Matinees With Miriam

CHAPTER TWO

IT WAS CLOSE to nine by the time Shane left the Crown. That he’d gotten off with only a stink eye from the sheriff was a point in his column. He’d have to be more careful when approaching Miriam Bateman.

And, boy, was he ever going to have to watch himself around her. He’d expected an older woman, someone as hard and obdurate as her refusals had been. He hadn’t thought she’d be so young and pretty. Even in that billowing pseudo-Dementor’s robe, those big blue eyes had glowed against her round, pale face, framed by that mass of dark brown hair. Girls like that spelled trouble for him, and not just because she’d shot him in the balls.

He winced, still feeling the burning ache. It’d been tough to smile in front of the sheriff.

He parked outside the Sunshine B and B. The house was a fairly ordinary-looking two-story Colonial off Main Street with a screened-in porch, a well-manicured garden and a short driveway. Exactly the kind of place a couple might get away to for a weekend while touring Upstate New York.

In the main foyer, an older woman with dyed blond hair and blue eyeliner greeted him cheerfully. “Nancy Gibbons,” she introduced herself. “You must be Shane. You’re the only one booked for the week...” Her face fell as she took in his state. “Oh my—what happened to you?”

“Had a run-in with some neighborhood kids and a paintball gun,” he explained, which was as close to the truth as he wanted to go. He was sure some version of that story would make its way around the small town eventually.

Nancy scowled. “Their parents must be mortified. I’ve been saying we need to give these kids more to do around here than cause trouble, but the town doesn’t have the money for those kinds of programs.” She sighed. “Back in my day, we had jobs to keep us busy. Now it’s hard enough to even keep the young folks in town.”

Shane nodded. This was the story in small towns everywhere. As factories and mines shut down or pulled out and the economy shrank, people lost their jobs and had to move on to find new opportunities. As a result, the towns collapsed.

“Your room is at the end of the hall, top of the stairs,” Nancy said, handing him a key. “Get out of that suit and I’ll send it to the dry cleaners in the morning. I’ll bring you supper.”

“And an ice pack, if you please.”

Nancy frowned. “Are you hurt?”

“Just my pride,” he said with a grimace.

After a stinging-hot shower, he applied the ice pack where he needed it most and sat down to his laptop, connecting it to the in-room Wi-Fi. In minutes, his inbox flashed nineteen new messages.

Typical. The partners at Sagmar had been hesitant about sending him as the rep because of what they perceived as a “soft heart” toward the town that had hosted him during so many childhood summers. “We need you to go for the jugular,” the senior project manager, Laura Kessler, had told him. “Companies will be swarming this place looking to buy up real estate for development as soon as they realize what a gold mine it is.”

Sure enough, there was an email from Laura, reminding him that the longer he took to convince Miriam Bateman to sell, the higher the price for the Crown would go. Rumors of a new high-speed commuter rail line hadn’t yet leaked to the general public, though, so the town’s property values hadn’t changed. And as long as Miriam Bateman remained in the dark, she couldn’t necessarily demand a higher price.

It wasn’t exactly all aboveboard as deals like this went, but the rail project wasn’t set in stone, which was the only reason Shane didn’t feel completely deceitful. It was a shady enough deal as it was, since the president of Sagmar received the tip off-the-record. Laura had told Shane they wouldn’t be prosecuted if the information was leaked, but he wasn’t reassured.

The rest of his emails were mostly minutiae from work. There was one from his parents in Brooklyn reminding him of his sister’s birthday next week. They knew he was working hard on this deal, but they didn’t know why: he had his heart set on buying one of the condo units so his parents would have a place to retire. They always talked about coming back to Everville for an extended stay, and Shane wanted them to have that. Besides, a new condo would be the perfect income generator and secondary leisure home.

He was certain he could convince Miriam to sell before Priti’s party. He just needed more information about the theater owner. It was why he’d come to Everville—he wanted to face Ms. Bateman and get a sense of who she was. Emails and letters didn’t cut it. He was a people person. Once he figured out what motivated Miriam and what kinds of dreams she had, he’d know how to get her to sell.

* * *

THE NEXT MORNING, he walked downtown, marveling at how much Everville had changed. Unlike many of the locations he’d scouted in Upstate New York, this town had managed to evolve, avoiding stagnation against all odds. Where there had once been feed stores and midsize department stores, there were now trendy cafés, galleries and boutiques. There were still lots of empty storefronts, though. He remembered how busy and vibrant Everville had been when he was a child, but the town hadn’t suffered nearly as badly as other places Sagmar Corp. had considered for the condo.

It was nice to see some things hadn’t changed: the local Chinese eatery, the Good Fortune Diner, was still thriving after all these years. It was the only place in the States he’d ever found sweet-and-sour chicken balls—he’d learned it was mainly a pseudo-Chinese staple on Canadian and British menus. He’d go in for a plate later.

He headed for the grocery store. He preferred to fend for himself rather than eat out all the time. He didn’t need much—as fancy as his suits were, instant ramen, microwave dinners and peanut butter sandwiches suited him fine. He’d save the fine dining to woo Miriam Bateman, if it came down to it.

