by Vicki Essex
She stiffened, looked the boys over. They shuffled on the spot, hands stuffed in their pockets. They didn’t look like hoodlums or ne’er-do-wells. “I see.”
“We’re sorry, ma’am.” The shortest one with the rough voice, Jacob, stepped forward. “What we did was stupid. We didn’t mean any harm. Just trying to have some fun.”
“You think breaking and entering is fun?” She’d already forgiven them in her heart, but she wanted to make them sweat.
Liam, who had reddish-blond hair, piped up. “We wanted to check the place out. We thought it was abandoned. We thought there might be some interesting stuff in here...” He trailed off at her gimlet glare.
“Stuff you could steal, you mean. Didn’t I hear that one of you tried to pick a lock?” Mira slid a look to Shane, who looked amused by her interrogation.
She stuffed down the happiness surging through her and glared at the boys even harder.
“You three were lucky she didn’t have a real gun,” Ralph said.
“Yes, sir. We know.” Jacob grimaced. “But you scared us good. Awesome shot, too. I had some mean bruises from the paintballs.”
“I’m sorry if they hurt,” she said. “But I thought you were robbing me.”
The sheriff hitched his pants up. “Here’s the thing. I know these boys and their parents would be grateful if you didn’t press charges. But that doesn’t exempt them from paying their debt to society. From what Mr. Patel has told me, you could use some help cleaning up before the open house, so I’m proposing they work for you full-time till then, and I’ll consider them square with the law. That’ll satisfy my obligations without having to do a bunch of paperwork.”
Mira’s stare bounced from Shane to the boys to Ralph. She didn’t want these kids who’d violated her home around.
“If you say no, I’ll have to find something a whole lot less pleasant. Probably have to go through juvie to find work for ’em.” He cut her a look. “No one wants that.”
Matt pleaded, “Please, Ms. Bateman, I can’t afford to have a permanent record. Dad says it’ll affect my eligibility for college.”
Jacob and Liam nodded. “We’ll work really hard, seven days a week. Shane’s already told us what kind of jobs you need doing. I spent a summer painting houses, and Jacob’s dad is an electrician. I bet he’d come in and fix anything you needed.”
Mira’s jaw worked. She couldn’t tell these boys no. Grandpa wouldn’t have wanted that. He’d always been about helping the community, giving work to down-on-their-luck folks when he could afford it, handing out free popcorn to hungry-looking kids who could barely afford the matinee ticket. He was the most generous, caring man she’d ever known.
She sighed. “All right, fine.”
“Terrific.” The sheriff eyed the boys sternly. “Mr. Patel will supervise and make sure you do what you’re told. If he’s not happy, I’m not happy. Just because I hate paperwork doesn’t mean I won’t do it, y’hear?”
“Yes, sir.” The three youths nodded.
“You start today.” Ralph addressed Mira. “If they give you problems, call me.”
As the sheriff strode to the exit, Shane grinned at Mira. “So, what do you need done?”
“Can I see you a minute?” Irritation simmered to fury as she strode toward her office, then boiled over as Shane directed the boys without consultation.
“You boys check out that concession stand. Clean out all the cupboards and take stock of any packages of cups, popcorn buckets, anything we can use.” The boys jumped to work, and Shane followed Mira into her office.
“What do you think you’re doing? Why did you bring them here? Why are you here?”
“I heard you needed help. I had coffee with Tiffany Cheung and Chris Jamieson the other day, and they told me you were having trouble getting things done.”
Her cheeks flamed as her mind spun out elaborate conspiracies about what they might have said. She couldn’t imagine they’d said anything good. People didn’t gossip about other people unless it was to say something negative.
“We weren’t talking about you. They just mentioned they were trying to help out before your open house, but that they didn’t have enough time to really be useful. That’s when I remembered you were owed a favor or three.” He jerked his chin toward the boys. “Sheriff McKinnon agreed.”
