by Vicki Essex
That was only wishful thinking on her part, though. Since Grandpa’s passing, she’d felt as though she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. That shoe was the demise of the Crown. If she didn’t get the theater open and generating income again, the city could condemn the building.
Mira rubbed her eyes. Worrying about it wouldn’t solve anything, and she didn’t need another sleepless night. She needed to relax.
She rummaged through her collection and pulled out Casablanca. It’d been her and Grandpa’s favorite movie. She’d cut her teeth on film storytelling listening to him talk about all the ways it’d become the timeless classic that it was. She’d made it the subject of numerous projects and essays in film school.
She popped the DVD into the player connected to the older model digital projector she’d bought secondhand online. It wasn’t a theater-quality piece of equipment—it was mostly used for office presentations and not much good for projecting on anything bigger than Mira herself, plus the replacement bulbs were hard to find—but it was better than her laptop screen. She’d always believed in watching movies the way they were meant to be watched.
As the on-disc commercials and advertisements played, she put a bag of popcorn into the microwave, then on a whim, decided to hook herself into the harness to have another go at that busted rig coupling. She didn’t need to sit through the film to enjoy it—she knew all the lines by heart, though she did love that moment when Ilsa meets Rick again for the first time in the film.
In short order, she was hooked into the rig and was pulling herself along the track, checking every inch as she went. The broken coupling that joined one part of the track to the next was bent just enough that she couldn’t get the wheels of the stock to jump the gap. Replacing it would be best, but the more she looked at it, the more she wondered if shifting it a few millimeters over would solve the problem. She studied the bolts in the ceiling—she wasn’t sure she had the equipment to take them out, or the strength, but she had to try.
Stretching, she pulled herself up and grabbed the wrench from her tool belt. She could barely get a grip on the bolt. Her arms were about two inches too short to get any real purchase, but she twisted anyway, torquing her whole body in the hopes that something would give.
Something gave, all right. Her biceps protested sharply, and pain shot through her wrist. The wrench clattered onto the stage below. The sudden release of tension made her tip downward, almost headfirst, and the sudden shift in weight made her spin in place. She flailed, trying to right herself like a wildly tilting helicopter blade. Tools slipped from her belt and rained down onto the stage below before she managed to grab hold of the track to stop her wild midair pirouette. She caught her breath and waited for the world to stop spinning.
That had never happened before. She looked up and groaned: part of the ceiling where the track was bolted had come loose. A steady drip of dirty brown water leaked from the gaping hole.
No need to panic. The track was still connected, so all she had to do was pull herself back to the catwalk. She reached for the tether rope, then swore when a tug didn’t return her to safety. The rope had tangled up around the rig.
She spent ten minutes trying to use the slack to get it unlooped from the tangle, but it was hopeless. She gave a frustrated whimper as the music in Casablanca swelled. She had no choice—she’d have to call Arty or Janice to help get her down.
And get yelled at, most likely. She could just imagine the smug satisfaction with which Arty would tell her he’d been right about the rig. Or the utter disappointment and worry on Janice’s aged face as the older woman gently told her for the billionth time that everything she did was risky and dangerous. She set her teeth as she pulled out her cell phone. At least that hadn’t fallen in her wild spin.
The perimeter alarm chimed. The feed brought up an image of a tall man in jeans and a T-shirt with something in his arms.
It was Shane Patel.
Relief and elation flooded her, overriding the dread that came with confronting the man after her public breakdown. In spite of her humiliation, she’d never been so glad to see the real estate developer.
She dialed his number. She’d programmed it into her contacts list after he’d given her his card only because she wanted to make sure she could screen his calls, not because she’d ever intended to call him.
“Shane Patel.”
“Mr. Patel, it’s Mira—Miriam Bateman.” She was a little chagrined by how breathless she sounded. “I can see you’re standing outside the Crown.”
He paused. She imagined he was searching for a camera.
“The back door is open. Listen, I’m in the auditorium. I... I need your help.”
“Is everything all right?”
“I just need you to hurry in, please.” She didn’t want to be beholden to him, but she’d prefer he help her down rather than Arty or worse, the fire department.
“Okay, hang on. I’m keeping the line open. Are you hurt? What’s the problem?”
Mira hesitated. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Not another fire, I hope?”
“No.”
“Are you sure you’re not hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”
“I’m fine. Just get in here,” she said impatiently.
She heard the outer back door groan open. His footsteps were muffled by the carpeting, and then the doors to the auditorium opened. “Miriam?”
The music to the film chose that precise moment to swell. Ilsa and Rick, meeting again after years apart. Her face flushed as Shane approached the stage, his head swiveling as he scanned the rows of worn velvet-covered seats. “Ms. Bateman?” he called again. “Where are you?”
“Up here.”
He squinted and shaded his eyes against the floodlights above her. “How...?”
“It’s a fly rig,” she explained. “It was installed years ago for a production of Peter Pan. I was doing some maintenance, but the track broke loose and I’m stuck.”
