It was a pointless maneuver, but Chip ducked his head slightly into his collar to hide his face. If his father wasn’t calling him by the end of the evening, asking why he’d been spending time with Richardson at the Barter, it would be a miracle.
“I want to preserve the basic layout of the lobby here,” Mr. Richardson began, stepping onto the decorative red plush carpet between racks of souvenir candles and T-shirts. “But we’ll update the café area to offer a more accessible array of fudges, wines, and coffees during intermission. As it is, you can see the space gets congested. Anyway,” he said, waving his hands, “black granite, quarter-sawn white oak. I’ve had my eye on a carpet from Brintons for a while—a rich, red broadloom classic, a perfect blend of the Persian and Amerindian motifs—you know how it is. But in here”—he opened a set of double doors with a flourish—“I see everything different. Here is where I envision the magic.”
The doors opened onto Gilliam Stage, the main theatre, which sat under a forty-foot ceiling and was saturated in red: rows of rich red seats with the embroidered crest of the Barter shimmering in golden thread, pallets of red damask along the walls, and more elaborate maroon damask carpeting the aisles. The room was royal and rich and, if Chip were quite honest, utterly not in need of updating. But then, Mr. Richardson wasn’t asking him to be honest.
“Tell me, Mr. McBride, what do you see?”
Mr. Richardson took his fedora off as he gazed up to the two chandeliers dangling from the high ceiling. Chip looked up too.
Ceilings. Okay. This was a bit of a stretch from double-hung windows in ranches or carpet tiles for university gymnasiums, but there were some similarities here. Like, this was a building. And he had worked in a building.
So far so good.
Chip racked his brain for something inspiring. Ceilings. This was a domed ceiling, with two chandeliers . . . Of course, he could suggest a new chandelier.
Maybe a bigger one.
A much bigger one.
With a lot more tiers of those gold, glassy bulbs.
Mr. Richardson shifted his weight to his other foot. “Of course, we could go with some gilded ceiling murals. Those would go nicely with the updated chairs and amber Kashan carpeting for the floors. We’d stick with the crimson color, of course.”
“Of course.” Chip nodded and started to lower his chin but noticed Mr. Richardson still gazing up.
“But then, even with those murals—should we consider a nautical theme?—we’d still have to do something with the center, and I hate the way the Chicago Theatre just peters out with that milky blue. Such a waste of good space.”
“Mmm,” Chip said noncommittally toward the sky. “It would be nice to have a center that really pops.”
“Exactly. Pops. That’s what I envision here. That’s what I want.”
Chip stood next to Mr. Richardson, craning his neck backward, wordlessly staring at the ceiling until his neck started to ache.
“You know,” Mr. Richardson said, hushed and with a touch of giddiness, “I’ve had dreams where I’d walk into the Barter, like it was any old day, and look up to see it had become”—he lowered his voice even further as his eyes darted toward Chip’s—“the Fox Theatre.”
He lowered his neck at last and Chip followed suit. Mr. Richardson’s eyes were watery, either from emotion or because all the fluid from his neck up had been stuck for the past five minutes with nowhere to go. Regardless, they held a childlike shine, as though he had just told Chip his most sacred secret. “Wouldn’t that be something?”
Chip resisted rubbing his neck. The Fox Theatre. It wasn’t even worth trying to scroll through his mental cavities. But now, at least, he had a name. And something to spin. Chip summed up his most enthusiastic yet professional voice. “It certainly would. And I want to dig into that thought deeper. But if you could just excuse me a moment, I need to find the gentlemen’s room.”
He waited for a reply, but Mr. Richardson only looked back up to the ceiling, lost in his own boyhood dreams. “The Fox Theatre,” Mr. Richardson murmured. “Wouldn’t that be marvelous?”
Chip opened the lobby doors and turned down the hall. As he walked, he pulled out his phone and started typing Fox Theatre ceiling.
Chip pushed open the door to the men’s room as the website began to load.
He stopped inside the doors.
