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. There 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?