The Second Chance Cinema

Chapter 1

T he 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 complimentinsults 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 newbuild 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.”