Matinees with Miriam

by Vicki Essex

  “If you want my advice, you need to steer the man toward other avenues. Women like men who put a little thought and creativity into their gifts. Miriam needs more than fresh-cut flowers if you want her to be wooed out of that cave of hers.” Janice shook her head. The sunlight through the flower shop window made her white-blond hair glow as it tumbled around her ears. Arty longed to touch her. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets instead. “Anyhow, what makes you think this Shane Patel is any good for her? Sounds like he’s only after her property, and I doubt he’s the kind to stick around.”

  “A man knows when another man is interested,” he said firmly. “He lit up like a lightbulb when he saw her last night.”

  “Maybe it was just the paint from that paint gun. You should take that thing away from her before someone loses an eye.”

  “And do what? Give her a real gun? She needs some kind of protection, but hell if I give her anything worse than a BB.”

  “What she needs is to move out of that place.” Janice huffed. “I know Jack would be grateful for how you’re looking out for her, but he wouldn’t have wanted her alone in that old theater for the rest of her life.”

  Arty’s chest ached, hearing Janice’s wistful tone. They all missed Jack Bateman. Miriam’s grandfather had been a fixture in Everville, a grinning beanstalk of a man who was as at ease camping with his granddaughter as he was running the projector at the Crown. He and Arty had been friends since childhood. The man would have known better how to handle Mira.

  “I think Mira is happy,” Arty said gruffly. “Her definition of it, anyhow.”

  “She didn’t pick up her own groceries this week,” Janice pointed out.

  “She had deadlines to meet. You know how she gets when she’s focused on work.”

  “It’s not healthy, Arty. She needs to be around people, too.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “She talks to people on the internet.”

  “That’s not the same.”

  “Jan, she’s twenty-eight, not twelve. She’s an adult. Her life isn’t conventional to us, sure, but times have changed. She likes her privacy. She’s not starving. She’s got a job, a roof over her head...all things considered, she’s doing all right.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

  “‘All right’ isn’t always enough,” Janice returned staunchly. “Before you know it, she’ll be an old woman living alone in a decrepit theater.”

  Arty grimaced. He usually deferred to Janice when it came to Mira’s well-being, being a woman and all, but they frequently disagreed on how to handle the young woman’s introversion. The fact was, he wanted to honor his friend by helping his granddaughter become the woman she wanted to be. If it meant arguing with the woman Jack—and Arty—had been sweet on most of their lives, so be it.

  His main concern was that Mira was alone—and that would bother him less if he were younger and knew he had many more years to keep an eye on her. But the incident with the trespassers had hammered home how perilous her situation was. Next time, it could be someone far less benign than a bunch of troublemaking kids. Someone who wouldn’t be scared off by Halloween costumes and paintball guns.

  Shane Patel wasn’t exactly forever material: he didn’t see a long-term relationship between him and Mira flourishing. But Arty also knew folks these days didn’t need long-term to be happy, and Mira had always been pragmatic. When it came to relationships, anyhow.

  If he could get her to simply open up to the idea of dating, he’d consider his job done. The problem was that the men in town were less than appealing to Mira. Too many knew about the Batemans, and Mira in particular.

  “You think we should convince her to sell the Crown?” he asked casually. He couldn’t picture Mira giving up the theater—Jack had loved that place.

  The florist shook her head. “That’s something she has to decide for herself. What I’m suggesting is she get a taste of what else is out there. She can’t live her life in front of a screen.”

  Arty raised an eyebrow. It was uncharacteristic of Janice to talk about casual flings. She’d always been much more serious when it came to relationships. She’d been married for twenty-four years before her husband, Bill, had passed, and after that, she’d refused to remarry. Even when Jack, a widower himself, had come a-calling, she still hadn’t budged, and Jack had been no slouch when it came to charming the ladies. Hesitantly, he said, “A taste...of this Shane Patel, maybe?”

