Showing posts with label romantic comedy. Show all posts
Showing posts with label romantic comedy. Show all posts

Friday, September 12, 2025

πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film AdaptationπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜: Autumn at Apple Hill by Angie Ellington



Summary:

NOW A HALLMARK CHANNEL ORIGINAL MOVIE STARRING ERIN CAHILL AND WES BROWN!
FALL IN LOVE AT THE APPLE HILL BED & BREAKFAST!

Elise Jacobs is ready for a change. A new beginning. Recently divorced, she relocates to her hometown of Landover, Maine to operate a bed and breakfast she inherited from her grandmother. After growing up with the fondest memories of her childhood being spent there, she relishes the chance for a fresh start and an opportunity to revive the inn. As summer gives way to Autumn, the inn is returning to its grandeur. A handsome guest sets out to challenge Elise at every turn. She knows the wealthy narcissistic type...or does she?

Luke Donovan is ready to trade banking for bon appetit with hopes of opening a bistro in a charming town he spent summers fishing with his dad and grandfather. Finding an obstinate innkeeper consuming his thoughts is more than he'd planned for a brief stay at the most idyllic home tucked within the rolling hills of an orchard.

Apple picking, wine tasting, and a festival await in this sweet opposites attract romantic comedy. Perhaps, a little fall magic will cast a spell on the grounds of the Apple Hill B and B.





Chapter One 
“I'll take it. I'll take over the operations of Apple Hill. It's a big leap of faith, but Grams and Gramps made it successful and were so happy there. We can't sit back and watch the property sell to someone who may close it or for all we know, tear the house down and put up condos on the property. There are so many memories of my childhood in Landover and the B and B was a huge part of my life growing up. I loved helping on weekends and summer break.”   

Elise Jacobs fought back tears reminiscing about her time at the historic home her grandparents, Thornton and Roseanna Jacobs, had turned into a bed-and-breakfast when she was only a toddler. 

She had loved running around the backyard, playing with the neighbor's children, and greeting the guests of the inn. Many couples would return there each year for anniversaries, holiday weekends, and romantic getaways. She would help her grandmother bake muffins and put out fresh fruit in the mornings. She would ride the mower with her grandfather when he mowed the lawn.  

Her brother, Peter, had moved to Florida after college and never had much interest in the B and B after he discovered muscle cars, big hair music, and girls.  He would be fine with her parents selling the property. Rarely had he spent any time there that was by choice. For him, it was mostly a place of chores and boredom. 

Her parents didn't need the income from selling it. They had done rather well for themselves in their real estate business and had semi-retired to the Outer Banks of North Carolina. Elise's mother, Christine, was originally from a small town in eastern North Carolina and although she had followed her college sweetheart, Daniel Jacobs, to Landover, Maine, she had longed for the winters of the south that weren't as harsh, and they had agreed to retire to the southern coast. 

They had only been in North Carolina for two years and would not be interested in moving back to Maine to run the inn. “You've always loved that place. We know you will pour your soul into it because your heart knows its value. Your grandmother wanted you to have it if you were interested, so we wanted to give you the opportunity,” Christine commented as she handed Elise a folder of paperwork to sign.  

“It's been a tough year for you, dear. We know you've faced challenges since the divorce, and this will be a welcome change. We want you to find contentment again. You were always happy at Apple Hill.”  

Elise concurred. “It's time for a change, that is certain. Going back to my maiden name was the first step at starting over. I've wanted to move away from Indiana since Gabe moved out, but my job kept me going. Working at the museum has kept my focus elsewhere, but for the past few months, I've felt as though I'm pedaling in circles and not going anywhere. I'm in a rut that keeps rooting ever deeper. I had even considered packing up and moving here to be closer to you and Dad but wasn't sure what I would do for a living out here. I doubt being a beach bum would pay very well, although I have enjoyed vacationing here this week.” 

“We would love to have you closer, and you are always welcome to move here with us for a while, but this can be a fresh start with purpose,” Christine encouraged. “You will be able to create a new vision for the B and B. It's yours now. Make it more modern or keep it going with the same simplistic motif it's had all these years. I do think reservations have decreased over the past couple of years, but there's still been a decent profit margin overall.”  

As she signed the final page, Elise nodded and smiled. “I'm going to do this. It's just what I need. Like you said Mom, a fresh start with purpose.” 