“Holy—” Shane leaped onto the stage and stared up into the fly gallery from beneath her. Thank God she wasn’t wearing a skirt. “I’ll call the fire department.”
“Please, don’t. I’m fine. The rig will hold.” She hoped. “I just need to get down.”
“How?”
“My lead line is tangled.” She gave the rope a wave to demonstrate. “If you can find a long stick or something to get it off the rig, I can pull myself back.”
He disappeared behind the heavy, faded curtain. She could hear him rummaging around. “I don’t see anything here. Is there a broom or something in your office?”
“No. A rope will do, if you can throw it to me.”
He reappeared a minute later, rope in hand. “How’s this?”
“Great! Now, the ladder to the catwalk above the stage is to your right.” She pointed. “Climb up and throw me one end.”
He looked up, frowning. “Maybe I should just call the fire department.”
“No need for that.” She couldn’t bear it if they saw her like this. And who knew what the fire marshal might say if he discovered she was living here. “A lot of them are volunteers from around the county. They’ll probably be getting ready for bed. Or they might have a real emergency.”
She could see Shane’s brow furrow even from up there, and she got a feeling he was holding something back. “What’s wrong?”
“Is the ladder safe?”
“I’ve never fallen from it.”
“And the catwalk?”
She huffed. “What’s the matter?”
He wiped a hand across his mouth. “I should call the fire department.”
“No! Please, Shane—” she gripped the rope and spun herself around “—I’m begging you. I don’t want them here.” She couldn’t handle a bunch of townspeople shaking
their heads at her. Whispering about her. Stupid girl, getting herself tangled up there...
He didn’t look convinced. Desperate, she made a bargain. “Look, if you help me down, I’ll listen to anything you have to say, sit in on all your presentations, whatever. Just don’t call anyone else.”
He hesitated. “All right. Hang on.”
It took a really long time for him to climb the ladder. The rungs rang with each step. The higher he got, the longer the pauses between clangs. Eventually, he reached the catwalk. He gripped both rails, the rope he’d found slung over his shoulder. His jaw worked as he focused on her. He’d gone quite pale.
“Are you all right?”
“I...have a thing...about heights.”
“It’s not that high up,” she assured him hastily, though Grandpa had told her a stagehand had once fallen and broken both legs decades ago. “Just don’t look down.”
“Wasn’t my plan.” His voice was thin, coming out on a shaky breath.
“Can you throw me the rope from there?”
He slowly uncoiled the rope from around his shoulder. Carefully, one hand still white-knuckled on the railing, he tossed her the end.
He missed, and she saw immediately why. It wasn’t a rope at all. It was a yellow extension cord—the ten-foot one she kept by the stage, most likely.
“That’s too short,” she told him. “Climb down. I’ll think of something else.”
He edged his way quickly off and then down the ladder. Frankly, she was relieved he was back on solid ground—if he fell, she’d have to call the sheriff, the fire department, an ambulance and a lawyer.
The harness bit into her thighs as she thought hard. “There are a set of counterweights that keep me up here. If you untie them, I might be able to swing myself far enough over the track to reach the floor.”
She directed him to the pulley and rope system and instructed him on how to safely get her down. “You sure this is a good idea?” he asked.
“No.” She judged the distance along the track, praying the rig didn’t drop her like a deadweight.
“I can still call the fire department,” Shane said.
I’d rather fall and break my neck. “I’ll be fine.”
She felt the line slacken. The cables gave a slight zi-ip sound as the counterweights were released. She took hold of the tether rope and threw her weight forward, pulling as hard as she could. The harness snapped against her stomach and winded her. She had just enough presence of mind to release the tether before it could leave rope burns on her hands as she plummeted straight toward a wide-eyed Shane.
“Look out!”
They crashed in a tangle of limbs, and Shane went “Oof!” as she thudded against his solid chest. She dug her fingers into his muscled back as the counterweights yanked her back upward. Her claws sank in, and he let out a strangled cry.
“Don’t let go!” she rasped. “I need to get this harness off—if I go back up, I’ll be stuck worse than ever.”
“You couldn’t have said something about that earlier?” He threaded his arms under hers and locked her to him, chest to chest. The counterweights, however, were still lifting her a couple of inches off the ground, so she couldn’t quite touch the floor.
They hung there, locked in a full-body stranglehold. Sweat pooled in her armpits. Shane was overwarm, too, the lingering funk of fear mixing with his spicy cologne—he seemed to be getting hotter under his T-shirt by the second. “Okay,” she panted. “This is awkward.”
“I would’ve taken you to dinner first, you know.” Shane pulled back from her slightly to look into her face. He smirked. “No need to throw yourself at me.”
She scowled, but didn’t smack him in case he let go. “Can you reach the D ring above me?”
“I think so.” He reached up, and she had to cling tighter, practically climbing down his body to make sure he had enough slack to unhook her.
“Don’t let it go once you get me out.”
“Easier said than done,” he grunted. “Hang on. I need to use both hands.”
