My Lucky Day: A Romantic Holiday Story Read online

I spot the piece of paper lying on the counter as I turn from shutting the door, heart still pounding from seeing Brent after all these years. Curious, I take a closer look; it wasn’t there a minute ago.

  Then I smile: it’s a flyer, old-school style, black print and clip art on cheap mint green paper. “St. Patrick’s Day Special!” it promises at the top of the flyer in black lettering with blood dripping off. “One time only, see the Director’s Cut of the original Werewolf Leprechauns from Mars!”

  There’s an address, somewhere downtown, and scrawled in handwriting in the bottom corner, surrounded by a hand drawn shamrock, is a note: “Please come,” it says, and it’s signed: “Brent.”

  I chuckle and drift upstairs, sitting at my desk chair and experiencing the lightning fast Wi-Fi Brent promised. A smile lingers on my lips all afternoon, as I post the holiday horror movie reviews I’ve been writing all week.

  I monitor the site for awhile, responding to some comments, tweaking a little bit of formatting, but my heart’s not in it and by sunset I’m actively pacing the little den where, for all intents and purposes, I live, work and play.

  Well, live and work anyway. Dad was very specific about the terms of my “free” room and board: keep the house tidy, have it ready to show anytime a realtor or prospective renter comes around and be ready to move out at a moment’s notice should someone be interested in paying anything over $800 a month in rent.

  So far there have been no takers, but living under the gun like that isn’t exactly an ideal setting for rest and relaxation. I clean daily, hover like a hermit in my little den and always wipe my feet about fifteen times before walking in or out of the spotless foyer.

  Not that I ever go anywhere. Mostly I just blog, working on getting the site plenty of hits every day and collecting a grand or so in advertising dollars per month for my troubles. It’s not much but, with what Dad pays me to check on the other apartments and clean them out every so often, I get by. Plus, the free rent helps a ton.

  I guess I can’t complain, but of course I do. Not out loud, of course, just a hundred times a day inside my busy head.

  I look outside my den window, opening the slats to watch the sky glow an orange and blue shimmer outside. A sense of restlessness stirs in me, something frazzled and unfamiliar, as I drift from the window and out of the den and downstairs, to gaze at my dinner.

  Canned corn beef. A jar of purple cabbage. Generic mint chocolate squares, a single gal’s version of corned beef cabbage and something “green” for dessert on St. Patrick’s Day.

  I used to go out, for the holidays. Valentine’s, Easter, 4th of July, St. Patrick’s Day… whatever. But I’d always run into someone I knew – Mrs. Jenkins, my fourth grade teacher or Mr. Phelps, Dad’s old business partner – and spend half the evening explaining why a “girl like me” was “still single”.

  After awhile, it just got easier to stay home and whip up a lazy meal from cans and jars from the local Piggly Mart. It hasn’t bothered me for the last few years, but tonight, suddenly… home is the last place I want to be.

  I slide open the package of cookies and nibble a few of the stale, cheap chocolate mint squares before shoving them back in the fridge and drifting upstairs.

  I shower and brush my teeth and dry my hair and stand, wrapped in a towel, in front of my bureau. It’s cheap and flimsy, but looks good, like the rest of the rent to own furniture Dad installed in all his rental units. I open a drawer toward the middle and spy my collection of holiday T-shirts.

  I buy them, every year, the week after whatever holiday. They’re rolled, carefully, to avoid wrinkles, and lined, chronologically, by date. There’s the New Year’s Eve row, the Valentine’s Day row, the St. Patrick’s Day row, and so on, two or three shirts – the price tags still on – per row.

  Every year they look so cute, and I get so caught up in the holiday, and then I come back and stalk the Clearance aisle until, magically, the shirts are two or three bucks and I snatch them, along with 50-cent bags of conversation hearts or malted milk balls shaped like eggs or Halloween candy.

  And then, by the time the next year rolls around, I don’t have anywhere to wear them and they sit, gathering dust, the cheery red stickers still clinging to the price tags.

  But this year, I open the drawer and caress the black and blue and pink and green T-shirts as they lay, military stiff, in their neglected drawer. I reach for one and unroll it to reveal a cute little white jersey, with forest green sleeves, and the words “Hug Me, I’m Only Half-Irish” on the front.

  I chuckle and slip it on, admiring the soft, cotton fabric as it clings to my skin. It’s a little daring for me but, then again, so is leaving the house these days so I drift to another drawer, grab some shamrock panties and another drawer, where I slid out some khaki capris and slip them on before sliding into a soft, worn pair of green lace up sneakers.

  I stare at myself in the bathroom mirror – spotless, as usual – and frown. It needs… something. Pigtails, I figure, quickly tying them off before I can change my mind. Downstairs I grab my little clutch purse and the mint green flyer before retreating to my car.

