4. Marnie
CHAPTER FOUR
Marnie
Today is going to be a good day. I’m sure of it.
I’ve never been one to use daily affirmations, but if there is ever a time to give myself a confidence boost, it’s today.
I tossed and turned all night, too anxious for my first day to get any actual sleep. By the time my alarm went off this morning, I was already staring at the ceiling, my mind fully awake, running through every possible disaster that could befall me today.
I could spill my coffee on important documents and embarrass myself.
My new boss could be a control freak and not let me do any work on the exhibit, ruining my chances of getting the promotion.
This could all be some cruel joke and there is no position waiting for me when I arrive.
I push the thought from my mind. Irene wouldn’t do that. Right?
I splash cold water on my face, take a few deep breaths, and continue getting ready.
My suitcases are still mostly packed, since I only laid out a few outfits to get me through the week.
After overanalyzing the various clothing combinations that I can make out of these pieces, and double checking for no holes or stains, I opt for a blue and white striped button down paired with white dress pants and nude flats.
I do a once-over in the mirror. Dress to impress.
I will make the most of this opportunity, and I have the entire summer to prove to everyone that I deserve the assistant curator position.
More importantly, I will not embarrass Irene.
The Martha’s Vineyard Historical Society is a short fifteen-minute walk from my cottage, so I decide to forego driving in favor of walking off all the remaining jitters.
Since I was wide awake before my alarm went off, I have a sizable buffer of time before I need to be at the office, so I can truly start to take in the island on this spontaneous morning stroll.
Stepping out onto my porch, I am greeted with a soft breeze that perfectly accompanies the crisp morning air. The waves are slowly rolling in across the beach while the seagulls roam the sand just shy of where the water reaches it.
I can definitely get used to a view like this.
After ensuring that I have everything in my bag, I step off the porch and follow the path to the main road and begin my first ever commute by foot.
I am nearing the final stretch of road. One more turn and then it is a straight shot for the historical society.
As I round the corner, I enter a busy town street with businesses and stores filling both sides. I get about halfway up the street when a bright orange sign written in thick chalk catches my eye. Pumpkin spice lattes are back!
In May?
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I detour off my route to check it out. I still have plenty of time before I need to be at the office, and I can certainly use some caffeine after such a sleepless night.
As I gently push open the door, I am greeted with a warm, sugary scent that makes my mouth water.
It’s a small shop, but there is so much life inside.
A set of black leather couches form a nook in the back corner with a coffee table in the middle, perfect for a quiet reading hour.
There is a built-in counter with comfy stools that stretches across the floor-to-ceiling windows, perfect for people watching.
Several small round tables fill in the middle of the shop, perfect for a work meeting or quick coffee date.
Vintage posters of popular horror movies line the walls, and an assortment of pumpkin-themed decorations cover nearly every surface. Countertops, centerpieces, even the windowsills are adorned with pumpkin art. It’s truly immersive, like I’ve been plopped into a Halloween movie.
A few patrons occupy the center tables, minding their own business, while an instrumental soundtrack plays overhead.
I’m mesmerized by everything in sight as I head to the counter, where I’m greeted by an older gentleman.
He appears to be in his seventies, dressed in a black apron tied above his dress pants and shirt with an orange bow tie.
His name tag reads Art, and he has a warm smile that melts away all my anxiety about my first day.
“Welcome in! What can I get you?” His thick New England accent rolls off the counter and echoes throughout the café.
“Medium pumpkin spice latte, please.”
“You got it. Was it the sign that drew you in?”
“Actually, yes,” I reply with a laugh. “I was a little surprised to see that in the middle of spring.”
“I just put it out a few days ago. We take Halfway to Halloween very seriously around here.” His face falls slightly, but he quickly recovers and returns to the earlier polite expression. He pulls a cup from the stack and retrieves a marker from his front shirt pocket. “Can I get a name, dear?”
“I’m Marnie,” I offer with a smile.
He pauses, giving me a confused look, but shrugs and writes my name on the cup anyway.
I try not to read anything into it.
As he rings me up, my eyes land on two matching mason jars at the base of the register, each decorated with festive ribbons around the rims. There is a handwritten index card taped to the front of each jar.
One reads Slasher, the other reads Paranormal.
