Page 1 of The Second Chance Cinema
1
The first thing Ellie noticed about the bar was the friendly, cursive logo that invited a singsong voice:Finn’s!The second thing Ellie noticed was the unfortunate piece of paper tacked beneath that logo: aFOR SALEsign. She forced her shoulders not to sink. The image of the heartbroken owner and all the cast-off patrons had to be set aside. She had made it here in time. She could still do something.
“Special place, isn’t it?” the bartender asked once she’d settled in. A brass spoon swirled through her bourbon, and then he slid the glass over. The first sip of the old-fashioned sizzled on her tongue. “It’s been in the family a long time.”
Specialwasn’t a good enough word. Finn’s was extraordinary. The shoebox-shaped lounge held forty people, tops. It had been lovingly crafted from wood slats that were painted a forest green. Warm light was decanted inside frosted globe pendants, and a vinyl player spun jazz records from another era. Behind her, candles on small marble tables illuminated the only art on the walls: watercolor paintings of sailors who looked like they’d just gotten lucky. It was a place someone would have to hear about, midwhisper, to find. Already, Ellie could feel her heart beating faster. Her body melted into the worn leather stool, ready to stake its claim.
“You don’t have to worry,” Ellie told him. “Finn’s isn’t going anywhere.”
“What’s the plan?” the bartender wanted to know. His long, lean frame pressed toward her. He adjusted suspenders that weren’t part of a uniform.
“The plan is … magic,” she said, with a sarcastic finger twinkle.
Ellie’s work wasn’t magic, though. She simply wrote about forgotten places that were set to close down, which usually kept that exact thing from happening. Many had lauded her “the bar whisperer” or “the restaurant heroine,” but these flatteries gave her too much credit. The stories wrote themselves if she listened. So, she let her eyes flutter closed and dropped into the patchwork of conversation around her. Muffled rain fell outside the glass, adding a soft layer to Billie Holiday getting gutsy. Right as she took out her notebook to jot down the wordbelonging, a new voice was in her ear.
“Hey,” it said.
A man had taken the stool to her right. He was a couple years younger than she was, or maybe just more optimistic. Dark, curly hair framed rosy, round cheeks—was he blushing? He looked midwestern sweet, like the sort of person who would laugh at a joke even if it weren’t funny to avoid hurting the other person’s feelings. While Ellie had to admit he was good-looking, he wasn’t her usual type. She went for wildcards. Recently, there had been Jonathan, the tattoo-artist-slash-bass-player, and Clay, who led daredevil rock-climbing trips in Sedona. This man, whoever he was, had the tame air of a school crossing guard. And yet, she felt herself lean in his direction.
“I’m Drake,” he offered, with a wave.
“Ellie.”
“Ellie. I didn’t mean to interrupt.” He pointed at her open notebook. She closed the cover.
“Not interrupting.”
“You’re writing”—Drake scratched the stubble on his chin— “let me guess, a steamy vampire thing.” His dimples were hard at work.
“It’s not vampires.” Ellie bit her maraschino garnish off its stem. She could almost hear one of her mother’s complimentinsults about her being a bold woman. Italics on thebold.
“Oh. Uh. Zombies, then?” Drake fidgeted with his hands. He wasn’t shy, but a little nervous, maybe. Definitely nervous. Not the type to approach women at bars. Fiercely loyal. An unspoiled only child. Ellie was assuming things based on his body language and a faded denim jacket that most people would’ve discarded by now. She was also avoiding answering questions about her work. After becoming successful, it was alienating to tell people what she did.
“Life’s more interesting with an element of mystery,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
Drake shook his head no. “Yeah, I would not call myself a mystery lover. I’m a creature of habit. I want to know what I’m getting into,” he admitted. “That’s why I eat at the same three restaurants and get drinks right here.”
Ellie pushed back on her stool. “The same three places? What’s that all about?”
Drake scooted toward her, and their arms grazed. Both glanced at where they touched, but neither of them pulled back. “Well, when you’ve found a good thing,” he said, so close to her face, “why not stick with it?”
Ellie’s laugh caught in her throat. It wasn’t funny, but surprising, as he was essentially arguing against the very principle that inspired her work. She needed a sip of her drink. “Because,” Ellie said, letting herself get animated, “somewhere out there could be a great thing. The best thing. And by going to all the same places again and again, you’re missing out.”
Drake tapped the dividing line between their arms. “And if you’re always looking for something else, you might not score a birthday party invite from your waiter at Taste of Hong Kong.”
There was a weird streak to him Ellie hadn’t seen coming. She liked it. “Your waiter invited you to his birthday party?”
“Yeah. Yeah. But I didn’t go.” Drake grabbed his drink and played with his too-long hair. Ellie also liked that he needed a haircut, she decided. She liked his goofy shirt, too, which she noticed when he draped his jean jacket on the back of his stool. On it, a dinosaur and its prehistoric friends squatted, midsong, by a raging bonfire. “I didn’t go for long, I mean,” Drake said. “Just played some shuffleboard.” Their knees brushed under the bar. “Now, please let me off the hook, and tell me what you’re writing.”
Ellie gave in and explained that she was basically life support for hidden gems. “A career nostalgic, if you will.” She discovered incredible offbeat locations—from restaurants to dance halls—that were in danger of closing. Then, she helped revive them by writing their stories. The whole time she spoke, Drake’s eyes stayed glued on her. Ellie admitted she had written a book but downplayed it by saying it was a “coffee-table book,” and when she mentioned her television show, she referred to it as a documentary.
“So, you write about these places and make them all cool again?”
“No,” Ellie said. “It’s not like that. The places I write about were always cool. I capture the feeling of being there. I paint the whole picture, but I try not to embellish it. I love every part of my subjects, flaws and all.” This was the most she’d talked about work in a long time. “Anyway, people want to find these places. They just need to be pointed in the right direction.”
“Aha.” He chuckled. “So, I was right about the zombies.” He sat up a little, proud of himself. “Because you make old things undead.” Drake’s hand knocked on the wooden bar. Ellie was drawn to his lifelines. She wondered how fast those hands could tear fabric and undo buttons.
When Drake got up to go to the bathroom, the voice of doubt in Ellie’s head wondered if he would come back. She wanted him to come back. That was new. Last week, she’d crawled down herdate’s fire escape to avoid a conversation about breakfast. Drake was different. Behind his ice-blue eyes and devotion to three restaurants, Ellie sensed a vibrant inner world. What if he slipped away without getting her number? She willed him to return, and he did, smelling like a pine forest, which made her suspect he’d put on cologne for her.
