Vicki Essex - Matinees With Miriam

Shane Patel wasn’t exactly forever material: he didn’t see a long-term relationship between him and Mira flourishing. But Arty also knew folks these days didn’t need long-term to be happy, and Mira had always been pragmatic. When it came to relationships, anyhow.

If he could get her to simply open up to the idea of dating, he’d consider his job done. The problem was that the men in town were less than appealing to Mira. Too many knew about the Batemans, and Mira in particular.

“You think we should convince her to sell the Crown?” he asked casually. He couldn’t picture Mira giving up the theater—Jack had loved that place.

The florist shook her head. “That’s something she has to decide for herself. What I’m suggesting is she get a taste of what else is out there. She can’t live her life in front of a screen.”

Arty raised an eyebrow. It was uncharacteristic of Janice to talk about casual flings. She’d always been much more serious when it came to relationships. She’d been married for twenty-four years before her husband, Bill, had passed, and after that, she’d refused to remarry. Even when Jack, a widower himself, had come a-calling, she still hadn’t budged, and Jack had been no slouch when it came to charming the ladies. Hesitantly, he said, “A taste...of this Shane Patel, maybe?”

She shrugged. “He’s convenient—I don’t deny that. Temporary, which isn’t necessarily bad. Mira needs her life shaken up a bit. He’d get her beyond the theater’s walls, too.”

“He’s not bad-looking, either,” Arty said, almost giddy that he and Janice were on the same page for once. “And he’s got money.”

At Janice’s disapproving look, he added, “What? Money never hurt anyone’s chances.”

“If we’re going to play matchmaker, there’s a lot you need to learn about the female psyche,” she said wryly. “If money were something she cared about, she’d have sold the theater a long time ago. Right now, all Mira sees in that man is an enemy. He wants to buy the Crown from her, and you and I both know she’ll cling to it tooth and nail.”

“So how do we get her to even look at him?”

Janice tapped a finger against her lips. “I may know the way to her heart.”

* * *

MIRA TOSSED THE scrub brush into the bucket and stood, stretching. Getting the neon-green paintball stains out of the old carpet had been tough, but all traces of it were gone now. She’d have to go easy on the trigger next time.

“Sorry, Grandpa,” she said out loud. “Won’t be doing that again.”

She was met with silence, though she liked to imagine the rush of air seeping through the auditorium doors was her grandfather’s put-upon sigh. To her, the Crown housed Jack Bateman’s spirit, which was why being alone there had never bothered her. Not even when her silent alarm had been tripped. Arty and various others had warned her time and again it wasn’t safe to sleep in that huge, abandoned building, but if she hadn’t been there, those boys could have done a lot more damage, defiling the Crown and her grandfather’s memory. No, as long as she was alive, she’d never let anything happen to Grandpa’s pride and joy.

Besides, this was the only place she felt truly safe.

Her cell phone blipped as the front door proximity alarm was triggered. The problem with having an old theater for a home was that there were no doorbells, and it was impossible to hear anyone knocking. So instead, she’d installed a special silent security system around the building. It was amazing what one could buy on the internet.

Who could it be? Arty had already delivered her groceries—had he forgotten something? She checked the phone feed to the web cameras outside the theater.

It was Shane Patel. He stood staring up at the Crown’s old marquee, wearing a fresh suit that fit him as well as the one she’d painted with neon-green polka dots. He pressed his face to the cracked glass of the old ticket booth, then tried each of the locked doors. He pounded out a knock. How had he known she’d be in the theater now? Then again, she’d ignored his calls and emails, and the only address he had for her was the theater. She supposed knocking was his only recourse. Maybe if she waited, he’d go away...

Or maybe he’d break in again to do God knew what.

She’d checked his online profile after last night’s debacle. He was definitely who he said he was, but she hadn’t expected the Sagmar real estate developer to be quite so...well, heroic was too strong a word, but it was the only one she could think of for some damned reason.

Then again, she supposed he could’ve hired those punks to break into the theater so he could look like a hero.

Don’t be paranoid, Mira. Life isn’t a movie. He isn’t some nefarious villain planning complicated ruses to get his hands on your property. He didn’t even know you lived here.

She considered meeting Mr. Patel at the door with her paint gun, but decided sharp words would be sufficient to warn him off. She was an adult, not some child hiding from the boogeyman.

She unbolted the front fire door and swung open the exterior door. The facade had been boarded up on both the outside and inside to preserve the glass.

Shane Patel looked up, startled. In the light of day, she could see he was tall and quite handsome, square jawed with thick, expressive eyebrows as dark as his jet-black hair. Something about his neatly tailored suit and the lavender shirt, no tie, put her in mind of a luxury car salesman. Maybe that was her bias, though.

“What do you want?” she asked bluntly.

He smiled wide, a perfect set of pearly whites gleaming against his equally brilliant and clear complexion. “I thought I’d bring this by.” He held out a box of chocolate nut clusters. “A peace offering to apologize for my intrusion last night.”

She regarded him and the box flatly. “I don’t like chocolate.”

That was a lie, but it was worth it to see his face fall, his confidence shaken. This was a guy used to having his charms work on members of the opposite sex—she added that brick of insight into the wall she was building around herself against him. “I suppose I should ask how you’re feeling.” A show of sympathy could go a long way toward keeping a lawsuit at bay, after all.

“I’m a little sore, but nothing I can’t handle.” He rubbed his arm, where she remembered he’d been hit. She studiously kept her eyes above his belt and her mind away from any kind of speculation. “I’ve done paintball before. Do you play a lot?”

He was trying to engage her in conversation. Maybe he was simply a friendly guy, but she was certain these were just tactics for making her linger and talk. There was only one thing he was here for. “No. Now, if that’s all, I have work to do.” She started to close the door.

“The sheriff caught one of the young men who broke in last night,” he said quickly, and that made her pause. “I ID’d him earlier. I think he’ll tell on the others, too. Will you press charges?”

She thought about it briefly. “No. They’re just a bunch of bored kids. Sheriff’ll scare ’em straight.”

“You should reconsider. They’ll come back. Might try to look for revenge.”

“Or they might figure out that they should leave me alone unless they want a crotchful of paintballs.” Unlike some people who couldn’t take a hint. She gave him her most unimpressed look. “You and your nut clusters should go now, Mr. Patel. You have nothing I want, and I have a lot of work to do.”

“What is it you do, exactly?” he asked, sliding his words in as effectively as a foot in the door.

“Work.” Some guys didn’t know how to take no for an answer. “And it’s not getting done. Now please, get off my property. I have absolutely no intention of selling to you or anyone else. The Crown is my grandfather’s legacy. No dollar amount could make me give it up.”