“Well, well, if it isn’t our favorite guy in town.”
A steady stream of Google images flooded his phone, but Chip’s eyes flickered upward.
At the sink stood Dan, Bree’s stepfather, washing his hands beneath a steady flow of water.
“Mr. Leake,” Chip said, lowering his phone. “What a pleasant surprise.”
“Likewise,” he said, turning the faucet knob and reaching for a paper towel. He ripped one off with a glimmer in his eye. “So you’re here to see Bree’s finale. That’s awfully neighborly of you. What would that make this? Two performances in the past four weeks?”
“Oh. Um. Yes. Yes, it is.”
Had Bree told them he’d been to her show?
Why would she do that?
What else had she said about him? And perhaps most importantly, why on earth did that give him the urge to smile? What sort of bizarre, sadistic man was he? The woman ruined your view, man. Don’t feel pleased that she’s talking about you to her parents.
His eyes fell back to his phone and pictures of a theatre with an impressively realistic-looking blue sky for a ceiling. The text fell down the page titled, “The Landmark Fox Theatre: An Adventure in Lights.”
In truth, Chip had planned to slip out after the meeting with Mr. Richardson. He might get to his folks’ in time for the dessert his mother made for family supper. It was cheesecake week. He never missed cheesecake week.
Regardless, he had no intention of experiencing A Midsummer Night's Dream a second time.
“I actually plan to—” But then Chip stopped. He looked up to Dan. Grinned. “You know what? I was just about to buy a last-minute ticket. You wouldn’t mind if I snag a seat by you, would you?”
“By us?” Dan’s eyes lit up. “Oh, of course. That’d be great.”
Two minutes later Chip hummed to himself as he moved back down the hall, skimming the Fox Theatre article along the way:
The historic 4,768-seat theatre of Atlanta, Georgia, has thrilled thousands of entertainment-goers since its erection in the 1920s. Since taking on the whimsical task of creating a skyline effect in 1929, with its sky-blue interior paint and ninety-six 11-watt incandescent bulbs . . .
When he swung open the door to Gilliam Stage, he found Mr. Richardson in the exact position he was in before, staring up at the ceiling as though it truly was a night sky.
Chip slipped beside him, hands clasped behind his back, resuming his position as he looked up. “Now, just thinking here, if you were to go with a trompe l’oeil ceiling simulating that starry midnight sky, I think you would want something special to set you apart from the rest of the world. Have you considered, perhaps, the touch of a sunset?”
“A sunset?” Mr. Richardson’s brow furrowed for a solid minute as he stared up at the ceiling.
“Yes. Perhaps a changing sunset?”
Mr. Richardson pursed his lips.
Finally, uneasily, Chip said, “Or perhaps—”
“A sunset,” Mr. Richardson repeated. “The movement of dawn to dusk.” He dropped his head and stared at Chip. “The changing of the stars. An Appalachian sky.”
“Well,” Chip began.
“And the murals across the walls would represent the changing of the seasons, the local life of the town.” He dropped his head. His voice fell to a whisper as he looked into Chip’s eyes. “But do you think it’s possible?”
Chip recognized that look. It was the look all his clients had when they thought something they wanted was within reach. And all they wanted was to hear their dream was possible.
Chip gave his most confident smile. The smile that nine times out of ten solv
ed whatever problem was standing in his way. “Absolutely. I think that is a terrific idea.”
And frankly, it was. It really was.
“Absolutely,” Mr. Richardson repeated, as though hearing the words but not yet registering them. His eyes shifted to the stage, where cast members were gathering. “Absolutely.”
Suddenly Mr. Richardson swept up Chip’s hand in a hearty grasp and started pumping. “And of course, with a ceiling like that we’d have to change the color of the seating—”
“The seating?” Chip’s smile dimmed.
“And the carpet, and the walls, the lobby, and . . . We’ll have to start from scratch!” He let go of Chip’s hand and started moving backward. “Mr. McBride, thank you! I’ve got to get on this directly!”
“You’re doing what?”