  She shrugged. “He’s convenient—I don’t deny that. Temporary, which isn’t necessarily bad. Mira needs her life shaken up a bit. He’d get her beyond the theater’s walls, too.”

  “He’s not bad-looking, either,” Arty said, almost giddy that he and Janice were on the same page for once. “And he’s got money.”

  At Janice’s disapproving look, he added, “What? Money never hurt anyone’s chances.”

  “If we’re going to play matchmaker, there’s a lot you need to learn about the female psyche,” she said wryly. “If money were something she cared about, she’d have sold the theater a long time ago. Right now, all Mira sees in that man is an enemy. He wants to buy the Crown from her, and you and I both know she’ll cling to it tooth and nail.”

  “So how do we get her to even look at him?”

  Janice tapped a finger against her lips. “I may know the way to her heart.”

  * * *

  MIRA TOSSED THE scrub brush into the bucket and stood, stretching. Getting the neon-green paintball stains out of the old carpet had been tough, but all traces of it were gone now. She’d have to go easy on the trigger next time.

  “Sorry, Grandpa,” she said out loud. “Won’t be doing that again.”

  She was met with silence, though she liked to imagine the rush of air seeping through the auditorium doors was her grandfather’s put-upon sigh. To her, the Crown housed Jack Bateman’s spirit, which was why being alone there had never bothered her. Not even when her silent alarm had been tripped. Arty and various others had warned her time and again it wasn’t safe to sleep in that huge, abandoned building, but if she hadn’t been there, those boys could have done a lot more damage, defiling the Crown and her grandfather’s memory. No, as long as she was alive, she’d never let anything happen to Grandpa’s pride and joy.

  Besides, this was the only place she felt truly safe.

  Her cell phone blipped as the front door proximity alarm was triggered. The problem with having an old theater for a home was that there were no doorbells, and it was impossible to hear anyone knocking. So instead, she’d installed a special silent security system around the building. It was amazing what one could buy on the internet.

  Who could it be? Arty had already delivered her groceries—had he forgotten something? She checked the phone feed to the web cameras outside the theater.

  It was Shane Patel. He stood staring up at the Crown’s old marquee, wearing a fresh suit that fit him as well as the one she’d painted with neon-green polka dots. He pressed his face to the cracked glass of the old ticket booth, then tried each of the locked doors. He pounded out a knock. How had he known she’d be in the theater now? Then again, she’d ignored his calls and emails, and the only address he had for her was the theater. She supposed knocking was his only recourse. Maybe if she waited, he’d go away...

  Or maybe he’d break in again to do God knew what.

  She’d checked his online profile after last night’s debacle. He was definitely who he said he was, but she hadn’t expected the Sagmar real estate developer to be quite so...well, heroic was too strong a word, but it was the only one she could think of for some damned reason.

  Then again, she supposed he could’ve hired those punks to break into the theater so he could look like a hero.

  Don’t be paranoid, Mira. Life isn’t a movie. He isn’t some nefarious villain planning complicated ru
ses to get his hands on your property. He didn’t even know you lived here.

  She considered meeting Mr. Patel at the door with her paint gun, but decided sharp words would be sufficient to warn him off. She was an adult, not some child hiding from the boogeyman.

  She unbolted the front fire door and swung open the exterior door. The facade had been boarded up on both the outside and inside to preserve the glass.

  Shane Patel looked up, startled. In the light of day, she could see he was tall and quite handsome, square jawed with thick, expressive eyebrows as dark as his jet-black hair. Something about his neatly tailored suit and the lavender shirt, no tie, put her in mind of a luxury car salesman. Maybe that was her bias, though.

  “What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

  He smiled wide, a perfect set of pearly whites gleaming against his equally brilliant and clear complexion. “I thought I’d bring this by.” He held out a box of chocolate nut clusters. “A peace offering to apologize for my intrusion last night.”

  She regarded him and the box flatly. “I don’t like chocolate.”