“This isn’t a rehabilitation center. This is my home.”
“It’s also your grandfather’s theater that you want to reopen in less than two weeks.” He let out a breath. “It’s okay to ask for help now and again, and to accept it. No one is judging you. I just want to help you.”
Easy for him to say. “So you can watch me fail and buy the theater from me when all is lost.”
“So I can help you realize your dream,” he said patiently, softly, as if he were reasoning with a wounded animal. “I understand why you don’t want to see me, but this isn’t about us. This is about reviving something this town has missed and forgotten about. I want to give the Crown the best chance it has.”
Mira shook her head. She could feel her resistance to him melting, wasn’t sure if it was his rationale and logic that was chipping away at her stubbornness or the emotion behind it. She kept telling herself he was manipulating her, but she couldn’t make herself believe it. “You don’t have any reason to want the Crown to reopen.”
“If I can be convinced the theater should stay open for the community’s greater good, so can Sagmar.”
She looked up into his face, saw nothing but sincerity. This was the first time he’d said he’d be willing to consider relocation. He’d refused to budge up until now; maybe he’d gotten permission to consider other options. Hope shone through a pinhole in her defenses.
“Mira, I want this to happen, and not just for the Crown or for the town. I want you to see how much people care.”
“They don’t care.” She said it without conviction.
A half smile shone in Shane’s eyes. He knew she was near defeat. “Maybe you think they don’t, but if you keep pushing them away, you’ll never know for sure. If you really want the Crown to reopen, you need to trust people and let them in.”
She hated that he was right. She had been pushing people away, not just out of the theater, but out of her life. She might as well have been wearing a Keep Out sign on her forehead, all in the name of protecting herself and what little love she’d known, all of it contained within the Crown. Her grandfather’s memory was trapped within these walls, her private sanctuary. As long as she could keep him close by living in the space he’d infused with his passion, that love wouldn’t erode. And in this quest, she’d refused to share him, refused to share the theater, making every excuse to keep Jack Bateman’s legacy to herself.
Oh, Grandpa. Tears filled her eyes. I’ve been so selfish.
Shane reached out. “I didn’t want to upset you—”
“I’m fine.” She turned away so he wouldn’t see her anguish. Then she decided that she would accept help, whatever it took to make up for lost time. She’d squandered so much erecting a fortress around her—it was time to take those walls down, starting with Shane.
“The boys can help,” she said, releasing a breath. “But I’m not good at delegating.” The admission made her feel as though she’d let go of a taut rope with a ton weighing it down on the other end, and she flexed her fingers absently. She hadn’t realized how tight she’d been clinging to that secret shame—as if owning up to needing help was somehow unforgivable.
“That’s why I’m here. If you write out a list of what needs doing, I can prioritize them, and it’ll be much easier to get things started. Do you trust me to do this?”
She wasn’t sure. She’d never really trusted anyone before. But so far, Shane had fixed her roof, saved her from the stage rigging and put out a small fire. He’d proved himsel
f time and again—so why was she so hesitant?
Then she realized it wasn’t that she didn’t trust him with the work of reopening the theater: it was that she didn’t trust him with her heart. Because if he let her down the way her parents had, she wasn’t sure she could trust anyone else ever again.
She thought of that rickety, dangerous stage rigging, thought about how she’d trusted her life to something so unreliable, how willingly she’d thrown herself from it.
Shane was a better bet than that rigging. She had to make a leap of faith.
“Do it,” she said before she could take it back.
* * *
TWO WEEKS TOILING in the Crown made Shane realize exactly how special the building was—and not in a good way. While a dozen rotating volunteers came in and out to vacuum seats, scrub walls and pick up trash, a plumber and electrician quietly confirmed that the guts of the building were nowhere near up to code, that if the place were to ever be reopened permanently it would need to be gutted and completely redone.