Elise returned that weekend to Indiana and began packing her belongings. She had sold most of the furniture already and was down to a recliner and a futon in the living room. She sold the bedroom suit to a neighbor for their daughter who had recently graduated from college. She was glad to get rid of that furniture more than any other, as she hadn't slept well on the bed, even after getting a new mattress and sheets after Gabe left. After a week, she put the house on the market and hoped for a quick sale. It was easier to leave than she had imagined it would be. She closed the door behind her vowing not to look back as she walked toward her orange Volkswagen Beetle. 

She sat in her car for ten minutes before putting it in drive, first in silence with her eyes closed, and then she turned the radio on to find a classic by her favorite band playing; Landslide by Fleetwood Mac. Elise related to the words as she felt the past year had been a continual downward spiral, much like a landslide of the emotional kind and it was time to put it behind her and climb back up. Gabe always hated this car...she thought to herself. She slid the moon roof back and tipped the dancing teal flower that sat on the dash, watching it shimmy in the sunlight shining through the open roof. It was time to put on her shades, and move forward; not just with her car, but in her life.



Newly divorced Elise starts renovating the inn she inherited from her grandparents, catching the eye of Luke, the chief financial officer of a major hotel chain.

Release Date: October 5, 2024
Release Time: 84 minutes

Director: SΓ©an Geraughty

Cast:
Erin Cahill as Elise Jacobs
Wes Brown as Luke Bellwether
Paula Boudreau as Donna Bellwether
Sarah Luby as Nora
Adam Hurtig as Jared
Kristian Jordan as Chuck
Meghan Heffern as Candace
Joshua Banman as Young Grandpa Charlie
Tom Young as Grandpa Charlie
Grace Budolowski as Young Grandma Hannah
Henriette Ivanans as Grandma Hannah
David Lawrence Brown as Ted(as Dave Brown)
Maisy Jacques as Young Elise
Scott Cranwill as Ron
Kristen Harris as Leanne
Robert Nahum as Tony
Derek Kun as Trent



 


Angie Ellington
Angie Ellington's sweet romances are filled with summer breezes, lemonade, hot cocoa, and snowy settings. If you're looking for a book that gives you the feel of gently rocking in a hammock or snuggled under a blanket by a cozy fire, Angie's books can transport you there. She also includes inspirational messages of hope and confidence, includes fun side characters to adore, & sets her books where family and friendship are at the core of finding one's happily ever after. Her book, Autumn at Apple Hill, has recently been adapted as a Hallmark Channel Original Movie of the same name. Angie resides in North Carolina with her husband and gaggle of pets; requiring coffee to start each day.




Film
πŸ‘€B&N/Amazon US is a 2 movie pack set to release 9/23/25πŸ‘€
AMAZON US  /  B&N  /  IMDB






Friday, July 4, 2025

πŸŽ…πŸŽ†πŸ“˜πŸŽ₯Friday's Film Adaptation-Xmas in JulyπŸŽ₯πŸ“˜πŸŽ†πŸŽ…: Bridget Jones's Diary by Helen Fielding

 

Summary:
Meet Bridget Jones—a 30-something Singleton who is certain she would have all the answers if she could:
a. lose 7 pounds
b. stop smoking
c. develop Inner Poise


"123 lbs. (how is it possible to put on 4 pounds in the middle of the night? Could flesh have somehow solidified becoming denser and heavier? Repulsive, horrifying notion), alcohol units 4 (excellent), cigarettes 21 (poor but will give up totally tomorrow), number of correct lottery numbers 2 (better, but nevertheless useless)..."

Bridget Jones' Diary is the devastatingly self-aware, laugh-out-loud daily chronicle of Bridget's permanent, doomed quest for self-improvement — a year in which she resolves to: reduce the circumference of each thigh by 1.5 inches, visit the gym three times a week not just to buy a sandwich, form a functional relationship with a responsible adult, and learn to program the VCR.

Over the course of the year, Bridget loses a total of 72 pounds but gains a total of 74. She remains, however, optimistic. Through it all, Bridget will have you helpless with laughter, and — like millions of readers the world round — you'll find yourself shouting, "Bridget Jones is me!"



January: An Exceptionally Bad Start

Sunday 1 January 
129 lbs. (but post-Christmas), alcohol units 14 (but effectively covers 2 days as 4 hours of party was on New Year's Day), cigarettes 22, calories 5424. 