  That was a lie, but it was worth it to see his face fall, his confidence shaken. This was a guy used to having his charms work on members of the opposite sex—she added that brick of insight into the wall she was building around herself against him. “I suppose I should ask how you’re feeling.” A show of sympathy could go a long way toward keeping a lawsuit at bay, after all.

  “I’m a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.” He rubbed his arm, where she remembered he’d been hit. She studiously kept her eyes above his belt and her mind away from any kind of speculation. “I’ve done paintball before. Do you play a lot?”

  He was trying to engage her in conversation. Maybe he was simply a friendly guy, but she was certain these were just tactics for making her linger and talk. There was only one thing he was here for. “No. Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.” She started to close the door.

  “The sheriff caught one of the young men who broke in last night,” he said quickly, and that made her pause. “I ID’d him earlier. I think he’ll tell on the others, too. Will you press charges?”

  She thought about it briefly. “No. They’re just a bunch of bored kids. Sheriff’ll scare ’em straight.”

  “You should reconsider. They’ll come back. Might try to look for revenge.”

  “Or they might figure out that they should leave me alone unless they want a crotchful of paintballs.” Unlike some people who couldn’t take a hint. She gave him her most unimpressed look. “You and your nut clusters should go now, Mr. Patel. You have nothing I want, and I have a lot of work to do.”

  “What is it you do, exactly?” he asked, sliding his words in as effectively as a foot in the door.

  “Work.” Some guys didn’t know how to take no for an answer. “And it’s not getting done. Now please, get off my property. I have absolutely no intention of selling to you or anyone else. The Crown is my grandfather’s legacy. No dollar amount could make me give it up.”

  “Ms. Bateman—”

  She closed the door firmly and bolted it tight, the booming sound punctuating the end of their interaction. It echoed through the building, shuddering through the cavernous halls until it was swallowed up by darkness and silence.

  She waited one minute more for her cell phone to chime, indicating that Shane Patel had left the premises. It beeped once. Gone.

  She let out a breath. Well. If that wasn’t a clear enough message, she wasn’t sure what would be.

  CHAPTER THREE

  SHANE STUDIED THE mostly blank profile he’d composed of Miriam Bateman as if it would provide some clue about the mysterious theater owner. He’d never met anyone so obstinately unfriendly—especially in Everville. Everyone was nice, or at least, that’s how he remembered them. The kids at the beach on Silver Lake and in town had all been cool with him and his sister, and he’d gotten along with everyone he met. Of course, he’d been gifted with the ability to charm people—something his mother had warned him about. But Miriam was a conundrum.

  Arty Bolton had suggested chocolates, but clearly, the old man didn’t know what she liked. He supposed a gift basket might be more appropriate than flowers. He reserved fancy bouquets for hospitalizations, funerals and first dates. He didn’t want Ms. Bateman getting the wrong idea.

  Yet.

  The problem was, she was hard to read. She had an almost-impenetrable stare, narrow and glassy at the same time, as if she were studying a festering lump underneath a microscope and trying to decide if it was fascinating or disgusting. She used that look liberally on him. It was a little disconcerting. He could usually pick up when a woman was attracted to him and then leverage that attraction for professional gain. Amma disapproved, mainly because her son wouldn’t settle down.

  At the very least, Miriam hadn’t completely dismissed him. She’d been intrigued enough to speak to him, even if it was crisply and briefly. She could’ve called the sheriff if she’d really wanted him gone. But she’d answered his innocuous questions. That was a start. A crack in her facade. Now all he had to do was figure out how to chip away the rest of her defenses.

  He scanned the profile, adding notes as he went.

  Miriam Bateman, mid to late twenties.

  Brown hair, blue eyes.

  Proprietor of the defunct Crown Theater in Everville, NY.

  Friends/Allies: Arty Bolton, grocery store owner?

  He added the question mark because while the old man had come to her aid when she was in trouble, he was a lot older, making him more of a father figure who’d protect her rather than dish out any good intel. Shane had been hoping to find someone who was closer to Miriam’s age, maybe a girlfriend, a confidante, someone he could charm.

