Her Protector

by R. S. Lively

  “Why would they do that?” Lee asks. “Can you imagine this place all polished up with a swimming pool in the middle of it? You'd never get me out of here. I'd have to usher shows via video chat. Oh, and the after parties! Think about the after-parties, Alice.”

  “I'm thinking about the now, Lee, and the big hole in the floor,” retorts Alice.

  “You said whoever decided to fill in the pool did it haphazardly. What did you mean?” I ask.

  “I'm not sure when or why they decided to fill it in. A lot of old theaters had event spaces in the basement, and quite a few of them had pools. The stars of the shows liked to entertain their guests and relax after performances. That fell out of fashion a long time ago, and the old owners of this theater must have decided they didn't want to take on the expense of continuing to keep up with the pools, so they filled them in and closed off the event spaces. Whenever that happened here, the people doing it took the fast and cheap route. I'm sure it seemed good to them at the time, but I'm worried about the structural integrity. The fact that the floor broke so easily means there could be moisture damage and other issues that could be causing further problems throughout the building. The same way other basements can feel damp or leak, so can places like this if they're not kept up. If you add a big hole that hasn't been properly filled and sealed, it can really wreak havoc on the whole space,” Shannon explains.

  “What does that mean for the building?” Alice asks. “You're not going to have to tear it down or anything, are you?”

  Shannon chuckles as she shakes her head, her shaggy blond hair sweeping across her forehead.

  “Nothing that serious. But it does make some things a little trickier, and it's going to need more extensive attention than we originally thought. You just need to decide which direction you want to go. My team and I can demolish the sealed part and fix the floor properly so you can have this as a conventional basement, or we can reconstruct the space as it was originally. It's completely up to you.”

  “Bring back the pool,” I say.

  Alice swings her eyes up to me and I give her a sheepish smile.

  “I'm sorry. Like she said, it's completely up to you.”

  “Bring back the pool,” Lee whispers just out of the corner of his mouth.

  Alice throws her hands up in the air and lets them fall back to her legs.

  “Why not? Let's bring back the motherfucking pool,” she practically screams in frustration. Her head immediately drops, and she covers her eyes with both hands. “I'm sorry.”

  “That was a lot of aggression directed toward a swimming pool that's been hiding under your theater,” I say, rubbing her back in slow circles.

  “I know. I'm sorry,” she says. She lifts her head to look at Shannon. “I'm sorry. You and your team are already doing a fantastic job, and I'm sure the pool will be lovely. I just have a lot," she presses her hands to her chest and moves them out like she's trying to pull something away from her, "a lot," she repeats the gesture, "a lot going on... in my life... right now. It's just…"

  "A lot," Lee says.

  Alice nods.

  "Yeah."

  “I understand,” Shannon says. “Don't worry. You can trust us to handle it all for you. So, we're going with bringing the pool back?”

  “Go for it,” Alice sighs.

  “Perfect. I'll just go make a few phone calls and get in touch with a couple other people who can help me streamline it as much as possible, so we can keep the timeline as close to what we agreed on as we can.”

  “Thank you,” Alice says.

  As soon as Shannon heads back up the stairs, Alice turns to me and presses her face into my chest with a groan.

  “You seem stressed. I think you need to take a break from this place. Just for a little while. Take your mind off everything that's going on.”

  “They need me,” Alice says. “I have to make about a bajillion decisions every day.”

  “I can make them for you,” Lee says. Alice rolls her head to the side to look at him. “Or I can call you and confirm them if necessary. Go on. He's right. This is all getting to you too much. You need a break before you fall apart.”

  “You don't mind if I borrow her for a little while?” I ask.

  “I do have a very strict return policy, so you're going to want to make sure you get her back here before deadline to avoid fees and losing your borrowing privileges.”

  “Duly noted.” I take Alice's hand. “Come on.”

  “Where are we going?”

  “Just leave it to me.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Alice

  Two days later…

  "Say what you want, that was totally illegal."

  Dean tosses the end of his scarf back over his shoulder before taking my hand and bringing it up to his lips for a kiss.

  "It wasn't illegal."

  "Anything that requires you to duck down so you won't be noticed is dubious at best."

  "See? Dubious, that doesn't mean illegal."

  "So, you'd happily snap pictures and show them to a police officer with a full story of how you managed to see the inside of the old City Hall subway station, even though it's abandoned?"

  "It's not abandoned. They do tours of it."

  "They also do tours of Alcatraz. That doesn't mean you can row your own rowboat out there and stroll through the cells by yourself."

  "I didn't hear you complaining when we were ducking down behind the subway seat so they wouldn't see us and make us get off in Brooklyn."

  "I was complaining. Enthusiastically. You just kept kissing me, so you didn't have to hear it."

  "You weren't complaining about that," he grins, holding the car door open so I can climb inside.

  I smile.

  "No, I wasn't complaining about that."

  He leans down and kisses me again.

  "So, now that you have enjoyed the adrenaline rush of some dubious sightseeing, I have two more adventures for us."