Food consumed today:
2 pkts Emmenthal cheese slices
14 cold new potatoes
2 Bloody Marys (count as food as contain Worcester sauce and tomatoes)
1/3 Ciabatta loaf with Brie
coriander leaves--1/2 packet
12 Milk Tray (best to get rid of all Christmas confectionery in one go and make fresh start tomorrow) 
13 cocktail sticks securing cheese and pineapple
Portion Una Alconbury's turkey curry, peas and bananas
Portion Una Alconbury's Raspberry Surprise made with Bourbon biscuits, tinned raspberries, eight gallons of whipped cream, decorated with glacΓ© cherries and angelica. 

Noon. London: my flat. Ugh. The last thing on earth I feel physically, emotionally or mentally equipped to do is drive to Una and Geoffrey Alconbury's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet in Grafton Underwood. Geoffrey and Una Alconbury are my parents' best friends and, as Uncle Geoffrey never tires of reminding me, have known me since I was running round the lawn with no clothes on. My mother rang up at 8:30 in the morning last August Bank Holiday and forced me to promise to go. She approached it via a cunningly circuitous route.

"Oh, hello, darling. I was just ringing to see what you wanted for Christmas."

"Christmas?"

"Would you like a surprise, darling?"

"No!" I bellowed. "Sorry. I mean ..."

"I wondered if you'd like a set of wheels for your suitcase."

"But I haven't got a suitcase."

"Why don't I get you a little suitcase with wheels attached. You know, like air hostesses have."

"I've already got a bag."

"Oh, darling, you can't go around with that tatty green canvas thing. You look like some sort of Mary Poppins person who's fallen on hard times. Just a little compact case with a pull-out handle. It's amazing how much you can get in. Do you want it in navy on red or red on navy?"

"Mum. It's eight-thirty in the morning. It's summer. It's very hot. I don't want an air-hostess bag."

"Julie Enderby's got one. She says she never uses anything else."

"Who's Julie Enderby?"

"You know Julie, darling! Mavis Enderby's daughter. Julie! The one that's got that super-dooper job at Arthur Andersen ..."

"Mum ..."

"Always takes it on her trips ..."

"I don't want a little bag with wheels on."

"I'll tell you what. Why don't Jamie, Daddy and I all club together and get you a proper new big suitcase and a set of wheels?"

Exhausted, I held the phone away from my ear, puzzling about where the missionary luggage-Christmas-gift zeal had stemmed from. When I put the phone back she was saying: "... in actual fact, you can get them with a compartment with bottles for your bubble bath and things. The other thing I thought of was a shopping cart."

"Is there anything you'd like for Christmas?" I said desperately, blinking in the dazzling Bank Holiday sunlight.

"No, no," she said airily. "I've got everything I need. Now, darling," she suddenly hissed, "you will be coming to Geoffrey and Una's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet this year, won't you?"

"Ah. Actually, I ..." I panicked wildly. What could I pretend to be doing? "... think I might have to work on New Year's Day."

"That doesn't matter. You can drive up after work. Oh, did I mention? Malcolm and Elaine Darcy are coming and bringing Mark with them. Do you remember Mark, darling? He's one of those top-notch barristers. Masses of money. Divorced. It doesn't start till eight."

Oh God. Not another strangely dressed opera freak with bushy hair burgeoning from a side-part. "Mum, I've told you. I don't need to be fixed up with ..."

"Now come along, darling. Una and Geoffrey have been holding the New Year buffet since you were running round the lawn with no clothes on! Of course you're going to come. And you'll be able to use your new suitcase."

11:45 p.m. Ugh. First day of New Year has been day of horror. Cannot quite believe I am once again starting the year in a single bed in my parents' house. It is too humiliating at my age. I wonder if they'll smell it if I have a fag out of the window. Having skulked at home all day, hoping hangover would clear, I eventually gave up and set off for the Turkey Curry Buffet far too late. When I got to the Alconburys' and rang their entire-tune-of-town-hall-clock-style doorbell I was still in a strange world of my own--nauseous, vile-headed, acidic. I was also suffering from road-rage residue after inadvertently getting on to the M6 instead of the M1 and having to drive halfway to Birmingham before I could find anywhere to turn round. I was so furious I kept jamming my foot down to the floor on the accelerator pedal to give vent to my feelings, which is very dangerous. I watched resignedly as Una Alconbury's form--intriguingly deformed through the ripply glass door--bore down on me in a fuchsia two-piece.

"Bridget! We'd almost given you up for lost! Happy New Year! Just about to start without you."