  I smile, driving down the row of townhouses named Mangrove Manor: little mint flyers line the windshields of the cars in their cobblestone driveways in front of their identical powder blue houses. Brent must have passed them out on his way from my house.

  It’s a quiet, peaceful drive through downtown Noel, North Carolina, its wintry charms put on hold tonight as, instead of Christmas lights little shamrock lights wind around the lampposts and neon shamrocks or rainbows or pots of gold blink in the quaint, storefront windows.

  At a stop sign, I glance down at the flyer to remind myself of the address, then creep up another block or two until I’m in front of the old Noel Playhouse.

  I haven’t been downtown in awhile and, I guess, since then someone has converted the old Playhouse into a movie theater, now called the Comeback Cinema. I smile and find myself a parking space so easily I figure I must be doing it wrong. But when I walk around the car, looking for a meter or a Handicapped sign, there’s none to be seen.

  Soft bagpipe music flows from unseen speakers high above the downtown lampposts. A nice touch, I think, and something to blog about tomorrow as I recap my St. Patrick’s Day for my 7,000 or so loyal Molly’s Monster Madness blog subscribers.

  The little courtyard in front of the theater is empty, as is the ticket booth as I approach the old-timey window. “Hello?” I ask, politely, and a fresh-faced cashier, high school age for sure, pops in from the lobby behind the window.

  “Happy St. Patrick’s Day!” he cries, tugging down on the blinking shamrock bow tie around his skinny neck. “Welcome to the show. One ticket tonight?” he looks around, craning his neck to see if there is anyone behind me.

  “Just one,” I say, smiling. “And I like your bowtie.”

  “Thanks,” he says, winking slyly. “I love your shirt!”

  He rips the ticket and I drift inside, watching the same kid – bowtie still blinking – race over to the concession stand. It’s quaintly retro, like the rest of the theater, with its paisley carpeting and maroon wallpaper covered in old black and white horror movie prints.

  He stands next to a steaming popcorn machine straight out of the 50s and says, “May I help you?”

  I eye the specials board, littered with handwritten holiday treats like the “Mint Mocha Madness” and “Werewolf Truffles” and “Leprechaun Juice”.

  “What’s Mint Mocha Madness?” I ask the kid, noting the little “Comeback Cinemas” nametag on his lime green vest that says “Chuck”.

  He blushes a little. “It’s regular mocha coffee, with some junior mints thrown in for flavor.”

  I smirk; that sounds pretty good, actually. “And the Werewolf Truffles?”

  “Peanut butter cups,” Chuck says apologetically.

  Those sound good, too, actually. “I’m afraid to ask about the Leprechaun Juice.”

  Chuck chuckle
s. “It’s basically just lemon lime soda with some food coloring.”

  I sigh, not wanting to be up all night. “Okay then, how about one Mint Mocha Madness, an order of Werewolf Truffles and… what are you calling your popcorn tonight?”

  He blushes. “Kernels of Gold!”

  “I love it,” I say, ordering a small Kernels of Gold and paying cash because the Comeback Cinema doesn’t look like the kind of place that takes debit cards.

  As I’m staring at the wall of food on top of the concessions counter, Chuck and I make eye contact. “Need some help, huh?”

  “No,” I say, grabbing my pure, which is barely big enough for the change he just handed me, let alone a jumbo order of store brand peanut butter cups. “I’ll just… put it in here?”

  Chuck laughs and spots someone behind me, waving him down. “Here, this gentleman will help…”

  I turn and see Brent, wearing one of those cheesy Leprechaun vest T-shirts, standing behind me. He’s looking to the side, hasn’t seen me yet, and already my face flushes.

  “Oh no,” I say, before he can spot me. “I’m fine, just…”

  Too late.

  “Molly?” Brent asks, sliding up beside me. “I can’t… believe… you came.”

  “Brent?” I ask, as if it’s my first time seeing him. “What… are you here for the movie?”

  Behind us, Chuck snorts and says, “You gonna tell her, boss, or should I?”

  I look from one to the other and ask, “Boss? You… you run the Comeback Cinema?”

  He blushes a little, then jokes, “You sound so surprised?”

  “No, I just… talk about burning the candle at both ends.”

  Somewhere along the way he picks up my “Kernels of Gold” and leads me away from the concessions stand. The rest of the lobby is as adorably kitsch as the entrance, with crushed velvet benches lining the walls under more retro movie posters, some of them the same as on my den wall back home.

  I follow him with my other snacks as we drift into the single theater, the double doors open, house lights dim but still on. I’m a little early, I suppose, but that’s my way.

  I never like to miss the previews.

  The theater is mostly empty, save for a few fellow geeks in faded Werewolf Leprechauns from Mars T-shirts (why didn’t I think to wear mine?) sitting down front.

  We walk past them, instinctually, to the back row. “Why didn’t you just ask me in person?” I say, sliding into a seat down the middle of the row as he lingers, leaning against the armrest of the next chair over.

