by Vickie Fee
Now to talk to George and Trudy. I picked up, then put back down the proposal I’d shown the lawyer. I hadn’t written it anyway. Bart had. George and Trudy were veteran business owners in Utopia Springs, and I could learn a lot from them. The best approach was just to be honest—and humble—and ask for their help.
I hated to show up empty-handed—maybe it’s a Southern thing. Since I’m hopeless in the kitchen with anything except coffee, I stopped by The Muffin Man and picked up some fresh-out-of-the-oven cinnamon rolls. They smelled so yummy it was all I could do not to take a bite out of one before I got to George and Trudy’s.
The gallery opened at ten o’clock, and it was just after nine when I knocked on their door. Trudy looked happy to see me and George perked up when I set my offering of cinnamon rolls on the table in front of him. He plucked one out of the bag and took a bite.
“This is good. But you didn’t have to bribe me. I’ve already promised Trudy I’ll sign off on your trust fund expenditures—within reason,” he said with an admonishing look.
“Oh, good,” I said, slumping onto the dining chair across from George. “I’m relieved you already know about it.”
“Mr. Hamish called,” Trudy said. “Now tell us all about your plans.”
The coffee and wine bar was a bit of a hard sell with George, at first.
“George, coffee is Halley’s area of expertise, and an outlet for showcasing local wines in town seems like a good idea. More importantly, Bart the banker thinks the numbers add up. Don’t be pigheaded,” Trudy said.
“But it won’t seem like Leon’s place,” he grumbled.
“It’s not Leon’s place anymore. And Leon would want us to support whatever helps Halley make it a success. You don’t like people to know it, but you’re just a sentimental old fool.”
“Am not. I just really like popcorn and candy.”
“We’re going to sell a selection of traditional movie theater candies and snacks, like Raisinets and Jujubes and Cracker Jacks—for a touch of nostalgia. And, of course, we’ll sell water and soft drinks for the kids, and adults who prefer it.”
I was hesitant to bring up my meeting with Mr. Carvello, afraid George would offer to go with me. But since I didn’t know anything about Mr. Carvello and could use some advice, I decided to risk it.
After telling them, George startled me by leaping out of his chair without a word. He grabbed a notepad and pen from a kitchen drawer, sat down at the table and began writing.
“You have to take charge with Rafe Carvello before he tries to steamroll over you in that very polite but insistent way of his. I’m writing down the general terms you should offer on the wine bar partnership. You type it up all pretty on your computer, print it out and stick it in an envelope. After all the polite small talk he’ll insist on, hand this to him, say ‘Thanks for the vino,’ and walk away.”
I started to say something, but George cut me off, “Trust me on this.”
I looked over to Trudy, who nodded silently.
I had typed the terms that George had scribbled down for me and printed it out on the ancient printer in the theater office. After neatly folding and placing the paper in a business envelope, I tucked it in my purse and drove to my Sunday afternoon meeting with Rafe Carvello.
The view through my windshield was breathtaking and got more spectacular as the altitude rose, with towering oaks and limestone cliffs randomly jutting out to interrupt the lush green forests. But negotiating business deals wasn’t really my area of expertise. The nerves in my stomach turned into altitude sickness as my little Honda struggled up the winding mountain roads. Around a curve the vista opened up to reveal a paved driveway with an arched sign that read “Carvello’s Winery.” I pulled up the long driveway and parked my old Honda behind a black BMW convertible in front of a palatial contemporary house that Mr. Carvello had referred to as “the villa.”
A distinguished-looking white-haired man wearing a navy blue blazer with an artfully arranged handkerchief in the breast pocket walked out to greet me.
“You must be Halley,” he said, grasping my right hand between both his hands. “My sincere condolences on the passing of your uncle. May he rest in peace. But I have to say I see no family resemblance—which is a compliment, by the way,” he said with a hearty laugh.
We walked into the house through a room roughly as large as the Star Movie Palace lobby, with a stacked stone fireplace that dominated the double-height space. The glass wall across the back led to a patio, where I could see wine, glassware, and various cheeses laid out for a tasting. My mouth began to water.
A man in a blue button-down and khakis, who I presumed was the wine steward, was standing at a large teak table with his back to us.
“This is my son, Marco. May I present Miss Greer.”
He turned toward us and I felt my breath catch. Marco Carvello was tall and tanned with dark wavy hair, and I guessed about ten years my senior. He was also much beefier, in a good way, than his slender dad.
“Hello,” he said with a polite handshake and a lingering gaze.
“Please, call me Halley.”
Marco opened the first bottle and poured a little into each of our glasses. His father explained a bit about the vintage, inviting me to swirl the wine in my glass and inhale the bouquet. After we had sipped he pointed out the woodsy undertones and citrus notes. I found myself making eye contact with Marco, who seemed only to take his dark brown eyes off me long enough to pour another variety of wine. He looked as delicious as the wine tasted, and despite my efforts to stay focused, I found myself drifting into a fantasy where I was stomping grapes in a vat with my bare feet, like in the classic I Love Lucy episode.