She seemed to manage to kiss me, get my coat off, hang it over the banister, wipe her lipstick off my cheek and make me feel incredibly guilty all in one movement, while I leaned against the ornament shelf for support.

"Sorry. I got lost."

"Lost? Durr! What are we going to do with you? Come on in!"

She led me through the frosted-glass doors into the lounge, shouting, "She got lost, everyone!"

"Bridget! Happy New Year!" said Geoffrey Alconbury, clad in a yellow diamond-patterned sweater. He did a jokey Bob Hope step then gave me the sort of hug which Boots would send straight to the police station.

"Hahumph," he said, going red in the face and pulling his trousers up by the waistband. "Which junction did you come off at?"

"Junction nineteen, but there was a diversion ..."

"Junction nineteen! Una, she came off at Junction nineteen! You've added an hour to your journey before you even started. Come on, let's get you a drink. How's your love life, anyway?"

Oh God. Why can't married people understand that this is no longer a polite question to ask? We wouldn't rush up to them and roar, "How's your marriage going? Still having sex?" Everyone knows that dating in your thirties is not the happy-go-lucky free-for-all it was when you were twenty-two and that the honest answer is more likely to be, "Actually, last night my married lover appeared wearing suspenders and a darling little Angora crop-top, told me he was gay/a sex addict/a narcotic addict/a commitment phobic and beat me up with a dildo," than, "Super, thanks."

Not being a natural liar, I ended up mumbling shamefacedly to Geoffrey, "Fine," at which point he boomed, "So you still haven't got a feller!"

"Bridget! What are we going to do with you!" said Una. "You career girls! I don't know! Can't put it off forever, you know. Tick-tock-tick-tock."

"Yes. How does a woman manage to get to your age without being married?" roared Brian Enderby (married to Mavis, used to be president of the Rotary in Kettering), waving his sherry in the air. Fortunately my dad rescued me.

"I'm very pleased to see you, Bridget," he said, taking my arm. "Your mother has the entire Northamptonshire constabulary poised to comb the county with toothbrushes for your dismembered remains. Come and demonstrate your presence so I can start enjoying myself. How's the be-wheeled suitcase?"

"Big beyond all sense. How are the ear-hair clippers?"

"Oh, marvelously--you know--clippy."

It was all right, I suppose. I would have felt a bit mean if I hadn't turned up, but Mark Darcy ... Yuk. Every time my mother's rung up for weeks it's been, "Of course you remember the Darcys, darling. They came over when we were living in Buckingham and you and Mark played in the paddling pool!" or, "Oh! Did I mention Malcolm and Elaine are bringing Mark with them to Una's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet? He's just back from America, apparently. Divorced. He's looking for a house in Holland Park. Apparently he had the most terrible time with his wife. Japanese. Very cruel race."

Then next time, as if out of the blue, "Do you remember Mark Darcy, darling? Malcolm and Elaine's son? He's one of these super-dooper top-notch lawyers. Divorced. Elaine says he works all the time and he's terribly lonely. I think he might be coming to Una's New Year's Day Turkey Curry Buffet, actually."

I don't know why she didn't just come out with it and say, "Darling, do shag Mark Darcy over the turkey curry, won't you? He's very rich."

"Come along and meet Mark," Una Alconbury singsonged before I'd even had time to get a drink down me. Being set up with a man against your will is one level of humiliation, but being literally dragged into it by Una Alconbury while caring for an acidic hangover, watched by an entire roomful of friends of your parents, is on another plane altogether.

The rich, divorced-by-cruel-wife Mark--quite tall--was standing with his back to the room, scrutinizing the contents of the Alconburys' bookshelves: mainly leather-bound series of books about the Third Reich, which Geoffrey sends off for from Reader's Digest. It struck me as pretty ridiculous to be called Mr. Darcy and to stand on your own looking snooty at a party. It's like being called Heathcliff and insisting on spending the entire evening in the garden, shouting "Cathy" and banging your head against a tree.

"Mark!" said Una, as if she was one of Santa Claus's fairies. "I've got someone nice for you to meet."

He turned round, revealing that what had seemed from the back like a harmless navy sweater was actually a V-neck diamond-patterned in shades of yellow and blue--as favored by the more elderly of the nation's sports reporters. As my friend Tom often remarks, it's amazing how much time and money can be saved in the world of dating by close attention to detail. A white sock here, a pair of red braces there, a gray slip-on shoe, a swastika, are as often as not all one needs to tell you there's no point writing down phone numbers and forking out for expensive lunches because it's never going to be a runner.