  "Are either of them illegal?"

  "No, neither of them are illegal. Not even legally ambiguous."

  Dean has had me bouncing around the city, experiencing activities and attractions I have never even heard of, much less visited. It's amazing to me that someone who has only lived here since high school knows more about this city than I do. Of course, more financial flexibility and the apparent ability to make anything happen on a whim doesn't hurt.

  It hasn't ceased to amaze me just how much Dean seems to be capable of orchestrating. No matter what he wants to do at any given time, he knows how to make it happen without hesitation or obstacle. With the exception of the foray into the cliché on our first date, most of the things we've done together haven't exactly been tourist traps, which has made it easier to do as he pleases without having to contend for a place. There have been times, though, when what he has suggested seemed impossible, but happened, or details just fell into place conveniently and easily when I didn't think there was any way it would. I've been trying to settle on an explanation.

  My current working theory is that Dean is magic.

  One thing I've stopped doing is trying to track where we're going through the city so I can guess what he has planned for me. He has a habit of bringing me to an area of the city I think I know, only to stun me with something I've never seen or would never have expected.

  "Have you been to the library?" he asks.

  I look at him through narrowed eyes.

  "The library?"

  "Yes."

  "It's one of the most iconic places in the city."

  "Doesn't mean you've been there."

  This is true.

  "I have."

  "Then maybe this won't be as much of an adventure for you."

  I can't help but realize we've already gone past the library and are going deeper into the city. We pull into a parking deck and he helps me out of the car. Dean is admirably tight-lipped as he leads me away from the rows of cars and back onto the sidewalk. We've walked only a short di
stance when we come to a building I immediately recognize and realize he wasn't asking me what I thought he had been.

  “The Morgan Library?”

  “Have you been?”

  “No. I've heard of it, but never took the time to go in.”

  “Why not?”

  “This is probably going to sound ridiculous to you, but as long as I've lived in the city, The Morgan Library and Museum has been one of those intimidating places I could never bring myself to visit. No matter what else I did in the city or where else I visited, there are some spots within the city that seem so hallowed and significant I can't muster the courage to go inside. It's like, this is supposed to be one of those awe-inspiring, formative experiences, especially for any lover of the arts, but what if it's not? What if I go inside and awe is not inspired? I could step into this supposedly magnificent place and get absolutely nothing out of it and find out I'm New York-ing wrong.”

  “I don't think you can New York wrong, but I admire your efforts at turning a place into a verb.”

  “You think I'm being silly.”

  “Absolutely not. I know what you're talking about. It's like me and It's a Small World.”

  "You and what?"

  "And It's a Small World. The ride? Everyone makes a big fuss out of it and it has this whole cult following situation. Some people absolutely love it, some people wholly despise it and are even afraid of it. It's apparently this incredibly polarizing experience. But I've never been able to do it."

  "I don't think I'm following you."

  "When my family went to Disneyland, my mother, like any mother, had all these images of the iconic pictures we had to take and things we had to do. I think she was more excited than all five of us brothers put together. On the top of the priority list was all the classic rides. So, we flew around on an elephant, I loved Haunted Mansion, we did the public transit thing that's like sitting in a bucket on a grocery store conveyor belt. They even managed to get all of us but Preston on Space Mountain. But then it came time for It's a Small World, and I just couldn't go in. For some reason, that one was too real. What if I went on it and everybody in the family loved it, but I absolutely hated it? I'd end up the family vacation black sheep and that hangs over you for life. No one wants to be the one who gets the squishy coconut in Hawaii or has to ride the ski lift alone. But then, what if I went on it and everybody in the family absolutely hated it, but I was one of those who fell in love with it? What would that say about me? And what if there was just no emotional reaction at all?"

  "You stressed yourself the hell out because of a bunch of dolls, and a song children play on kazoos?"

  "It's the burden I bear."

  That new piece of insight I've gotten into Dean has carried us all the way to the door of the building and a few steps inside. I brace myself for the impact, but it's... a museum. There's little about the space that makes it stand out in any way from any of the countless other museums I've been to in New York and in my occasional travels. Open and airy. Fairy monochromatic and non-descript. I admit I feel a touch disappointed.

  "I thought this was a library," I say, as Dean finishes paying our admission and joins me in the center of the space.

  "Just wait."

  He leads me through a series of rooms and connected buildings that don't seem to fully know what they want to be or do, and I'm losing all interest when we finally step out of a wood-paneled lobby and into one of the most glorious things I have ever seen. I gasp, twirling around slowly without a single care about any of the other people in the towering room.

  "Holy singing teapot," I whisper.

  Dean's gaze joins mine as I try to take in as much of our surroundings as I can. Dark wood bookshelves contain treasured antique works behind protective cages. Exquisite artwork hangs from the walls. Even the people staring down through glass at rare handwritten manuscripts seem prettier than anyone outside. They could very well be parts of J.P. Morgan's collection, too.