  Did she even have friends? He shook his head. He wasn’t going to take her prickly attitude personally. She had every right not to like or trust him. He’d just have to figure out what made her tick and get her to open up. With that in mind, he headed out to explore the town, maybe have a beer. He’d talk to locals and see what they could tell him about the Crown’s elusive owner. It would take as long as it took. Persistence was the key—what had always made him a winner.

  He’d convince her to sell him the Crown one way or another. Personal pride depended on it.

  * * *

  “IT’S FROM WHO?” Mira studied the potted orchid suspiciously. As pretty as it was, and as much as she was thrilled to receive it, she couldn’t imagine anyone in town wanting to buy her such a gift.

  “A secret admirer, according to the tag.” Janice Heinlein grinned. “He came in while I was out, made the order with Pete. Even if I knew who it was, which I don’t, I’m not allowed to say more than that. Customer right to privacy and all that, you know.” She winked.

  Mira sighed. It had to be from Shane Patel. He’d come by twice more over the past week bearing gifts, which she’d reluctantly accepted, though she’d reiterated both times that she wasn’t selling the Crown. He hadn’t seemed fazed by her rebuttals—in fact, he’d looked as though he was simply happy to bring her presents. The first had been a basket of assorted baked goods from Georgette’s Books and Bakery, along with two pounds of fresh ground coffee beans from the Grindery, a café on Main. There was simply no way to turn that down—Saul, the café owner, would be insulted. And no one could resist cookies from Georgette’s.

  The second gift had been just as nonrefundable: a deli tray from Everville Grocery. Apparently, Mr. Patel was bent on feeding her and ingratiating himself with the local businesses. Since the platter had come from Arty’s, she couldn’t say no.

  Mira had no doubt that the real estate developer was buttering her up for negotiations. She imagined he’d come by to show her his plans for whatever he was going to build, tell her how it would benefit the community, do some song and danc
e while avoiding any actual discussion of sales or price tags. The initial offer for the building had been reasonable, she supposed, for what most people thought was an abandoned building. But it wasn’t nearly enough in Mira’s estimation. Of course, she wouldn’t sell the place for anything, unless Shane could magically bring her grandfather back from the dead. Maybe not even then. Grandpa had loved the Crown with all his heart.

  She turned the potted orchid in her hand, admiring the deep fuchsia blooming from the center of the blossom and lightening to a blush at the tips of the petals. How had the man known she loved orchids?

  “How are the tomatoes doing?” Janice asked, rocking up onto her toes eagerly.

  Mira smirked. Janice was usually too busy to make deliveries herself. She’d come to see the garden. “Come.”

  The florist grinned and clapped her hands. She quickly followed Mira up to the balcony fire exit. Mira unwound the chains from around the push bar and unlocked the padlock. People had tried breaking through that door before. She’d also had to put a bike lock on the fire escape ladder to keep trespassers from climbing to the roof where her precious garden was. It wasn’t technically legal or safe, but no one was using the theater except her.

  With the orchid in a backpack, they climbed the ladder. Mira stayed beneath Janice in case the older woman made a misstep. Mira was used to heights—the Crown was her home, her playground, and she could walk this place in the dark. The florist went up slowly, and eventually, they clambered over the edge of the roof and onto Mira’s gravel-topped oasis.

  She never got tired of the view up here. With careful attention to where and how things were planted, the garden thrived with little interference, and in mid-May, the place was like Eden. Thick, healthy vines and climbing plants twined around the freestanding trellises, providing cool shade for the more delicate plants. Marigolds and citronella protected many of the produce plants from bugs. A few sparkly rainbow-colored pinwheels and flapping pennants warned birds away. A wind chime she’d made as a child for Grandpa out of shells, beads and tiny jingle bells clattered and tinkled in the breeze from one decorative arch.