"Mark, this is Colin and Pam's daughter, Bridget," said Una, going all pink and fluttery. "Bridget works in publishing, don't you, Bridget?"

"I do indeed," I for some reason said, as if I were taking part in a Capital radio phone-in and was about to ask Una if I could "say hello" to my friends Jude, Sharon and Tom, my brother Jamie, everyone in the office, my mum and dad, and last of all all the people at the Turkey Curry Buffet.

"Well, I'll leave you two young people together," said Una. "Durr! I expect you're sick to death of us old fuddy-duddies."

"Not at all," said Mark Darcy awkwardly with a rather unsuccessful attempt at a smile, at which Una, after rolling her eyes, putting a hand to her bosom and giving a gay tinkling laugh, abandoned us with a toss of her head to a hideous silence.

"I. Um. Are you reading any, ah ... Have you read any good books lately?" he said.

Oh, for God's sake.

I racked my brain frantically to think when I last read a proper book. The trouble with working in publishing is that reading in your spare time is a bit like being a dustman and snuffling through the pig bin in the evening. I'm halfway through Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus, which Jude lent me, but I didn't think Mark Darcy, though clearly odd, was ready to accept himself as a Martian quite yet. Then I had a brainwave.

"Backlash, actually, by Susan Faludi," I said triumphantly. Hah! I haven't exactly read it as such, but feel I have as Sharon has been ranting about it so much. Anyway, completely safe option as no way diamond-pattern-jumpered goody-goody would have read five-hundred-page feminist treatise.

"Ah. Really?" he said. "I read that when it first came out. Didn't you find there was rather a lot of special pleading?"

"Oh, well, not too much ...," I said wildly, racking my brains for a way to get off the subject. "Have you been staying with your parents over New Year?"

"Yes," he said eagerly. "You too?"

"Yes. No. I was at a party in London last night. Bit hungover, actually." I gabbed nervously so that Una and Mum wouldn't think I was so useless with men I was failing to talk to even Mark Darcy. "But then I do think New Year's resolutions can't technically be expected to begin on New Year's Day, don't you? Since, because it's an extension of New Year's Eve, smokers are already on a smoking roll and cannot be expected to stop abruptly on the stroke of midnight with so much nicotine in the system. Also dieting on New Year's Day isn't a good idea as you can't eat rationally but really need to be free to consume whatever is necessary, moment by moment, in order to ease your hangover. I think it would be much more sensible if resolutions began generally on January the second."

"Maybe you should get something to eat," he said, then suddenly bolted off toward the buffet, leaving me standing on my own by the bookshelf while everybody stared at me, thinking, "So that's why Bridget isn't married. She repulses men."

The worst of it was that Una Alconbury and Mum wouldn't leave it at that. They kept making me walk round with trays of gherkins and glasses of cream sherry in a desperate bid to throw me into Mark Darcy's path yet again. In the end they were so crazed with frustration that the second I got within four feet of him with the gherkins Una threw herself across the room like Will Carling and said, "Mark, you must take Bridget's telephone number before you go, then you can get in touch when you're in London."

I couldn't stop myself turning bright red. I could feel it climbing up my neck. Now Mark would think I'd put her up to it.

"I'm sure Bridget's life in London is quite full enough already, Mrs. Alconbury," he said. Humph. It's not that I wanted him to take my phone number or anything, but I didn't want him to make it perfectly obvious to everyone that he didn't want to. As I looked down I saw that he was wearing white socks with a yellow bumblebee motif.

"Can't I tempt you with a gherkin?" I said, to show I had had a genuine reason for coming over, which was quite definitely gherkin-based rather than phone-number-related.

"Thank you, no," he said, looking at me with some alarm.

"Sure? Stuffed olive?" I pressed on.

"No, really."

"Silverskin onion?" I encouraged. "Beetroot cube?"

"Thank you," he said desperately, taking an olive.

"Hope you enjoy it," I said triumphantly.

Toward the end I saw him being harangued by his mother and Una, who marched him over toward me and stood just behind while he said stiffly, "Do you need driving back to London? I'm staying here but I could get my car to take you."

"What, all on its own?" I said.

He blinked at me.

"Durr! Mark has a company car and a driver, silly," said Una.

"Thank you, that's very kind," I said. "But I shall be taking one of my trains in the morning."