  "The whole Angela Lansbury thing inspired it," Dean admits. "I thought it was unlikely I'd get you to agree to come to France and tour a castle on such short notice, so this was a more accessible way to bring the Beast's library to you."

  "Belle's library," I correct him.

  "We can even go get a cup of tea."

  "Does the cup of a chip in it?"

  "I doubt it."

  "That's fine."

  My heart flutters as Dean takes my hand and helps me up one of the staircases to the rows of books higher in the library. I can't touch any of them, but it doesn't matter. The little girl inside me who watched Beauty and the Beast as many times as I could and didn't understand why my father couldn't bring me to see it in the theater years after its premiere, is swirling around in her dress in sheer delight.

  "Do you like it?" he asks.

  "I can't believe you thought of this."

  He gathers me close for a kiss, and it doesn't even matter that he's not covered in fur.

  "So, which is it?" Dean asks three hours later as we walk slowly out of the library and back toward the car.

  "Which is what?"

  "Plays or movies?"

  "What do you mean?"

  "Which is more important to you, plays or movies?"

  "Do I have to choose? Both have been so special to me my whole life. They are totally distinct, and yet share so many of the same qualities that make them so amazing. My father taught me to love stories. All kinds of stories. That's why Wonderland is so precious to me. That's where he introduced me to what it meant to be fully enraptured by a story. He brought me there before we even had a TV in our house. After leaving the compound, my parents didn't want much to do with religion. Not faith. That's not what they turned their back on. Just the organized aspect of it. They didn't want to be told what and how to believe. My father would say God gave us the gift of life so we would enjoy it, and experiencing a performance, whether live or on film, was life elevated, a reminder of all that's good even when the story was horrible. To him, the theater was church."

  Dean stares at me, his eyes slowly traveling over my face and focusing on my lips, then my eyes.

  "Hmmmm," he says, a soft sound of appreciation just loud enough for me to hear.

  "What?"

  "I've just never met someone like you."

  "You've told me that before."

  "I know. I meant it then and I mean it now. It's true. No one in my family understands why any of this matters so much to me. The only one anywhere close is my sister-in-law Emma. She's my oldest brother Grant's wife. We were friends in high school and used to design sets together for the plays. If I go for more than a few days without calling home, she always says she knew it was because it was time I decided I was done with the company, and was just going to dive into acting for the rest of my life. One of these days, she might be right."

  He grins and doesn't take his eyes off me even when his phone rings in his pocket.

  "Is that her?" I tease.

  "It's Lee," he says, the smile faltering slightly. "Hello?... She's right here with me... I don't know. I guess she has her phone. It must be off. Why? Is there something... What do you mean? What happened?"

  "Give it to me," I demand, reaching for the phone.

  Dean hands it to me, and I press it to my ear as we move faster toward the car.

  "Lee? What's going on?" It feels like my heart has stopped in my chest. "Someone broke into Wonderland? Were you there? Are you alright?" Some of the painful tension leaves my chest. "Thank goodness. Stay near the police. We'll be right there."

  I'm barely aware of anything as we dart through the city back toward Wonderland. The relative stillness of the street is disquieting as we approach the theater. I was expecting red and blue lights, a swarm of police. Anything to make some indication that a crime was committed. Instead, only Lee and two officers stand right outside the front doors. He folds into my arms as I run up to him.

  "What happened?"

  "Shannon called earlier to let m
e know she had to cut the day short but will back early in the morning. I came and locked up, checked everything, and went home. Everything looked fine. Fine. The doors were locked, the windows secured. Nothing was out of place. Then the security company called and said the alarm was tripped. I called the police and came out here to look around."

  His voice cracks slightly as it trails off.

  "And what?" I ask. "What happened?"

  "Miss, if you want to come inside, I'll review the damage with you."

  The police officer's words sting.

  "Damage?"

  "Come on inside."

  We follow the officers into the theater, and immediately, I notice spray paint across one of the walls and broken glass scattered on the floor. My breath catches painfully in my chest. I don't realize I'm falling backward until Dean's arms catch me.

  "It's alright," he whispers, pressing his mouth against the hair hanging over one ear. "It's going to be fine. We'll take care of all of this."

  "Who could have done something like this?"

  "It was probably just kids in the neighborhood," the officer explains. "We encounter that a lot with buildings under renovation, especially older buildings. They see things happening, they figure the building is getting fixed up anyway, so a little extra destruction isn't a big deal, and they make a mess. They just think of it as a joke."

  I know he's trying to be comforting and not as dismissive as he sounds.

  "Did you figure out how they got in?" Dean asks.

  "There is an access door in the basement that appears to have been compromised."

  "Everything was fine," Lee insists tearfully.

  "I know it was," I tell him. "This isn't your fault."

  "We'll do everything we can," the officer says. "But there's not much to go on. I wouldn't worry. Like I said, it was probably just some kids and they got it out of their system. It's very unlikely they'll come back. If you notice anything strange or think of anything, though, don't hesitate to let us know."

  They walk back out of the theater and the three of us are alone. Just like that, it's over and we're left with handling the aftermath.