After the wine tasting, the senior Mr. Carvello excused himself and left me alone with his son. Marco, who had said little in the presence of his talkative father, suddenly relaxed and chatted—and flirted—freely. Feeling a little flustered, I turned the conversation toward business.
“I think showcasing Carvello’s wines at your theater is a superb idea, Halley.”
“Perfect,” I said, my voice cracking slightly. “And once we’re up and running, maybe we could even schedule a wine tasting on occasion before a show, conducted by you or a member of your staff.”
“I’d like that,” Marco said. “Now it’s just a matter of working out the financial arrangements and other details.”
Before he could continue, I pulled the envelope out of my purse and handed it to him.
“Here’s a proposal on those matters I’ve drawn up with my financial advisor. Look it over and get back to me with your thoughts. Thank you for the wine and hospitality and please give your father my best. I look forward to talking with you soon.”
I started walking toward the exit. He seemed thrown off his guard and I was able to take the lead by presenting my proposal first—just like George had suggested.
When I reached the house Marco scrambled to open the door for me and I gave him my sweetest smile. He looked a bit sheepish as we said goodbye. And, maybe I flatter myself, but I thought he looked just a little impressed, as well. He called the next day, agreeing to the terms.
CHAPTER 6
After an inspection determined the building was structurally sound, the next few weeks were a blur as I got the theater ready to open—with a lot of help from my new friends.
My vision was to give the Art Deco movie palace an appearance of its former glory—on a very limited budget. We put some things in storage in the hopes of doing a full restoration somewhere down the line. For the present we made mostly cosmetic, and cost-effective, fixes to put some shine on the place.
I scrubbed and scraped and painted. Kendra worked some of her set design magic, like she did in the escape rooms, including applying new gold fringe to camouflage the frayed edges of the velvet curtains on either side of the screen. George painted a gorgeous mural—inspi
red by the original faded and peeling one—on acid free boards mounted over the original artwork so as not to damage it. Kendra’s museum conservation knowledge came in handy on this. And Trudy kept a close eye on the budget, haggling with electricians, plumbers, and suppliers. A cadre of volunteers, including Bart, Joe, and Nick, put in countless hours helping out. And George put me in touch with a theater owner in Fayetteville, who was an old friend of Uncle Leon’s. He gave me advice and patiently answered all my nervous, newbie questions.
Ten days before the grand re-opening, I woke up early. The espresso machine and other fixtures for the coffee bar were scheduled to be delivered and it felt like things were finally coming together. I ran down the steps, my heart racing with excitement, walked into the lobby—and stopped dead in my tracks.
“What the…”
The back wall that I had stenciled with coffee terms, like “latte” and “espresso,” and the brand new cabinets in the coffee bar had been spray-painted a lime green shade. Streaks dripped down from the scrawled words “Go home.” I stared at the damage in disbelief. Then a wave of panic and nausea swept over me.
“The mural,” I muttered as I ran into the auditorium. My feet stumbled across a streak of green spray paint running a crooked line down the length of the carpet in the center aisle and streaked across the screen, as well. But the mural panels George had installed were untouched.
Thank heavens, I thought as I crumpled into a seat.
I called George and Trudy on my cell phone, then dialed 911.
George arrived ahead of the police. He rattled off a string of profanities as he surveyed the damage vandals had inflicted on our hard work, then draped his arm around me as I sobbed on his shoulder.
“Good thing I took the scaffolding down last night,” he said. “Otherwise, those thugs would’ve gone for the mural.”
“We’ve already ordered carpeting to replace the aisle runner and it’ll be a pain, but not too expensive to repaint and re-stencil the wall and cabinets,” I said, trying to look for the positives. “You have any idea how expensive it’ll be to replace the screen?”
“We won’t have to replace it,” he said calmly.
“You think the paint will come off without damaging the screen?” I asked.
“The paint’s not on the screen. Bart and I stretched a thin film of protective plastic over it before we started renovations. Didn’t you know?”
“No. But I love you—and Bart.” I threw my arms around George, hysterically laughing and crying at the same time.
Of course, at that exact moment the cops arrived, having no trouble entering through the front door with the glass smashed out of it.
“I’m Officer Stone, are you the owner?” The petite cop’s blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, and it looked like her face would break if she cracked a smile.
“Yes, I am. I’m Halley Greer. I’m Leon Baxter’s—”
“Yeah, I know who you are. You’re the niece no one had ever heard of until you inherited the theater. What seems to be the trouble?”
Since “the trouble” was so obvious, I was too shocked to respond for a moment. George jumped in.
“Vandals came in and wrecked the place last night after we’ve been working night and day the past few weeks to get the place fixed up and ready for the grand opening.”
Without looking at the room, she took a pen and notepad out of her pocket. “Specifically, what was damaged?”
I waved toward the wall. “All this graffiti on the wall and cabinets, more on the carpet in the auditorium and across the movie screen,” I said.
She glanced up briefly at the wall.
“What about the writing? What do you make of the words ‘go home’?”
“I guess someone doesn’t want me here,” I said.
“Any idea who that might be? Do you have any enemies?”
“No and no.”
“Are you residing in the upstairs apartment, Ms. Greer?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Were you home last night and did you hear anything?”
“Yeah, I was home, but I didn’t hear anything.”