2 a.m. Oh, why am I so unattractive? Why? Even a man who wears bumblebee socks thinks I am horrible. Hate the New Year. Hate everyone. Except Daniel Cleaver. Anyway, have got giant tray-sized bar of Cadbury's Dairy Milk left over from Christmas on dressing table, also amusing joke gin and tonic miniature. Am going to consume them and have fag.



At the start of the New Year, 32-year-old "singleton" Bridget decides it's time to take control of her life and start keeping a diary. 

Release Date: April 13, 2001
Release Time: 97 minutes

Director: Sharon Maguire

Cast:
RenΓ©e Zellweger as Bridget Jones
Colin Firth as Mark Darcy
Hugh Grant as Daniel Cleaver
Jim Broadbent as Mr. Colin Jones
Gemma Jones as Mrs. Pamela Jones
Celia Imrie as Una Alconbury
James Faulkner as Uncle Geoffrey
Shirley Henderson as Jude
James Callis as Tom
Lisa Barbuscia as Lara
Charmian May as Mrs. Darcy
Paul Brooke as Mr. "Tits pervert" Fitzherbert
Sally Phillips as Shazza
Embeth Davidtz as Natasha Glenville
Patrick Barlow as Julian
Felicity Montagu as Perpetua
Donald Douglas as Admiral Darcy
Dolly Wells as Woney

Awards:
2002 Academy Awards
Best Actress - RenΓ©e Zellweger - Nominated

2002 BAFTAs
Best Actress - RenΓ©e Zellweger - Nominated
Best Supporting Actor - Colin Firth - Nominated
Best Adapted Screenplay - Richard Curtis, Andrew Davies, Helen Fielding - Nominated
Best British Film - Nominated

2002 Golden Globes
Best Motion Picture(Comedy or Musical) - Nominated
Best Actress in Motion Picture(Comedy or Musical) - RenΓ©e Zellweger - Nominated









Helen Fielding
Helen Fielding is the author of Bridget Jones’s Diary, Bridget Jones: The Edge of Reason, Bridget Jones: Mad About the Boy, and Bridget Jones’s Baby: The Diaries. She was part of the screenwriting team on the associated movies. She has two children and lives in London and Los Angeles.


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Sunday, June 1, 2025

🌈Sunday's Short Stack🌈: Curio by CS Poe



Summary:

Llewellyn Cooper and his aunt Julia run Curio Cabinet in New York City’s West Village, where the clientele is as strange as the junk being amassed in their secondhand shop. Llewellyn and Julia have been as thick as thieves his entire life, and Llewellyn can’t imagine being anywhere else six days a week—even if Julia’s bizarre habits and inappropriate conversations drive him crazy. That’s family, though, right?

When Llewellyn drums up the nerve to chat with a routine customer—in part due to curiosity, as Henry McLaughlin returns time and again to purchase nothing but old photographs, but also because the bearded and bow tie–wearing man is the finest thing to ever step foot inside Curio—it seems like Llewellyn will finally have a plus-one for future RSVPs. But just when things start looking up in the romance department, it turns out Henry might be too strange for the Cooper family.

And that’s saying something.


Original Review May 2024:
What a deliciously fun novella and then to have the author connect it to one of my favorite series, Snow and Winter, no matter how short or "on the fringe" that connection is, it's there and a pretty darn near perfect fit.

Love the relationship between Lew and his Aunt Julia, the teasing, the friendship, and the love.  It's obvious she wants him to find happiness but it's the snarky, witty banter that is almost more sibling-like than aunt/nephew.  So fun.

As to what Henry does with the photos he's been buying, I loved that element.  I don't want to give anything away so I'll not spoil it here but I'll just say prior to a local news story last summer, it never even occurred to me that this was a thing.  I can definitely see why Henry does it and the emotional rewards as well.

Lew and Henry have a lovely connection and though some of the conflict is due to lack of communication Curio is just an absolutely delightful entertaining short read that will fill you with all the glorious feels needed to brighten your day.  

πŸ˜‰And may I add just one more time: lovely, lovely, lovely!πŸ˜‰

RATING:



Curio Cabinet was a secondhand odds-and-ends store that masqueraded as an antique shop, located in the gayest neighborhood of New York City, with clientele to match. 

Gay customers, that is. Not odds and ends. 