  He shrugs, looking adorable in his cheesy vest shirt. “I guess I got nervous.”

  “You? Brent Coffee? Nervous?” I recall his glory days back in high school. Captain of everything, sweetheart to everybody, though never quite me.

  He chuckles and smiles down at me before slinking into the seat. “I’m not the Brent Coffee you used to know,” he admits, a little sheepishly. “But then again, you’re not the Molly Sinclair I remember, either.”

  “I’m not?” I ask, glad I ventured out, if only for a snippet or two more of conversation with Brent.

  “You’re different, now,” he says, nodding at my clingy T-shirt and unlaced sneakers. “I can’t explain it.”

  “You say ‘different’ like it’s a good thing,” I sigh, enjoying his eyes on me.

  “It’s a very good thing,” he agrees, nodding, eyes lingering.

  I feel the heat creeping up into my face and blink it away. “So what’s with this place?” I ask.

  “It had been abandoned for a few years,” he says, almost reluctantly, like he’d rather talk about me… or even us. “I kept watching the price go down and something told me I could do something with it…” he sighs, looking down the mostly empty rows to the silent screen. “I wish I still believed that.”

  “This place is great,” I say, nudging his knee. “I just… you need to tell more people about it.”

  He looks hurt. “Didn’t you see my flyers?”

  I chuckle. “I did, Brent, but… let’s update your marketing profile a little, okay?”

  He slumps down in his seat and my heart flutters a little to think he might actually stay and watch the movie with me. “I can help,” I offer, slumping down next to him.

  “How?” he asks, turning casually to face me, as if we do this kind of thing all the time.

  I smile at his face, so close, like we’re lying on pillows next to each other during a slumber party at 4 a.m., both of us too amped to sleep. “I can start with my blog tomorrow,” I say. “And after that, well…”

  “We’re doing a Bachelor Bunny from Hell marathon all Easter weekend,” he brags. “Maybe you could live blog it, or something.”

  My mind reels and I chuckle. “That could be really fun,” I confess, the understatement of the year. “I… I would love to do that. Maybe, beforehand, we could get together once or twice, try to strategize…”

  “Once or twice?” He waves a long-fingered hand dismissively. “I think we’ll need to meet a whole ton of times before then. Like, every day…” His voice has a playful quality, but his eyes are serious, intent, and I match them, watching his every move.

  “That sounds… delightful!” I chuckle when, from the aisle, a loud voice clears itself.

  “Yeah,” says a tall, scrawny kid in a too-big Werewolf Leprechauns T-shirt. “Real delightful. Listen, not sure why you two lovebirds came in here to score, but, uh… some of us are actually interested in seeing movie history, if you don’t mind?” He waves his hand down the rows of empty seats to the front row, where his three friends have turned around and are staring daggers at us.

  “Oh God,” says Brent, sitting up and trying not to giggle. “That… our bad. We’re… we’re…”

  “Very sorry,” I say, covering his hand with mine to stop his stammering. “It won’t… it won’t happen again.”

  As if on cue, the house lights dim and the skinny kid panics, literally wincing and racing down the aisles to join his friends down front.

  “I can’t believe you got shushed in your own theater,” I whisper as Brent leans closer to hear.

  “Thanks for sticking up for me,” he says, glancing from my lips to my eyes and back to my lips again.

  I feel his eyes on them, lick them and say, “How will we ever catch up now?”

  His eyes meet mine, wider now, before narrowing flirtatiously. “I have a few ideas,” he suggests.

  “I’m all ears,” I purr.

  “Only,” he whispers, leaning forward so slowly I almost inch forward to beat him to the punch, “they don’t involve your ears…”

  His kiss is gentle, warm, kind and intoxicating. It seems to last forever, but we break between previews and feed each other Kernels of Gold between shared sips of Mint Mocha Madness and the occasional Werewolf Truffle.

  The movie starts but, despite it being one of my all-time favorites, I can’t tear myself away from peering back at Brent every few minutes, his familiar face bathed in the movie’s flickering light.

  And in between kisses, and the roar of Martian Leprechauns as they turn into werewolves, I drift into a new world, an impossible world, a strange world that, for the first time, seems entirely possible, familiar, and right.

  “I guess it was my lucky day,” he whispers at one point, lips pulling tenderly from mine.

  “How’s that?” I murmur.

  “Your Wi-Fi going out like that.”

  I nod, not wanting him to know, or possibly not wanting to admit, how much my luck has changed as well…

  * * * * *

  About the Author

  Rusty Fischer is the author of Christmas in Snowflake: Three Heartwarming Holiday Tales, forthcoming from Decadent Publishing. Visit him at www.snowflakeseries.com for dozens of FREE stories from the fictional town of Snowflake!

  Happy Holidays, whatever time of year it may be!!

 
this book with friends