Matinees with Miriam

by Vicki Essex

  Having his heart stolen wasn’t part of the plan!

  Shane Patel has a way with people—a skill that’s made him a success in the condo development business. But his charms are proving useless on Miriam Bateman. The Crown Theater is the key to his company’s latest project. It also happens to be Miriam’s home and her grandfather’s legacy. She’s made it clear that it’s not for sale.

  Despite the frustration, Shane’s enjoying trying to win Miriam over. And the best part of his day becomes watching old movies with her. When Miriam’s plans to reopen the theater threaten his project, though, Shane has a tough decision to make: his career or Miriam.

  “What are we doing, Shane?”

  “I thought that was obvious.”

  “I mean, what are we doing together? I want to believe you’re just trying to seduce me so I’ll sell the Crown. But...” She hesitated, realizing that admitting the truth would be giving up something of value. “I’m not sure I actually believe it.”

  He met her gaze, frowning. “It’s not like that, I mean, I’m ashamed to admit it, but at first I thought that was what I’d do.” He scrubbed his jaw. Miriam felt a sting to her pride, but didn’t interrupt him. “But I really do like you. Everything I’ve done up to this point... I wanted to get close to you to understand why you’d hang on to a decrepit old building. I think I’m starting to get it now. There’s...for lack of a better word...magic here. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s the same way I feel about this town. I can’t fault you for wanting to hold on to that.”

  She smiled a little sadly. Just because he understood didn’t mean she’d swayed him to her thinking. “So where does that leave us?”

  Dear Reader,

  Have you ever slept over in a museum or spent the night in an aquarium? I’ve always wanted to stay someplace that could be my personal playground, alone after all the doors are shut and the public is gone. Knowing all the little secrets of a special place somehow adds to the magic, especially at night.

  Unfortunately, these days I value sleep too much to go on such an adventure. As of the writing of this letter, my baby girl is just over six months old. It’s been quite an adventure. Writing Matinees with Miriam was one part wish fulfillment, one part Castaway in an old movie theater. How would you live in an historic abandoned building like the Crown? What would you do for fun? How would you shower?

  Committing to that lifestyle takes a special kind of person. Miriam Bateman became my pragmatic dreamer, practical in every aspect of her life except for the fact that she lives in her own fantasyland. She’s fearless when it comes to protecting the things that matter to her, but she’s also scared of the world that has only ever hurt and disappointed her. Exploring a character who was so contradictory in her nature was a lot of fun and a lot of hard work.

  My little town of Everville is seeing lots of changes, which is what life is all about. I owe this story to my husband, who is a city-planning nerd and helped me understand a lot about why municipal policy and bylaws are so important. So much of daily life is taken for granted until you threaten the status quo—something else I’m learning as a new mother.

  Enjoy your latest visit to Everville, “The Town that Endures!”

  Vicki

  VICKI

  ESSEX

  Matinees with Miriam

  Vicki Essex loves movies, but requires regular “movie forcenings” to get through the canon of quintessential nineties films and blockbusters, Hollywood golden-age classics and best picture nominees. She doesn’t live in a theater, but eats popcorn as though she does. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with a man, a baby, a cat and The King of Centipedes as a tenant.

  Books by Vicki Essex

  HARLEQUIN SUPERROMANCE

  Red Carpet Arrangement

  A Recipe for Reunion

  In Her Corner

  Back to the Good Fortune Diner

  Her Son’s Hero

  Other titles by this author available in ebook format.

  Get rewarded every time you buy a Harlequin ebook!

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  Thanks to my editor, Karen Reid, and the rest of the Harlequin Superromance team for being awesome guides in my romance writing journey.

  Thanks to my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan of Handspun Literary, for all her support.

  To my mom and dad, my sisters, my in-laws and the whole village of relatives and friends who came out to make my journey into motherhood less terrifying and more joyful: thank you.

  To my little Mara: “When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart/And I thought I was so smart.”

  And to my husband, John, without whom none of this would be possible: there aren’t enough words to say thank you for your love and staunch support. Best of fathers, best of husbands.

  Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  EXCERPT FROM UNDERCOVER IN GLIMMER CREEK BY JULIANNA MORRIS

  CHAPTER ONE

  SHANE WAS PRETTY sure the Keep Out sign was clear. Then again, teenagers carrying six-packs of beer and what looked like a bolt cutter weren’t the kind of people who obeyed signs.

  The three boys clipped the edges of the chain-link fence and pulled up the corner. With surreptitious looks around, they ducked beneath it, then hurried around the back of the building. Shane clenched his jaw. After the three-hour drive from Brooklyn, he’d wanted to go straight to the bed-and-breakfast, but he hadn’t been able to resist driving by the properties before calling it a night. Good thing, he thought as he got out of his car. While the block of buildings would eventually be knocked down, he still didn’t like trespassers on his property.