I mean, I suppose some patrons were the human equivalent of grandma’s attic, but mostly they were various flavors of queer, who liked to poke through the shelves, crates, and plastic tubs of cast-offs after a boozy brunch. In fact, Sunday between noon and six o’clock was basically when Curio made any money at all—lockets with broken chains, weathered vintage postcards, vinyl records sans sleeves, and creepy doll heads missing one eye were the bad decisions locals made after one too many mimosas with the crew.

But on weekdays, with the Gay Agenda being a mundane nine-to-five like everyone else’s, it was as dead as a doornail in here. 

Well, almost. 

“He’s back,” Aunt Julia whispered as she stepped around me at the counter. 

My aunt Julia was the well-preserved sixtysomething owner of Curio Cabinet—the front for her stoop, yard, estate, and Facebook Marketplace buying addiction. She was also the full-time, stand-in parent for gays in the neighborhood. If she wasn’t out amassing more junk that eventually ended up as stock for the shop, she was sitting outside at the steel bistro table under the awning, sharing a bottle of cheap wine with whoever wandered in from off the street. And if they were in search of an adoptive auntie, they’d get Julia—with her dyed green hair worn in space buns, her exactly fourteen pet goldfish because fourteen was Julia’s lucky number, and who, when visiting anyone’s home, always gifted a single (uncooked) russet potato for reasons still a mystery to me. Julia was low-key nuts, but she’d raised me when my parents had taken a hike, loved me when I’d come out, and God bless her, wanted to keep loving my community the other eleven months of the year that existed outside of Pride—hence this sidewalk therapy she’d taken to. 

I closed the magazine I’d been thumbing through, a retro Tiger Beat—exclusive fold-out poster of the Backstreet Boys still intact—and glanced up in time to watch Julia round the end of the counter and start through the disaster we called a showroom. “Who’s back?” I called after her. 

She turned to walk backward on her way to the front door, miraculously not crashing into anything, while pointing toward my left with the bottle of merlot she carried in one hand. 

I looked in that direction. 

Ah. There he was. 

Professor Bow Tie. 

That wasn’t his real name, of course. I had no idea what it was, because our conversations had never ventured beyond “Find everything? That’ll be four dollars. Have a good day.” But he came by Curio several times a month, always between one and two o’clock on weekdays, and he always bought the same thing: photographs. 

Allow me to be more specific. 

Professor Bow Tie spent upward of thirty minutes during each visit meticulously digging through and studying loose antique family photographs, which number in the thousands, because Julia, in her words, “feels bad” leaving them behind knowing that they’ll be tossed in the garbage. Every time I’ve brought up the fact that it made no sense for us to create floor space in which to stock black-and-whites of some stranger’s great-great grandmother holding a chicken somewhere out on the Kansas plains, she always said, “People will buy anything, Lew.”

Enter Professor Bow Tie last winter, and Julia had not stopped her I-told-you-so’s since. 

We had no idea what he did with the photos—our guesses ranged from professional scrapbooking to upcycled Etsy home dΓ©cor—but neither of us had ever grown the balls to ask. Because while he was seemingly polite, he was also sort of intimidating. 

Bow Tie, as his nickname suggested, always wore a dapper suit and bow tie whenever he pit-stopped at Curio to paw through someone else’s forgotten memories. He had a well-maintained strawberry-blond beard and hair that always fell from its part and across his forehead just enough to be ridiculously hot. Bow Tie was also built like the side of a brick building. Not terribly tall—in fact, I was taller than him—but where I was wiry, he was all chest and shoulders and biceps and thighs. A ten out of ten on the testosterone output while also looking like he might write you up for being late to class. 

So yeah. Julia and I hadn’t ever managed to find out what he did with all the pictures he bought. And now that he’d been shopping here for the last three or four months, we’d blown past that window of opportunity in which to make small talk. 

It was too late to ask his name. 

We’d have to keep up the gauche silence for every visit until either he or I died first.



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CS Poe
C.S. Poe is a Lambda Literary and two-time EPIC award finalist, and a FAPA award-winning author of gay mystery, romance, and speculative fiction.

She resides in New York City, but has also called Key West and Ibaraki, Japan, home in the past. She has an affinity for all things cute and colorful and a major weakness for toys. C.S. is an avid fan of coffee, reading, and cats. She’s rescued two cats—Milo and Kasper do their best to distract her from work on a daily basis.

C.S. is an alumna of the School of Visual Arts.

Her debut novel, The Mystery of Nevermore, was published 2016.


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