Shane didn’t tell Mira that, though. The PI had gone through her financial records and confirmed she wouldn’t qualify for a loan big enough to cover the upgrades. He supposed she might get some investors, but who was putting money in old second-run movie theaters these days? The consignment shop owner, Maya Hanes, might be able to fund her for a year. The PI had discovered Ms. Hanes had inherited a sizable sum from her grandmother and had retired to a quiet life in her home town. But even if she did give Mira the money she needed, the theater was a losing business.
Guilt made him quietly pay the electrician and plumber out of his own pocket for the Band-Aid repairs needed. He’d lied to Mira about relocating the condo—it would never happen, even if the whole town came to the open house. He’d run the numbers and knew that with taxes and other bills, Mira would only be able to hang on to the property for another year or so. She’d be forced to sell, or it would be foreclosed by the bank. Either she wasn’t aware of her financial situation, or she hadn’t accepted that reality.
The bottom line was Mira needed this win. She needed the Crown to have one last hurrah, even if she was in denial that this open house was exactly that. The town needed it, too—a chance to say goodbye to a part of their history. Change wasn’t easy, but it was inevitable.
Laura didn’t seem to see things his way, though.
“What’s this I hear about you working with the owner of the Crown Theater?” his manager demanded over the phone the Monday before the open house.
“I’m on vacation,” he reminded her evenly. “What I do on my personal time is none of your business.”
“That’s BS and you know it,” she bit out.
“Fine. Yes, I’m helping Miriam Bateman, but you haven’t seen the place, Laura. It’s a demo waiting to happen. A stiff breeze could topple it.” It was a lie, but he didn’t want Laura thinking he was earnestly trying to save the theater. “Anyhow, the zoning board is withholding their decision until after the theater’s open house. I’m 95 percent certain they’ll side with us. This is all just a play to give the theater one last blowout. In the meantime, I’m fostering community connections and cultivating relationships with local businesses.”
Laura growled her discontent. “‘Ninety-five percent certain’ isn’t good enough. The investors are getting restless. We’re supposed to have shovels in the ground before Christmas.”
“I know, but Mira’s been...difficult.” He smiled for some reason. She wasn’t difficult, per se. She was just stubborn about her romantic notions and skeptical about her hopes and dreams. She was a paradox, a pragmatic dreamer who lived on canned soup and gardened on top of the world and hung from treacherous stage rigging for fun. And damned if he didn’t like it.
“‘Mira,’ is it?” Laura hummed. “You’re not banging her, are you?”
He flinched. “No.”
“Would it help our cause if you were?”
He fumed. Laura could be so crass, not to mention too insightful.
“I want to hear from you by week’s end whether you think Ms. Bateman will sell. The company’s champing at the bit, and I’m hearing rumors that the high-speed rail line might be announced sooner rather than later. You know what happens then, right?”
The price for the property would shoot up, along with investors’ tempers and the price for units. “I hear you.”
“Good. Then you know you need to seal this deal. Do whatever it takes. We can’t afford to wait much longer.”
Later that afternoon, while he and the boys were working, Arty Bolton came to the theater. He stared around the place, a pleat between his eyes, as if looking for someone. Shane greeted him. “How’s it going, Arty? Haven’t seen you around.”
“We’re having some staffing problems at the store, so I’ve had to stay in.” He looked around surreptitiously. “Where’s Mira?”
“In her office. She comes in and out between writing and cleaning.”
Arty harrumphed. “Works too hard, that one. Good thing you’re here to help her out. Almost too good.” He leveled a suspicious look at Shane, and he wondered why the old man was suddenly leery of him. “Heard Ralph has you looking after those hooligans who broke in here.”
“Mira needed the help.”
“Well...don’t get too friendly. You and I both know this place is doomed.” He practically growled it out. “Her heart’s gonna break one way or another, and I don’t think she needs you adding to her misery.”