“Spray paint doesn’t make much noise,” George pointed out.
“Maybe not, but breaking out that glass would’ve made some noise.”
Officer Stone did a quick walk-through of the lobby and auditorium taking a few notes.
“Do you have insurance, Ms. Greer?”
I looked to George. He shrugged.
“That’s something I’ll have to ask my attorney about,” I said.
“Get me an estimate after the insurance appraiser has assessed the damage. I’ll file a report,” she said, heading toward the door.
“Wait, aren’t you going to dust for fingerprints?”
“My guess is there are fingerprints on a can of green spray paint. Let me know if you find one,” she said before leaving.
“Her name is Officer Susan Stone, but people call her Susie Stoneface. Behind her back, of course.” George said.
“I call her ‘no freaking help.’ But why would anybody do this?” I asked, giving in to the tears again.
George, Trudy, Kendra and I worked long hours for the next ten days, along with a revolving crew of generous volunteers, to finish up the renovations—and redo the work that had been sabotaged.
I’d taken out an ad in the paper. But my most prominent advertisements were the posters out front beside the ticket booth, and the newly-relighted marquee listing our feature: My Fair Lady, and in smaller letters: coffee and wine bar.
The last thing I did the night before the grand opening was to hang large, simply-framed photos, black-and-white movie stills and publicity shots of glamorous movie stars drinking coffee. Peering over their coffee mugs were smiling images of Clark Gable, Lauren Bacall, Humphrey Bogart, and Rita Hayworth. And holding a paper coffee cup as she looked at jewelry through a window was Audrey Hepburn as Holly Golightly in Breakfast at Tiffany’s.
I sighed as I admired the finished lobby. Most of the “wow” factor came from items accomplished with very little money. The second-hand chrome barstools that now looked shiny new. The basic bar base embellished with geometric wooden cutouts and spray-painted with high gloss paint to mimic finely lacquered furniture. Curved loveseats, oversized chairs, and ottomans sourced from a junk shop that had been reupholstered with an Art Deco sunburst design. The coffee terms Trudy and I had hand-stenciled behind the coffee bar. I stood with my back against the front doors as if I were a patron just entering. I surveyed the space, scanning from left to right, and then down at the carpet with its swirling dark blue design and large gold star, flanked by two smaller stars inlaid in the center of the lobby. The timeworn theater I’d walked into the day I arrived was gone and in its place stood a true Art Deco movie palace.
CHAPTER 7
Opening night finally arrived and I was so nervous my hands were trembling.
Get a grip, I told myself. The last thing a coffee bar needs is a barista with unsteady hands. Looking around the lobby made me feel better. Trudy had dressed up as Eliza Doolittle—pre-makeover. And George, after some prodding, dressed as Professor Higgins. Since I was handling barista duty, I kept it simple with a white tuxedo shirt and black pants. And Marco Carvello himself was serving the wine, looking sharp in black shirt and pants with a black necktie.
Bart, who looked dashing in a tux and top hat, volunteered to work the ticket booth for opening night, and his partner, Simon, took over at the escape rooms to give Kendra the night off. Joe also took the night off, although he ran across the street a couple of times to check on things at the restaurant. Every time I caught sight of him his eyes were glued to Kendra, who was stunning. She had assumed a post-makeover Eliza Doolittle persona, with a black-and-white period dress that showed off her figure and a fabulous oversized hat. Handsome Joe’s thick hair looked
even thicker than usual. I’m guessing he used mousse. He was wearing a freshly-pressed dress shirt and tie—and a big smile. Operating the projector was a woman named Delores who George had dug up, telling me she’d been a movie projectionist back in the day. I didn’t realize until I met her that he meant back in the day when most of the classic films were made. She had to be in her mid-eighties, but was spry and sharp as a tack. When she arrived for opening night wearing a gold lamé evening gown, I knew we had a winner.
There was a line extending halfway down the block when George unlocked the doors and let customers in at six sharp, opening an hour before the movie start time so people would have lots of time to purchase beverages. Trudy and Kendra worked the room, stirring excitement for the film—and talking up the coffee and wine selections on offer.
Despite my opening night jitters, pulling the perfect espresso shot and creating crowd-pleasing latte art, like hearts and leaves, with steamed milk were feats I could perform blindfolded. I expedited orders by writing customers’ names on the disposable cups as they paid. I prepared the coffee orders and lined them up on the side bar for pick-up.
At twelve minutes to show time, Bart announced that champagne would be available for purchase during a thirty-minute intermission, halfway into the nearly three-hour movie.
Customers made their way to their seats and my veteran projectionist played a short cartoon feature to give everyone time to get settled.
As I heard the music for the opening credits start, I worried. Had I chosen the right film? I had taken Grammy’s advice about showing a musical, and hoped St. Cecilia was smiling down on us.
I was wiping the counter when Trudy and Kendra walked up to the counter and interrupted my panic attack.
“Do y’all think I made the right choice? Maybe we should have run a screwball comedy for opening night?”
“Breathe in a cleansing breath and exhale slowly,” Trudy said as she motioned upwards and demonstrated breathing, which was good because I’d suddenly forgotten how.