She clung to his waist, her nose now firmly planted against his sternum. He was fit, not too lean, and even had a few softer spots. Perfectly average, she told herself, though she didn’t have much to reference. Her entire romantic experience had been limited to the one guy she’d dated in college.
Not that she was entertaining romantic notions with Shane Patel.
The upward pull on her suddenly slackened. “Got it.”
She unlatched herself from around his waist and scrambled to her feet. “Hang on to that for a little longer.” She ran and retied the counterweights backstage, then shouted, “Okay, let go!”
When she came back onstage, Shane was shaking his hands out and stretching. The line dangled in front of him. “Are you all right?”
“Yeah. I’m good.” A sudden sheepishness overtook her. “Thank you,” she mumbled as a fresh wave of heat shot into her face. She busied herself unstrapping the harness. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to keep this from Arty. And the rest of the world.”
“My lips are sealed.” He mimed zipping his upturned lips and locking them. Awareness flushed through Mira, a rush of not unpleasant tingles skittering across her skin. She fumbled with the numerous clips and buckles to hide her reaction.
“Need help with that?”
“No,” she said sharply. The last thing she wanted was for him to be that close to her again, his hands on her in places she really didn’t want to be thinking about. She quickly unsnapped the buckles around her thighs and freed herself from the apparatus.
“How’d you end up there, anyhow?” Shane looked up at the ceiling.
“I’m up there all the time.” She didn’t know why she was being so defensive. She struggled to rein in her hostility—he’d just saved her from yet another humiliating situation. What was it about this guy that brought out the worst in her, apart from the fact that he was trying to take her home from her? “I like to be up there. It feels...safe.”
“Safe.” He grimaced at the water trickling down. It’d slowed to a drip, so it wasn’t likely a burst pipe. Probably water that had pooled on the roof. “Maybe you should stay off of it for now.”
She rolled her eyes inwardly. Why did everyone treat her as if she didn’t know any better? But she kept her mouth shut—goodwill and keeping secrets came at a price.
“Let me help clean up,” he offered.
“Oh, no, that’s not—”
He was already jogging up the aisle. “I saw a mop and bucket in your office. I’ll grab them. You can check all your ropes and things, make sure everything’s out of the way and that nothing will fall on our heads.”
* * *
MINUTES LATER, HE was sopping up puddles onstage. Mira silently monitored him while she secured the rigging and checked the ropes and cables for damage. She sighed—she wouldn’t be up there again for a while. One more thing to add to her to-do list. One more bit of solace taken from her.
“As Time Goes By” crooned on in the background as Ilsa and Rick argued. If she’d called Arty, he would’ve been griping about his aches and pains and berating her for her recklessness. She loved her grandfather’s dear old friend, but he could be a real crank. Shane, however, worked quickly, quietly and without complaint or criticism. She might have resented his presence in her life, but right now, she was grateful for it.
Which meant she needed to get him and his confusing presence away as quickly as possible.
“Did you come by for something?” she prompted.
He grinned and went to one of the rows of seats. “I got back in town yesterday but didn’t have time to stop by. I wanted to bring you this.” He picked up a potted orchid. “It’s from a specialty florist in Manhattan. I thought you might like it.”
She suppressed
a delighted “Oh!” It was pure white with delicate tendrils spread like wings—a wild white egret orchid. “It’s gorgeous...but...why?”
“You like flowers. I thought I’d bring you one.”
Of course, it was all part of his scheme to win her approval and the Crown. She opened her mouth to point that out to him, but hesitated. “Thank you,” she said instead. “You didn’t need to bring me anything, though.”
“Is it just orchids, or do you like other flowers?”
Strange question to ask—she’d assumed he’d known about her garden to give her such a specific plant. “I keep a bunch of different tropical hothouse plants in the greenhouse, but I grow other things, too.”
He looked confused. “You have a greenhouse?”
“In my garden. On the roof.”
“Oh.” He glanced up again, almost nervously. “Maybe that’s where this leak is coming from?”
“We haven’t had a lot of rain. And I’m pretty sure none of the plumbing runs up this high.” She grimaced at the gap in the ceiling.
The swell of music reminded her the DVD was still playing. She went to stop it.
“Funny, I’ve never watched Casablanca all the way through,” Shane mused.
Every thought inside her ground to a halt, and she whipped around to face him. “Are you serious?”
He flinched. “It’s not a crime.”
Yes, it was. “How can you never have— It’s a classic! It’s the classic. The defining film of cinema history!”
“I’m more of an action film kind of guy.”
“Oh, my God.” She threw her hands up in the air. “Okay, that’s it. Until you watch it, I can’t talk to you.”
“Is that an invitation?”
She supposed it was. She hadn’t exactly meant it to be, but confronting someone who’d never seen Casablanca was anathema to her. It was like telling her they hadn’t been vaccinated against the plague. “Sit down. I’ll make more popcorn.”
She supposed she owed him for saving her life, after all.