A Valley Ridge Christmas. Holly Jacobs

book in his hand.

      But she didn’t laugh. Instead, she sighed. “I already read ebooks. But my first love will always be printed books. A bound book is a work of art in itself. Speaking of which, hang on while I get a bag for you. I’d rather this one didn’t get waterlogged if it starts to snow or sleet again.”

      The slipcase of the green leather book read The Hobbit and the spine was embossed with gold and red lines and decorative squiggles. “I can’t borrow this. I thought you were offering me a paperback. You’re right. A book like this is a work of art.”

      She reached out and ran a finger over the leather binding, obviously savoring the feel. “I know. I found it while I was browsing through the bookstore when I was in college. I didn’t have any money to spare. I took a job as a housekeeper full-time at a hotel, did work study on campus and still had classes. No time, no money. I didn’t want this book, I needed it. I ate peanut butter and crackers for weeks to save enough money to pay for it. But it was worth it. What a wonderful way to read the book the first time round. Don’t get me wrong, I have plenty of paperbacks, but there’s something about a leather-bound book. The heft of it. The smell. There’s even the sound. That creak as you open the cover. It tells you that the book was stitched together, not simply glued. A book like this is meant to be enjoyed. Savored even.”

      “I’ll be very careful with it.”

      She took the book, tucked it into a plastic grocery bag, along with his cookbook, and handed them back. “There you go. And when you finish it, ask me to borrow my copy of The Lord of The Rings. It’s in red leather and equally beautiful.”

      “More peanut butter and crackers?” he asked.

      “No. I got that one later. I was past my peanut butter years then.” She glanced at the clock and said, “Speaking of late—”

      It was a hint. A not so subtle hint that she was ready for him to leave. But he wasn’t ready to leave her. He stood there, with his plastic bag of books and his coat on and he didn’t want to go. Not yet. He struggled to find a conversational gambit. “So, you worked all day at the winery in Ripley—”

      She gave him a sharp look. “How did you know that?”

      It wasn’t the reaction he’d been looking for. He should probably face it—he didn’t know how to talk to women anymore. “This is Valley Ridge. I bet I could find out your birthday and who you took to homecoming when you were in high school by next week’s Riddlefest.”

      That look of suspicion was replaced by a smile. “The sad truth of it is you probably could.”

      He tried again. “So, now that you’re done working and volunteering for the day, what do you do with your time?”

      She glanced at the clock again. “I’m going to watch A Christmas Carol. It’s on at eight.”

      “It’s not Christmas yet.”

      “I know. I thought about recording it, but there’s something about watching it live on TV that I like. There are so many versions of that movie. I’m planning to catch as many of them as I can, and then I’ll reread the book.”

      She looked so pleased with her idea. He was confused. “Why watch them all?”

      “I found ten television and movie versions. I want to see how each director’s vision of the story differed, what parts are universal to all the films.”

      She seemed to sense his confusion and sighed. “Here’s the thing, if you told a story and I told the same story, there would be differences. Things that stood out for you might not be the parts that stood out for me. A few years ago, Harlequin—”

      He must have looked confused because she clarified, “They publish romance books. One of the biggest publishers in the world. Anyway, they asked a group of authors to participate in a storytelling adventure. The authors started with the same paragraph, and then each had to write the rest of the story. Every author came at it from his or her individual perspective. One was humorous, one was historical... They were all different, despite the fact they all started at the same place. I thought that watching the same movie as envisioned by different directors and acted by different actors would be interesting, so—” She shrugged. “Why am I telling you this? Go read The Hobbit and let me get to my movie.”