Vicki Essex - Matinees With Miriam

“Here.” Suddenly, Shane was there with his suit jacket wrapped around his hand. He picked up the pot and looked around. “Sink?”

“Bathroom.” She pointed down the hall.

He hurried out of the office, smoke blowing into his face. She yelled, “To the right!” when he hesitated, and he paused at the door to the ladies’ room. She pulled the door open for him, turned on the faucet and shouted at him to put the pot into the sink.

A cloud of steam wafted up as the cold water hit the red-hot metal. Shane hissed and spun away from the superheated vapor.

“Are you okay?” She looked between him and the mess in the sink.

“Burned my hand on the steam,” he said, shaking his fingers. “My jacket isn’t as good as an oven mitt.”

Crap. Visions of lawsuits danced in her head as she ran for the first aid kit in the smoke-filled office. The Crown’s building insurance had ceased coverage after Grandpa died and the theater closed. She’d have no way to pay for a lawyer or anything if Shane Patel—

Mira froze, the blood turning to ice in her veins. For a moment, the hazy shape in the doorway looked just like Grandpa, rangy and powerful. He flapped his jacket as if it was a bullfighter’s cape, trying to clear the smoke, and the ghostly image disappeared.

“The hot plate’s still plugged in.” Shane Patel’s voice cut through her momentary lapse. She dazedly went to unplug the machine. It was a lucky thing nothing else in her makeshift kitchen had caught on fire. “Leave the door open, let that air clear,” he said, using his jacket to waft the steam out.

“I should look at your hand,” she said, agitated. “Run it under some cold water.”

“It’s fine. It’s minor. Do you have ventilation fans? AC? Anything like that?”

She bit her lip. “Grandpa had a bunch of fans to keep the lobby cool during the summer.”

“Then let’s open the doors and get the air moving.”

It took a few minutes to unlock and unbolt all of the front and rear doors—the first time they’d all been opened since Grandpa had died. Shane helped her lug out the heavy commercial turbo fans. Eventually, they got a strong cross draft blowing through the theater, and by the time they’d finished setting up the fans, the worst of the smoke and charred smell had dissipated.

“How’s your hand?” she asked apprehensively.

The real estate developer flexed his palm grimly. “It’ll pass.”

She grabbed his wrist and turned it over. A blister the size of a dime had formed on the top of his right index finger. “Oh, my God. You need to get that under cold water right now.”

“It’s fine.” He winced as she pulled him back toward the bathroom.

“It’s not fine. You want it to get infected?” Was he trying to make it worse? Maybe he was hoping it’d get so bad it’d leave a lawsuit-worthy scar.

Her first aid kit was the most complete one she could afford. She’d patched herself up several times when she’d cut herself on the stage rigs or hurt herself in the garden. It saved her from leaving the theater to go to the doctor’s office.

“You seem to know what you’re doing,” Shane said as she applied the burn ointment.

“It’s not rocket science. This is a small second-degree burn. You can go to the doctor if you think you need to, though,” she added hastily. “I don’t want you blaming me for any injuries you got trying to help. I would’ve been fine on my own. You didn’t need to come to my rescue.”

“You’re welcome.”

She let out a long breath, chastened. “Sorry, I don’t mean to sound ungrateful.”

“It was my fault. I should’ve used something other than my jacket.” He flapped it out and checked it over, then sighed as he held up the singed sleeve cuff. “Must’ve touched the element when I picked up the pot.”

“I’ll pay for that.” Great. Now she’d ruined two of his suits. “This place is a curse on your wardrobe.”

He chuckled again, and his laughter buzzed along her spine. They were standing close, and she was still rubbing ointment on his hand in soothing little circles...

She let go abruptly. “Let that sit and breathe. I don’t want to bandage it just yet. You need to let the heat out.”

They left the ladies’ room. The fans were now bringing fresh, cool night air into the theater. The Crown seemed to breathe deeply for the first time in years. Mira had a sudden flashback of double feature Thursdays during the summers when people would come to watch back-to-back classics and eat popcorn. They’d always kept the doors open then so the place didn’t get too hot. Grandpa would talk with his lips pressed against the fan’s grille and pretend he was a spaceman speaking to her from a spaceship far, far away. She’d reply in kind from another fan, shouting across the lobby. He’d made her believe for a long time that the fans actually made sound waves go faster.

“Really, this was my fault,” Shane said, bringing her back to the present. “I distracted you from your cooking.”

“I shouldn’t have left that thing on. I’m usually more careful.” But then she didn’t usually have men badgering her on her doorstep, though she wasn’t about to provoke him. They’d reached an uneasy truce for now. “I guess you spoiled me with all that meat and stuff. I didn’t have to cook for days.”

“I’m glad you liked it. Is there anything I can bring you back from New York? Pizza? Pastrami and bagels from Katz’s Deli? A hot dog from Yankee Stadium?”

“I don’t need anything.”

“It’s not about need. I like bringing you things.” His grin sent another wave of unwanted pleasure through her, and she stuffed down the urge to return his smile. She wouldn’t be won over, dammit, not even after he’d supposedly “saved” her. “There must be something you want. Something you can’t get here in Everville.”

She set her jaw, grasping for the coolness she’d first met him with. It was harder now, though, after everything she’d put him through and his incessant need to be kind to her. There was only one thing he wanted, she reminded herself. She took a deep breath.

“All I want is to be left alone, Mr. Patel.”

His smile flickered briefly. She could see the first tiny spark of doubt, the barest hint of defeat edging into his confidence. She almost felt bad snuffing out his hopes, but it had to be done.

“Well, if you change your mind—” he took out a business card and scribbled on the back “—that’s my personal cell phone number. Call me. Anytime. I’ll answer.”

A rebellious part of her wanted to toss the card back in his face. She didn’t, though. That card felt like a talisman, somehow, and even if he were being nice just to get his hands on her property, she had the strangest sense he didn’t often write his personal phone number on his cards.

No. She would not let him manipulate her. She frowned and said, “There’s very little I want from you.” Then she walked away, leaving him alone in the lobby.

And she kind of hated herself for needing to do that.

* * *

“WHAT’S WITH THE angry eyebrows, Shekhar?” Shane’s mother, Nisha, chided him. “Your sister will worry you’re mad at her on her birthday.”

Shane hadn’t realized he’d been scowling. He was still thinking about Miriam Bateman and how stubbornly unfriendly she’d been, even after he’d helped save the Crown from burning to the ground. He could’ve done nothing and had all his problems solved for him. Two days later and it was still bothering him. “Just thinking about work, Amma.”

“Well, stop. You work too hard. Never have time for your family and your poor old amma.” She patted his cheek. “Now go be social. Your sister doesn’t turn thirty every day.”