Chapter 1 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: a FOR SALE sign. 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." Special wasn'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 word belonging , 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 compliment-insults about her being a bold woman. Italics on the bold . "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 her date'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. "Maybe not all mysteries are bad," he decided as he slid back onto the stool next to her. "I mean, there is Nancy Drew." "The books?" "The dog." Drake took another sip of beer. "Mine, my dog." "You named your dog after a fictional teenage spy?" "Not exactly. She had the name when I adopted her." "Does it suit her? Nancy Drew?" Drake shrugged. "Sort of," he said. "She's a golden, on the older side, with a habit of eating things that aren't really food," he explained. "She also seems to be aging in reverse." As they nursed another drink, Ellie learned that Drake loved building homes and wanted to start his own construction business. He was drawn to the way a family would move into a space and share so many important moments within its walls. Maybe that was the result of a happy childhood, he admitted. "But that wasn't what you asked." He tsked and cracked his knuckles. "You asked what I do now , which is project manage identical new-build homes that most families will live in for about two to three years before moving somewhere better. Homes without a legacy, I call them. I kind of hate it. That was too honest, wasn't it?" "You know, you sound fairly nostalgic yourself," Ellie gleaned. "Me?" he asked. "No. It's the opposite. I'm a dreamer, and I'm always looking forward. I see a blank wall and think about how a dad is going to measure their kid getting taller there. In the future." Ellie was trying to pinpoint what she liked so much about Drake when the bartender came back. "Have you saved this place yet?" he asked, setting their checks down. Finn's was closing for the night. Drake swooped up both checks before Ellie could make a move. "Still working on it," she said. He walked away without acknowledging the comment. "I think Sam's jealous," Drake noticed. "Why?" "Because I got to have drinks with you." His grin was so genuine. God, he was cute; she was doomed. "That's such a line." "Nah. It can't be a line if it's true," he told her. "A squiggle, maybe." Drake signed for the checks and asked if he could walk her home. Ellie glanced out the window. The overcast sky looked like it had a personal vendetta against them. "I've got an umbrella," he said, reading her mind. Ellie's apartment was more of a train ride away, but she agreed to a long walk. It was brisk for a late-spring night. Without words, Drake pulled his jean jacket off and slid it over her shoulders. Outside, he expanded his trusty umbrella and held it above them. "Hey, thanks for letting me walk with you. I'm enjoying trying to solve The Case of the Girl at the Bar." Ellie nudged him as they started down the sidewalk, letting some of the rain into their bubble. "Sounds like you've read some Nancy Drew." "Of course I have. Who hasn't?" Drake wrapped his arm around her and drew her in close. All the lights in her body turned on, brightening rooms Ellie hadn't known existed. What Ellie liked about Drake, she decided, was this. He was a beer guy without being a sports guy, a denim guy without being a horse guy. A definitive Pisces. He'd felt guilty for a second when he mentioned outmaneuvering the bartender, his level of empathy unwavering even when he was the victor. His voice went up an octave when he mentioned Nancy Drew. Drake had been invested in her work without being threatened by it, or worse, wanting to use it as some small ladder for himself. Mostly, she could picture sitting in comfortable silence for hours at a time in bed with him. She was getting ahead of herself. Ellie had slipped up that night, she knew. She needed to focus on the story, and she'd barely spoken to anyone else at the bar. But maybe Drake was the story. Maybe the hook about Finn's was what had happened naturally: it was the type of place where a woman could meet the last good single guy out there. It was cheesy, and Ellie was no romantic. This reminder made her do what she did best, the long-practiced art of self-sabotage. "What's wrong with you, anyway?" Ellie asked. "Come on." Drake's hand found her back. He was getting--slightly--bolder. "What kind of a question is that, 'what's wrong with me'?" "You just seem kind of perfect," she said, gesturing for them to turn onto the street that eventually