“Jotting these notes down! Calling the architect!” He nearly tripped on one of the seats as he backpedaled up the aisle.
“But—”
“You will be in attendance for the bid meeting on the twenty-fifth, won’t you?” He was already at the back row. “You think you can make it?”
Chip’s smile melted. “The bid meeting?”
“Yes. The bid for the renovation,” Mr. Richardson replied, barely pausing at the door. “You’ll make it, I hope?”
Chip tried his best to hide his disappointment.
The man wasn’t going to offer him the job.
The man was still going to make him sit around a table with the other top businessmen of the area—and perhaps beyond—forcing him to compete against the best in the industry.
Against his father and family.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Chip replied, forcing himself to sound at ease.
“An Appalachian sky!” Mr. Richardson shouted this time, then pushed the door open.
Chip stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets, then turned at the sound of voices on the stage.
“No, it’s flap-heel-toe-heel, flap-heel-toe-heel, and then Maxie Ford.”
Chip lifted his chin as he saw Bree and Birdie, the other girl who had frequented her porch the past week for practice and went over for the weekly card game at Mrs. Lewis’s.
They both strode across stage in full fairy regalia.
For a moment it jolted him, seeing her dressed like the first time they’d met. Like she was a completely different person. Like she had transformed back into that fun, spontaneous girl walking light on her toes without a care in the world. The first version of Bree.
“Yes, but I thought that was after the leap-toe-heel—”
Bree halted.
He caught her eyes and her face shifted into a scowl. An impressive transformation.
As her face was crumpling, his brightened. A genuine smile crossed his face as an idea, fully formed, popped into his head. An idea so delicious Bree would never see it coming.
* * *
Three solid hours later, the curtains rose for the final applause. As the crowd stood and cheered, Chip watched Bree come in on the fairy train behind the queen and take her place on the stage beside Birdie and the rest of the cast.
Chip waited as Bree, with green-glimmering cheeks and eyes, clasped hands with everyone and took a bow.
She scanned the room, looking for her family.
And her eyes stopped on him.
He wished he could capture the look on her face as she spotted her stepfather and mother, clapping and standing next to Chip. He held up the sign just below his chin.
GUESS WHO’S COMING TO FAMILY DINNER?
* * *
“Oh, Chip sweetie, you don’t have to wait here. I don’t know why she’s taking so long.”
Chip and Bree’s parents had stood in the theater’s foyer for forty-five minutes, making small talk while waiting for Bree to appear. Forty-five minutes was all it took to upgrade him from “Chip” to “Chip sweetie.” He could only wait to see Bree’s expression when her mother laid that on him at dinner.
“Really, Mrs. Leake,” Chip said for the fifteenth time. “And I can’t express this enough. There is nowhere else I’d rather be.”
And it was true. Oh, so cosmically true.
Chip had to admit he was enjoying himself. For one thing, Bree’s parents had been nothing but kind, engaging, and encouraging from the moment he met them. They said things like, “Well, aren’t you so smart!” and were impressed by even his most basic skills. He explained how to seal a pipe? Impressed. He discussed a bid he put in at a town auction? Impressed. He shared how to add two-thirds cup of sugar to the jalapeno cornbread recipe to give it that perfect combination of savory-spicy-sweet? Super impressed.
To be honest, he would head to dinner with her parents even if Bree didn’t show at this point. It was nice just to be encouraged.
Chip felt his trousers buzzing and slipped his hand into his pocket, withdrew his phone.
His father’s name flashed across the screen.
“Excuse me a second. I’ll just be outside.”
The pair nodded as he slid the phone to his ear.
There was no greeting.
“Chip. What the heck have you done?”
He pushed open the doors and stepped into the fresh air.
“I’m sorry, Dad,” Chip replied. “You’re going to have to be more specific.”
“I’m looking at an email from Richardson’s engineers saying they are doing a complete rework of the original drawings for bid. Do you have any idea how much more it’ll cost to make just some of these things happen? I don’t even know what some of these items are, much less how to get them.” A paper rustled in the background. “‘Forty-foot illuminated replica of night sky?’ What on earth is he talking about?”
