Page 18 of Holidate Scramble
"Of course." I needed to rein in whatever this was, this growing awareness of her that made me say things I normally wouldn't. "What can I do to help?"
"Grab that box of candy canes? I need to finish setting up before people start demanding their movie snacks."
For the next twenty minutes, I became part of Piper's operation—arranging candy by type, counting change for the charity donation box, filling paper cups with hot chocolate and peppermint tea from large thermoses. The line moved steadily, families and couples purchasing treats before finding their seats.
"That woman has enough energy to light up the whole town," observed an older man as I handed him his popcorn while Piper turned to fill drink orders. Arthur Jenkins, if I remembered correctly—the bank manager my mother had introduced me to last week.
"Hope some of it rubs on me," I nodded with a smile.
Mayor Reeves approached the front of the hall and tapped a microphone. "Welcome, everyone, to our Sixth Annual Holiday Movie Night! Tonight's screening is part of our Twelve Days of Christmas Challenge fundraiser for Alzheimer's research."
She gestured toward our concession table. "All proceeds from tonight's refreshments go directly to the foundation, thanks to our coordinator, Piper Summers, and her team of volunteers."
A smattering of applause followed, with Piper giving a small wave in acknowledgment.
"Enjoy the show, and remember—it's a wonderful life here in Starlight Bay!"
As the lights dimmed, Piper nudged me. "That's our cue. Help me grab some snacks for ourselves?"
We collected popcorn, hot chocolate, and chocolate-covered raisins—her addiction since childhood, she confessed—and made our way to the back row. The chairs weren't designed for comfort, but Piper had thought ahead, laying a red fleece blanket across two seats she'd marked with "Reserved" signs earlier that afternoon.
"My special setup," she said softly, sitting down and spreading the blanket across both our laps. "It gets cold in here once the heat kicks down for the movie."
The proximity was... distracting. Her shoulder pressed against mine, the warmth of her leg inches from my own. I focused intently on the opening credits, trying to ignore the way her fingers brushed mine as she offered the popcorn.
"I watch this every year," she said softly as George Bailey's story unfolded on screen. "Never gets old."
"My mother loves it too," I admitted. "Made us watch it every Christmas Eve growing up."
"Really? So you're a secret sentimentalist?"
"Shh," I held a finger to my lips.
She stifled a laugh and popped a chocolate-covered raisin into her mouth.
Throughout the film, I found myself watching her reactions more than the screen. The way she mouthed certain lines, her eyes shining during the romantic scenes, how she tensed when George stood on the bridge contemplating his worth. She lived the story, felt it in a way I hadn't allowed myself to feel anything in years.
When George ran through Bedford Falls, joyously calling out "Merry Christmas!" to the buildings and his neighbors, I felt something shift beside me. Piper's hand slipped under the blanket and found mine, her fingers tentatively threading through my own.
I froze. This wasn't part of the show, no audience watching us now, no need to pretend. Yet her hand remained, warm and small against my palm. After a moment's hesitation, I closed my fingers around hers.
We stayed that way through the final scenes—connected in the dark. My thumb traced small circles on her wrist, feeling her pulse quicken in response.
As the credits rolled and the lights gradually came back on, she slipped her hand from mine and stood.
"I need to start cleaning up," she said, not quite meeting my eyes. "The rental company wants everything out tonight."
People filed out, offering compliments on the event, dropping additional donations in the collection box. Piper moved with a natural flow through the tasks, gathering trash, boxing leftover concessions, counting the night's proceeds.
I began collecting abandoned cups, wiping down tables, stacking chairs, glad to have something to occupy my hands.
After the last family left, the Town Hall emptied except for us. Piper stood at the concession table, counting bills and making notes on a clipboard.
"We raised over nine hundred dollars tonight," she said, finally breaking the silence. "Not bad for a small-town movie night."
"That's impressive." I carried the last box of supplies to the table. "You're great at this—bringing people together, making them want to contribute."
"It's easier than surgery."