“What’s this?” I inquire.
“Oh, that’s something my granddaughter showed me.
She’s always inventing new ideas to incorporate into the shop.
Each day, I put a new debate topic on the tip jars and have customers vote.
I’ve had to get creative, but the right question gets even the quietest people talking.
It’s sparked some intense debates at times,” he chuckles.
“I’ll bet,” I reply. I reach into my wallet, pondering for a moment, then place a dollar in the Slasher jar.
“Slashers, huh?”
“Definitely. Slashers win all day long. No-brainer, really.”
“I respectfully disagree,” a deep, rich voice says from behind me. My pulse quickens at the authority in his tone.
I’m frozen in place, trying to make sense of why I’m having such a visceral reaction to a stranger’s voice, when a toned, tan arm reaches over me and drops a dollar bill in the Paranormal jar.
As his hand retreats out of my periphery, it gently grazes my upper arm, and I fight the shiver that works its way up my back.
“Morning, Art.”
Art’s eyes look past my head, and he immediately smiles at the person behind me. “Morning, Caleb. Your order is just about ready,” he says as he turns toward the back counter.
Caleb.
A flare of annoyance hits me at the idea of a complete stranger openly voicing his disagreement with me, but it’s followed quickly by intrigue. If Art knows him by name, he must be a local. And he must not be that bad if Art is greeting him with a smile.
I spin on my heels, unsure of what—or who—to expect, and I have to take a step back to get the full view.
He’s tall, maybe six or seven inches taller than me.
His brown hair is tousled like he’s been running his hands through it, and he has piercing blue eyes that threaten to crack through my walls if I stare any longer.
I shift my focus to the white T-shirt spanning across his broad chest, a gold chain hanging from his neck, then to the gray tactical pants, and finally to the steel-toe boots. He clearly knows his way around a toolbox. He’s actually quite handsome. Damn him.
There’s a playful gleam in his eyes, like he knows that I just checked him out.
His head cocks to the side, waiting for me to acknowledge his dissent. As much as I don’t want to give him the satisfaction, another part of me wants to hear his side.
“You disagree,” I state, keeping my features neutral.
“Respectfully disagree,” he corrects. “Though I’d like to know your reasons for thinking the correct answer is slashers. Why it’s a ‘no-brainer,’ as you put it.”
“Are you one of those guys who just wants to argue for the sake of arguing? Or are you genuinely asking me for my opinion?”
“I am genuinely asking your opinion,” he asserts, his tone firm and sincere.
It takes a moment for me to process his words.
People don’t ask for my opinion often, let alone men.
Especially not men like John, who will steamroll over you any chance they get.
It’s refreshing to experience this, but I am also taken aback.
I wasn’t prepared with an answer when I turned around, and my brain is short-circuiting as I try and fail to come up with something—anything.
Sensing my hesitation, he stuffs his hands into his pockets and nods toward the two jars. “I can go first,” he says, amusement lacing his tone. “Seems like the odds are stacked against me already, but you’re the only one here to defend my case to.”
The Paranormal jar is empty, save for the single dollar he deposited, while the Slasher jar has several wadded-up bills stuffed inside. I hadn’t noticed before.
I stare back at him, a silent cue for him to speak.
“Paranormal movies play on a fear of the unknown. An entity you can’t see—something otherworldly. A man in a mask doesn’t compete with that. Slashers are good, don’t get me wrong, but paranormal horror movies are by far scarier.”
“Well, I’m afraid it’s not that simple,” I quip back.
“Oh?” His eyebrows shoot up on his forehead. “Do tell,” he goads, pulling his hands out of his pocket to rest an arm against the counter, casually leaning against it.
I cross my arms in response and shift my weight. “Paranormal movies can be scarier at times because of their jump scares, yes, but slashers are more realistic.”
He just stares at me, waiting for more. Challenging me.
I lower my arms and double down. “The Texas Chain Saw Massacre is loosely inspired by real-life serial killers and cannibals. Halloween is a man wreaking havoc on a town and killing teenagers on a normally family-friendly holiday. And Scream is a team of homicidal teenagers enacting revenge on their family and friends for a multitude of reasons. All great movies, but there’s a common denominator there. ”
A small smirk grows on his face. “What, men or masks?”