Chip felt his throat tightening. “Why do you think I’m to blame for this?”
“Because you and I well know you were with him at the Barter today. And because every other businessman in this town has been trying to limit Richardson’s sky-high fantasies for weeks. But one hour with you and suddenly everyone is scrambling. And only you would come up with something as crazy as this.”
Chip felt the pressure in his chest as he exhaled. “I’ll have you know that the Fox is a landmark theatre that has maintained similar designs since the 1920s,” Chip retorted, then winced. He walked right into that confession.
“That’s fine and good, but do you know how much profit Pete estimates losing for these alterations with this grand new plan? Three percent. Three percent, Chip. On a profit margin already as thin as a rail tie. Because, sure enough, unlike blue paint by the five-gallon bucket, Lowe’s doesn’t stock”—he paused and read from the sheet—“‘ColorCast 14 lighting luminaires’ to make up any ‘bright night skies.’” There was a heavy pause. “You aren’t seriously considering throwing in a bid for this, are you?”
Chip moved aside for a family to pass and meandered in the other direction. “I don’t see why not. I live in the area. I own a construction company.” He nearly found himself adding a tongue-in-cheek, I specialize in historic renovation, but resisted. “I have the experience.”
“Nobody’s asking about your experience, son. Or where you live. Do you have the money? The resources? Taking on a job like this out of the gate could kill you.”
“It won’t.”
“But if it did?”
“It won’t,” Chip repeated.
“Chip, I’m going to say this once, so you’d do well to hear me and hear me now. The risk is too much. And I love you, but you can’t expect me to catch you, or your company, from a fall like this.”
Right. Because that’s what this was about, wasn’t it? Making sure his father didn’t have to come save the day when he failed. Well, he wasn’t a child anymore. Chip wasn’t a twelve-year-old kid signing up to sell too many fundraiser chocolate bars that his parents would have to buy in the end.
As if reading his mind his father continued, “You know, your mother still has a box of your chocolate bars in the basement.”
He frowned. �
��They’re twenty years old, Dad. She needs to throw them out.”
“She keeps them for sentimental purposes. I keep them as a reminder of situations like this.”
Good grief.
This was exactly why he had decided to branch out on his own. The McBride men were always so methodical, so emotionally detached from everything but the calculator. Everything came down to a number. If the profit margin came to a certain level, it was safe. Move ahead. Just one hundredth of a percentage point off, and they’d pass no matter how else the job mattered. Not even if it was a good networking move. Not even if it was an exciting project.
Unlike them, Chip saw the value in the intangible aspects of their work. He didn’t want to spend his whole life managing yet another standard three-bedroom, two-bath, gray-walled ranch. He’d rather take on the challenge of making that choppy, poorly laid-out, rusted old Victorian off Main Street sparkle. He dreamed of not just changing out brown kitchen cabinets for owl-gray, but of doing something bold, something electric.
Fact was, he had been an excellent son at McBride and Sons. An excellent employee. An excellent coworker. He just didn’t want to spend the rest of his life as a cookie cutter. Not when he knew what it was like to enjoy the freedom of owning his own company.
Chip lifted his chin. “If you’re asking me to stay out of this bid because you’re afraid I’m going to underestimate the costs of labor and supplies and come running to you for financial support when I fail, then you can quit worrying. I’ve learned a thing or two in ten years of business.”
“And I’ve learned a thing or two in the forty years of mine.”
Chip opened his mouth, then shut it again. Had his father any clue, any inkling of how well he had done up north? How much better he could’ve done if only . . .
“How about you just worry about your bid, Dad, and I’ll worry about mine.”
There was silence, and he found he was holding his breath, waiting.
“Fine. If that’s really what you want to do.”
Chip paused on the sidewalk. “It’s really what I want to do.”
“Then I wash my hands of it. Whatever comes.”
The Cul-de-Sac War Page 17