“I would never hurt Mira,” he said, put off. Where was this attitude coming from? He thought Arty liked him. He didn’t appreciate being accused of duplicity, either, though the guilt that gnawed on his conscience bothered him more.
“We never mean to hurt the ones we love. But we do anyhow.” The grocer stuffed his hands in his pockets, glancing about nervously. “Has Janice been around?”
“Not that I’ve seen.”
Arty scratched his nose and shuffled his feet. “All right. Well, I’ve got a couple of hours in me before I turn into a pumpkin. Put me to work and I’ll see what I can do to help straighten this mess out.”
Puzzled by the man’s mood, Shane directed him to join the others. He didn’t know what was going on with Arty, but whatever it was, he wouldn’t let it shake him from his cause.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ARTY STRETCHED, EVERY one of his bones singing, every muscle and joint creaking and popping. Getting old was a literal pain in the neck. He hadn’t worked so hard in years. He’d never really paid much attention to the mess in and around the Crown—frankly, he’d never thought it’d open its doors again. But, boy, had Mira let things go. Why hadn’t he ever told her to throw out those boxes of old schedules?
Because they were Jack’s. The acute headache pinching his scalp intensified. Tossing out all that garbage and scrubbing those walls had been like an exorcism, a cleansing. But it didn’t make him feel any better about Jack’s lies and secrets.
He’d hoped Janice would be there helping with the cleanup. She’d declared her feelings for him almost two weeks ago, but he hadn’t been able to face her since. It didn’t seem right to pursue her, even if he’d wanted her practically all his life. She was still beautiful, still vital, and could have any man. He was old and had little to offer...
You’re making excuses.
A distant memory of Jack rose in his thoughts. It’d been decades ago, back when Arty had been contemplating buying the grocery store business from its previous owner. He’d always been conservative about his investments, didn’t like big risks, and back then the town’s population was starting to dwindle as the local factories and mines closed. He’d been afraid of failure and had made all kinds of excuses about why he shouldn’t open his own business. Jack had been the one who’d ultimately convinced him to take a leap of faith.
What’s life
without a few risks? His friend’s jovial voice echoed through his memory.
He shook his head. The theater had a funny way of amplifying the past. It was probably why Jack had loved the Crown. Jack, who’d lied to him, kept him and Jan apart. Jack, whose shadow haunted him.
No. Jack was dead. Arty was just being the coward he’d always been. Janice was waiting for him, and here he was, moping and griping about lost time and friends.
He should’ve been wooing the pants off her. Maybe not even figuratively. But his doubts still gripped him. Arty had never been a striking figure, especially compared to Jack. Short and compact with dark hair and cheeks like wet dough, he’d been considered “the nice guy” next to Jack’s lean form, brilliant smile and long-legged swagger. Now Arty was old and gray, with more wrinkles than a crusty bulldog.
Bone-tired, he drove home to his bungalow on the outskirts of town. A familiar-looking car was parked on the curb. Someone sat on the porch swing, smoking.
He got out apprehensively and approached. The orange tip of the cigarette glowed as the figure inhaled and released a cloud of smoke like a dragon in the dark.
“Thought I’d have to smoke the whole damned pack before you got home.” Janice stood slowly and stubbed the cigarette out.
Arty fixed a scowl onto his face, suppressing the relief and joy bubbling up through him. “I thought you quit years ago.”
“I only smoke when I’m nervous.” She rubbed her fingertips together as if it would clean the nicotine stains from her nails. “Only had two, but I let them burn down, mostly. Wasn’t sure when you’d be back and I didn’t want to smell like a tavern.”
He stuck his hands into his pockets. “What’re you doing here?”
Janice pressed her lips together and folded her hands. “Y’know, I’m not sure. I was going to go over to the Crown to help Mira—I hear folks are pitching in to get the place cleaned up. Saw your truck out front and figured you were there. Didn’t feel like we should meet face-to-face for the first time in weeks in that setting. So I drove here, decided to wait for you.”