revealed her real name, and offered to pick up at the airport, was an unwashed, unhinged throwback to the 1960’s.

  So much for her judgment about men. No wonder she hadn’t had a boyfriend in six months.

  Phase two was a complete success. Marianne had put up a brave face, but he’d seen the way the sparkle faded from her eyes as he went on and on about the “hippie” he’d seen in the pastry shop.

  He wondered what she’d say in her next email to the Duck-Man. She was too kind to ignore him, and too polite to openly ask about the things she now “knew” about him.

  In coming up with the plan, there was one possibility he hadn’t considered. What if Marianne didn’t care what the Duck-Man looked, or smelled, like? That would be, on the one hand, a demonstration of a wonderful, nonjudgmental, open heart. But on the o
ther hand, it would show a lack of good sense - and good taste - that would call into question everything he thought about her.

  No, there was another possibility, too, that he hadn’t counted on. Having been “taken in” by her pen-pal, she might question her instincts to the point that she wouldn’t want to date any man for a good long while. Granted, maybe he deserved to lose his chance with her for all the lies he’d told, but they had all been in a good cause, hadn’t they? Shouldn’t that count for something?

  There was nothing he could do to impact her thinking, so Jack decided to focus on the one thing he could control – writing the report, making the strongest case he could for the Esmerelda Theater being named a historical landmark.

  He spent all of Thursday doing just that. The final report ran to twenty pages, and included dozens of quotes from Romance residents, from the teenaged employees of the theater on up to the mayor. It had references to over two hundred newspaper articles he’d found in the town yearbooks, and he couldn’t help but feel sorry for whichever intern or junior staffer would have to pull the microfilm for each and every one of them.

  And then there was the personal message to his boss:

  Amanda,

  Here it is, ahead of schedule. My findings concerning the Esmerelda Theater in Romance, and my opinion on its application to be declared a State Historical Landmark.

  I’m sure you will read it cover to cover, but I’ll give you the spoiler version right up front:

  The application should be approved.

  I’ll go further. The Esmerelda is the epitome of what a State Historical Landmark should be. It meets and exceeds every criteria in the book with flying colors.

  I’ll go even further than that. If the application isn’t approved, I can’t continue to work for the department. That’s how strongly I feel about it.

  No, let me go all the way out onto the ledge and put it this way: I am ready to move to Romance permanently. I don’t know whether the Esmerelda helps to make this town so special, or whether the town makes the theater that way, and I frankly don’t care. What I do care about is that this theater is the heart of this town, and it needs to be recognized as such.