led to her apartment. Drake followed her lead. "I was thinking the same thing. So, what's wrong with you--" "Seriously, though. What's your baggage?" Ellie caught a glimpse of them reflected in the glass window of a wine store. They looked great together. It wasn't too much of a stretch to think that maybe this would be their wine store one day. She'd ask Drake to run out and buy a bottle while she stayed home and botched the dinner. "Wouldn't that be refreshing? If we just spilled all our secrets, right here, right now?" "Yeah, I guess," Drake agreed. "But see..." His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth. "I don't have any baggage." Ellie rolled her eyes. "Everybody has baggage." "Okay fine, maybe, mine is more like a carry-on," Drake said. "It's a nice travel backpack. Practical, compact." They were only a few blocks from Ellie's apartment when she started into the intersection. A walk signal hadn't lit up yet, but there were no cars on either side and no sound of wheels sloshing through the rain. The storm had turned the streets into a private city just for them. "Aren't you going to--" Drake stood alone on the curb. "I looked both ways." Ellie was already halfway across the street. The rain had slowed, but it was still coming down. "Why wait for the light when you can look for yourself?" "Well, I've been told I play it safe," Drake said, following her footsteps with slight hesitation. "In fact..." The shelter of the umbrella found her again. "I even had to psych myself up to suggest a walk. I don't normally walk at night, especially in the rain. But, you know. Umbrella. And also, I wanted to keep talking to you." Ellie grinned. "Well, thanks for not leaving me to drown, Mary Poppins." The urge to invite Drake up to her apartment was strong, but whatever was happening here was meant to aerate. Besides, Ellie couldn't remember what kind of clothing Rorschach would be waiting for them on the floor. "Thanks for the walk," Ellie said. A curtain of rain fell between them as she stepped back. "Yeah," Drake told her. "Well, now I know where you live. Wow. That sounded creepy. I just meant I should probably get your number, too." " Probably get my number?" "Just playing it safe again." "Oh, come on, Drake. I talked to you for three hours at a bar and walked with you for what would've been a three-minute ride home." Ellie held out her hand. Drake reached to grab it. "Your phone," she chuckled. "I was asking for your phone." "Right." He pulled his cell phone out and handed it over, stepping closer to shield her from the storm again as she typed her number in and assigned it a playful name he read aloud. "The Girl at the Bar." He nodded. Ellie kissed his cheek. "Good night, Drake." She could feel him watching her as she splashed through a few rain puddles and greeted a neighbor who was always walking her dog at an inopportune time. Ellie pretended to look for new mail, even though she already had earlier that day, to feel him there a second longer, his eyes on her. The next morning, Ellie sat on her balcony with a half-finished crossword. A sound jolted her out of her thoughts as she struggled to figure out six down, "a powerful attraction." The sound was a text. Guess I'll see you soon, jacket thief , it read. Drake's jacket was sitting inside the sliding glass door. It dangled from the back of her dining chair as if it had always existed there, waiting to be worn again. Magnet , Ellie scribbled into the crossword squares before responding, How do you feel about Mexican food? I feel good about it if it's tonight , Drake replied. Then: Sorry. That was forward. Ellie could almost hear his throat clearing between the messages. She tossed her legs up on the chair opposite her and waited for another response. A cardinal flitted down onto the balcony, splashing its feathers in a puddle. Then: Let me rephrase. Are you and my jacket free for dinner? Ellie hesitated. Drake liked the version of her he had seen last night. This was the best version of Ellie--the version that had been practiced and refined over the years to create a certain impression. This Ellie was fun and carefree and kept the dark parts tucked away--the parts of herself that, if revealed, might send Drake running. Ellie tried to set those parts aside a little longer. Despite the conversation she'd started about baggage the night before, he didn't need to find out her whole story yet. Yes , she typed, looking over at his jacket as if it might weigh in on everything that would follow. We're free tonight. Excerpted from The Second Chance Cinema: A Novel by Thea Weiss All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