  Well, it wasn’t all his yet. But it would be soon.

  As he slipped through the gap in the fence, his blazer caught on a wire and tore. Great. It occurred to him that he should’ve called the police instead of going after the punks, but he could take care of himself.

  The abandoned buildings on either side of the old Crown Theater were boarded up tight, but the rear fire door of the theater was ajar. He hesitated. The Keep Out sign aside, the owner had made it clear she wouldn’t welcome his presence.

  But those punks were in there. It was his civic duty to stop them.

  He slipped into the darkened building, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. The sound of breaking glass followed by a snide laugh reached his ears. He’d never understood bored teens and their need to get into trouble, especially in picturesque Everville. This town was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting—watering holes, beaches, ice-cream parlors and a whole slew of a
wesome hangouts. And yet, they were in this building, messing around. His blood pumped hard. He didn’t get mad easily, but he took the intrusion personally.

  His eyes adjusted to the eerie red glow of exit signs. It’d been over a decade since he’d visited the theater, and coming in from the back, he didn’t recognize where he was immediately. He climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the main lobby, a vaulted space that reminded him of the rib cage of some huge, starving beast. An empty vending machine hummed in one corner, its cold inner light flickering. He listened hard, but heard no further sign of the teens.

  He wasn’t sure how he’d confront them—maybe just tell them to buzz off, or threaten them with calling the cops. He hadn’t been able to tell how old or big the intruders were in the half dark. Now that he thought about it, three against one weren’t great odds.

  Something fluttered in the dark to his right. He whipped his head around—nothing. Just more tomb-like silence and a slightly dank smell. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He stifled the urge to call out. What if those kids were armed? He was starting to regret not calling the cops.

  A faint scuffle and some low murmurs reached his ears. With all the stealth he could manage in a suit and dress shoes, he crept along the wall and wedged himself against the corner by a pillar. A whiff of freshly made buttery popcorn tickled his nose. The Crown had been out of commission for nearly ten years—who’d be making popcorn now?

  “C’mon, man, hold that light still,” a raspy voice said. Not that old, then—maybe sixteen or so.

  “You’re so full of bullshit, Jacob. You don’t know how to pick a lock,” another voice, a touch lower, drawled.

  “Shut up. I totally do, but it’s kinda hard with you shaking that light everywhere.”

  “That’s cuz he’s freakin’ scared, man,” the third voice sneered. “You don’t believe those ghost stories about old man Bateman, do you?”

  “Woo-oo!” The first guy cackled. “I heard that old guy hung himself off the balcony.”

  “I heard he blew his brains out in the projector room.”

  “I heard he was murdered by someone in his family.”

  Shane’s skin prickled. He hadn’t heard any of these grisly tales. If any proved to be true, he’d have to disclose it to the development board. It could affect sales of the units.

  The darkness stirred again, like shadows moving through smoke. He searched for the source but saw nothing. Maybe it was a rat...

  The PA system suddenly crackled to life. A funereal carnival dirge played on a tinny piano warbled through the lobby, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

  “What the hell?” one of the boys whispered.

  The raspy voice quavered. “Someone else is here.”

  More scuffling. Shane pressed against the wall, heart hammering. The boys were headed his way.

  Suddenly, all the lights went out. He hadn’t noticed the ambient hum of electronics, but the air was dead silent now. Only the piano continued its forlorn melody. His veins filled with ice. Ghost stories that his chachi Priya had told him rose from the depths of his memory. He suddenly felt very exposed.

  “Holy—”

  “Go, go, go!”

  Something metal clanged. A crash, and one of the boys yelped.

  In the pitch black, Shane sensed movement. A pair of doors leading to the auditorium banged open, and a blast of cold air hit him.

  The red exit signs flickered. A dark something glided soundlessly across the lobby, and Shane’s chest seized. He caught sight of the boys, the three of them heaped in a pile on the floor, staring wide-eyed at the approaching figure in black.

  And then it spoke.

  “Get. Out.”

  The lights went out again. From beneath billowing black robes, the outline of a skeleton glowed neon green.

  The boys screamed. Shane squinted against the strobe light flickering from within the empty vending machine, catching the stop-motion-like progress of the teens as they tripped over each other sprinting toward the front door.

  One of them paused to look back, the way an emboldened and inexperienced lion cub might when facing an angry badger.

  The shadowy figure stopped. It raised its arms. A series of soft cracking noises punctuated the piano melody. The boy yelped as bright green globs exploded on his chest and arms.

  Was that ghost using a paintball gun?

  The doors burst open as the three trespassers stumbled out. The wraith stood there a moment longer, then drifted toward the exit. It set the bolts on the top of the door, then locked a large dead bolt.

