Vicki Essex - Matinees With Miriam

“Things have changed.” He pointed a fat finger at the display boards. “Now I’m not so sure this is what we need, what with all the money we’ve already spent on the water mains and such.”

Shane was pretty sure the man’s objections were more about ego than the development. “I’d think it was in the interests of any town to provide affordable quality housing to draw in new residents, and Sagmar can do that. As for commercial space, I’ve always believed in small businesses being the heart of any town. Let me show you the floor plans and I think you’ll agree the space can more than adequately accommodate any business type...”

He spent some time chatting with the former mayor, but could tell the frowning man wasn’t listening. Bob Fordingham had made up his mind, and whatever his agenda, he was going to fight Shane and Sagmar. Eventually, the ruddy man left, muttering just loud enough to be heard. A few of the townsfolk went to chat with Bob and shake his hand. Shane would have to watch out for that group.

Out of the blue, his skin lifted with goose bumps. He wasn’t sure how he knew it, but his eyes were drawn toward the lone woman hovering by the side door. She must have slipped in from a different entrance, unnoticed by anyone else. In black jeans and a dark blue hoodie drawn up around her face, Miriam Bateman skulked around the perimeter of the gymnasium away from the bulk of the crowd gathered at the food tables. Thick-framed glasses rested on her face—they would’ve almost seemed comical, the way she kept pushing them up her nose, as if they were part of a disguise. She was trying very hard not to be detected.

He excused himself and made his way through the crowd. “Ms. Bateman,” he called.

Her head whipped around, eyes wide as he approached. She flinched away from his extended hand. “I’m glad you could make it.”

She looked from his hand to his face, her lips a thin line. Conflict flickered in her cobalt-blue eyes. She cleared her throat. “Yes. Well. I thought I’d come to at least say thank you for the orchid.”

Shane continued smiling, but he had no idea what she was talking about. “You’re welcome.” It wasn’t in his nature to take credit for other people’s work, but this was the first tiny smile he’d seen from the Crown’s owner. Small, tentative, a minor puckering of rosebud lips, but a smile nonetheless. If only he could coax a laugh out of her. “Please, come enjoy some food. I’d love to give you a personal tour of the project—”

“That’s not necessary.” She glanced around nervously. “I thought it’d only be polite to tell you in person that as much as I appreciate your efforts, you shouldn’t waste any more of your time or money here.”

“I hardly think supporting local businesses is a waste of money,” he said smoothly.

She flushed, her gaze darting to her toes. “Of course not. But when it comes to the Crown, I’ve made myself clear. One day, I’ll reopen the theater. I made that promise to myself and to my grandfather. I intend to keep it.”

Shane regarded her thoughtfully. The conviction in her eyes was clear, but he wondered if she understood the magnitude of what she was proposing. It wasn’t just a matter of taking all those boards off the doors and flipping some switches. New building codes and safety standards would have to be adhered to. The investment needed for capital costs alone would be astronomical. As a business, a small second-run theater simply wasn’t sustainable. Even if she did reopen, how long would that last? Would she hold up progress in Everville just to satisfy her own ego? “I understand your position,” he said cautiously, “but I’m hoping to change your mind.”

She stared at him uncomprehendingly. “You won’t. I’ve made myself as clear as I possibly can. Why can’t you accept that?” She was growing more agitated by the second, her voice rising. “I’ll never sell the Crown, not to you, not to anyone.” People started to turn and stare. “The theater is my grandfather’s legacy, and I won’t see it torn down for a bunch of yuppie condos!”

“Ms. Bateman—”

“No, don’t talk. Don’t interrupt me. You’re not listening to me. Why aren’t you listening to me?” He thought she might start flapping like a panicked goose. This was a woman who’d faced four trespassers armed with only a paintball gun. Now she was trembling, almost shaking with rage. The tears gathering in the corners of her eyes made his stomach clench.

“Mira.” Arty hurried over, whispering harshly. “You’re making a scene.”

“I won’t sell the Crown. I won’t sell the Crown,” she repeated in a quavering mantra. Arty said something to her that Shane couldn’t hear. It was then she seemed to notice all the eyes on her.

With startling speed, she spun and hurried out, knocking one of the foam-core-mounted posters of the condo off its easel. The whole setup clattered loudly across the floor as Miriam Bateman tripped on one of the easel legs and scrambled for the exit like a frightened deer skidding across an icy pond.

Shane stood there, gut churning. What on earth had just happened?

CHAPTER FOUR

“MIRA? HONEY, ARE you okay?”

“I’m busy.”

Arty stared around the empty theater, the aisle lights and dingy stage floods the only illumination. “Where are you, girl?”

“I can’t talk right now, Arty, I’m concentrating.” The echo of her voice gave him some inkling of where she was. He sighed, cursing his old bones as he climbed the ladder into the fly loft above the stage. Sure enough, he found Mira hanging from one of the cables, strapped into a well-used nylon harness, tinkering with the sliding mechanisms. He gripped the railing. “I wish you’d stop playing on this old thing. It’s not safe.”

“It’s fine. I made modifications so I don’t need anyone else to help me use it,” she said as she took a grease gun from her tool belt and applied a glob to the track.

“I’m not worried about you needing help to use it. I’m worried about you getting hurt.”

“This was a state-of-the-art rig in its day, Arty. I can’t let such an investment go to waste.”

“‘Its day’ was over twenty-five years ago. It’s almost as old as you. It’s never going to get used again, Mira.”

She glared at him defiantly. “No? Then what do you call this?”

With a heart-lurching lunge, she flung her whole weight to one side. Arty yelped as she dived toward the ground headfirst, but at the last minute, she flipped around and lightly touched the floor with her toe before ascending once more. Her path around the stage stopped abruptly, however, as the rig juddered. She gave a little oof, then laughed as she took up the slack from a connecting rope and dragged herself back to the platform Arty clung to.

“Are you crazy?” he screamed. “Do you have a death wish?” His heart pounded. “Get down from there this instant!”

“Relax, Arty. I’ve been playing on this thing nearly my whole life. Grandpa taught me how it all works and I’ve made it so it’s perfectly safe.”

“So it’ll be your grandpa’s fault when you fall and crack your skull open. I’ll be sure to thank him when I die of a heart attack.”

She pouted. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You scare me all the time, Mira. I worry about you.” He wiped a hand over his brow. “What happened tonight? You haven’t had a panic attack like that in years.”

She climbed down the ladder ahead of him so he couldn’t read her expression. “That school brings out the worst in me.”

“Mira...”

“It wasn’t a panic attack. I’m too old for those now.”

Arty sighed. She acted tough, but he knew she was fragile inside. Jack had always indulged her because of it. “You got pretty upset.”