  Shane was still plastered to the corner when the figure turned around. It pulled out a smart phone and hit a few buttons. The strobe light stopped, and blinding emergency floodlights turned on, washing the lobby in dirty brown light. A second later, the piano music ceased. The figure in black wasn’t quite so menacing now. It stood barely five-three, draped head to toe in filmy, artfully ragged cloth. Not an inch of skin showed, not even the small, delicate hands. An indigo-hued black light hung from a chain around its neck, which explained how the skeletal figure could be seen in the dark.

  This was no ghost.

  Relief and amusement swamped him. He stepped out from the corner and cleared his throat. “Miriam Bateman, I presume?”

  He thought catching her off guard would shock her into revealing herself. He was wrong.

  With lightning reflexes, the figure raised the paintball gun and pulled the trigger.

  * * *

  MIRA HAD NO tolerance for trespassers. Why anyone thought they could simply waltz into her theater to hang out, drink beer and piss against the walls like a bunch of animals...

  The little bastards were lucky she didn’t own a real gun.

  The paintball gun huffed a fierce volley of Day-Glo green pellets at the remaining intruder. Not only would he be cleaning the stuff out of his clothes for days, but he’d probably have some nice bruises, too. The sheriff wouldn’t have a hard time finding him or his friends.

  As the first volley hit him square in the chest, he twisted away, hands shielding his head, exposing his ribs and thigh to the assault instead. He reeled back as she stepped forward. The closer she got, the worse the impact would hurt.

  She let go of the trigger briefly. “Get out,” she gritted, though it didn’t have the menace the voice-changing app on her phone gave her. “You’re trespassing. The sheriff is on his way. Get out or I’ll put one through your eye.”

  “I followed those boys in here. I thought they were causing trouble—”

  “I’ll cause you trouble. Get out!” She pulled the trigger again. Three paintballs hit him square in the crotch. His face contorted, his mouth opened in a silent scream and, eyes crossed, he collapsed.

  Mira lowered the gun. He wasn’t getting up. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t faking his agony. Crap. That wasn’t good. She put the gun aside and dialed the sheriff, filling him in on her situation.

  “I’m driving as fast as I can, Mira,” Ralph McKinnon told her gruffly, “but I’m still about ten minutes out. I called Arty. He’ll probably get there before me.”

  “There was a fourth one, Ralph. Older guy. I shot him in the nuts with my paintball gun. He’s down.” She kept her gun pointed at him and leaned in far enough to ascertain if the man was still breathing. He had his hands cupped around his crotch and his eyes squeezed shut.

  Only a little remorse broke through her self-righteous fury. He was wearing a fairly nice gray suit and a pink tie, all of it now splattered with neon green paint. Clearly he hadn’t been with those punks. Not that it excused him from breaking into the Crown.

  The sheriff sighed. “I should never have given you those shooting lessons.”

  “Hey, you were the one who was all about standing your ground.”

  “
Does he need an ambulance?”

  “Hey, you,” she said to the stranger. “Do you need an ambulance?”

  The man gurgled something that sounded like a no.

  “Nah,” Mira told Ralph. “But get over here quick. If he tries to get up, I might have to unload on him again.”

  “Please don’t.” The man rolled over and looked up at her with wide eyes. “I just wanted to drive those kids off.”

  “I’ll see you soon, Sheriff.” Mira slipped her phone back into her pocket, muzzle still trained on the man. He was dark skinned with jet-black hair and large, dark eyes. No rings on his fingers, so he wasn’t married—no wife to come after her in case she’d accidentally neutered him.

  She hefted the paintball gun menacingly. “So you’re, what, a good Samaritan?”

  “I’m Shane Patel from Sagmar Corp.,” he said hoarsely, easing himself up. Worried he might try to disarm her, she brandished the paintball gun. He raised his hands. “Are you Miriam Bateman?”

  Mira realized she still wore the head-to-toe wraith costume. He wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow—she didn’t have much in the way of a social media profile and preferred to stay anonymous online. All the same, she kept the cowl and veil on.

  “Why are you here, Mr. Patel?” She recognized his name, of course. All those letters from the property developer had gotten on every last one of her nerves.

  “I wanted to speak with you personally.” He sat up, his knees pinched together protectively. Contrition inched onto his face. “I wanted—”

  “I already told you, the Crown’s not for sale. Sheriff McKinnon will be here shortly to escort you off my property.”

  He straightened, ready to argue. “My associates—” She gestured with the muzzle of her weapon, and he got the hint, cutting off his sales pitch sharply. “It was rude of me to call on you so late,” he amended hastily. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. Seriously, I meant no harm. I was only driving by when I saw those kids.”

  Doubt stirred inside her. He hadn’t tried to hurt her or damage the Crown as far as she could tell. Nor did he seem to be trying to burn down the place to expedite the sale of the property—she’d heard stories of developers doing just that. His nice suit was ruined, and he’d probably be covered in bruises tomorrow. She’d be lucky if he didn’t press charges against her.