As he was waiting at the checkout, Arty Bolton pushed a cart piled with boxes of groceries past. Shane paid and followed the older man to the parking lot, where he was loading a delivery van.

“Good morning, Mr. Bolton,” he greeted cheerfully. Arty was as good a source of information on Miriam Bateman as anyone. He was definitely some kind of guardian figure in her life—Shane’s research on her hadn’t turned up any family connections apart from the Crown’s previous owner, Jack Bateman. “Need a hand?”

Arty looked up and grinned. “Mr. Patel, good morning.” He stretched his back and winced. “My guy who usually loads the truck is off today. If you don’t mind...?”

“Just Shane, please.” He placed his own bags on the ground and hefted one of the heavier boxes into the van.

“And just Arty to you, young man.” The grocer craned his neck and spine with an audible pop. “Thing about getting older, you feel a lack of sleep a lot more keenly.”

The man had unwittingly provided the perfect opening for Shane’s queries. “Did Ms. Bateman have any more issues after I left?”

“Mira? Not at all. In fact, the sheriff tracked one of those kids down already. Local boy, barely sixteen. Ralph will probably be calling on you to ID him later.”

“How was Ms. Bateman after I left?”

“Mira’s tough,” Arty reassured him. “Gets it from her grandpa, God rest his soul. Stubborn as a mule. If I haven’t said it, thank you for rushing to her rescue.”

“It was nothing.” After all, he’d been the one who needed rescuing in the end. “I’m glad to hear she hasn’t suffered from the incident.”

Arty regarded him speculatively. “So you’re here ’cause you want to buy the Crown?”

“The company I represent has been pursuing Ms. Bateman the past six months, but so far, she’s refused all offers.”

“Yeah, she showed me the letters.” His tone revealed nothing of his opinion. “What’re you doing with the property once you get your hands on it?”

“I think you’ll like it. Sagmar has plans for a twelve-story living complex with ground-floor retail space, more than sixty family-sized units—”

“Condos,” Arty summarized with a frown.

Shane smiled tightly. For some reason, people reacted negatively to the term. “Well, yes, but—”

The grocer gave a dry chuckle as Shane handed him another box from the shopping cart. “You may have spent summers here, son, but clearly no one told you that you need to get to the point around these parts if you want to try to sell us anything.”

“My team has spoken at length with the mayor about redeveloping that vacant block. This project has been in the works for a long time.”

The older man shrugged. “I’m not sure people will welcome a condo as readily as you think. We’ve had a lot of change around here lately—all the water main construction, the wind turbines, the old businesses shutting down...it’s been difficult. Putting up condos, though, is another thing.”

Shane knew that. No matter where Sagmar built, they always faced opposition from not-in-my-backyarders—or NIMBYs—environmental groups, heritage preservationists, even religious groups. His specialty was answering questions, presenting facts and changing minds. It was why he was the top negotiator at the firm. His record for closing the deal was perfect; he wasn’t about to break that streak.

He finished loading Arty’s van. The grocer offered him a ride back to the B and B, and Shane accepted.

“I’d like to give Ms. Bateman a gift to apologize for my intrusion last night,” Shane ventured as Arty drove. “Would you happen to know what she’d like?”

Arty scratched his chin. “To be honest, I don’t know that a gift would get you out of the dog house. I did mention she’s stubborn, right?” He sent him a loaded though not unfriendly look. “But you can’t go wrong with flowers and chocolates. Women like those. Visit the Main Street Florist. Talk to Janice. She’ll take care of you.”

Shane suppressed a smirk. If he didn’t know better, he’d think the old man was trying his hand at matchmaking. Not that he wasn’t above a little flirting to grease the wheels on the deal—a smile and a wink could be just as effective as a firm handshake. “Main Street Florist. Gotcha. Thanks, Arty.”

* * *

“FLOWERS AND CHOCOLATES?” Janice Heinlein rolled her eyes. “Really, Arty, that’s about as subtle as telling him to buy her a diamond ring.”

“Don’t see what’s the big deal. And anyhow, I’m sending business your way. Can’t argue with that, can you?” He picked up the bucket of bouquets the florist had put together for his shop. Janice could have sent one of her boys to deliver them to the grocery store directly, but he liked to visit when he could and see her in her natural habitat—a rare orchid among dandelions.

Now that’s what you call maudlin claptrap, he scolded himself for his bad poetry. Jack would’ve laughed him out of the store.

“You know, if he gets here before you’re gone, he’ll know you’re up to something.”

“Up to something? Me?” He grinned. “Whatever could you mean?”

“Don’t play coy.” She gave him a lopsided grin. “You want Mira to find a man.”

Arty smirked, not denying her allegation. They’d both worried over Mira since Jack’s death. She’d had a rough start to life, and as much as she’d grown and matured, she’d never really come out of her shell entirely and had only seemed to retreat further since her grandfather’s death. Finding a man who’d look after her wasn’t out of the question, but he wasn’t entirely ready to push Mira out of her comfort zone, either. The girl was sensitive.

“If you want my advice, you need to steer the man toward other avenues. Women like men who put a little thought and creativity into their gifts. Miriam needs more than fresh-cut flowers if you want her to be wooed out of that cave of hers.” Janice shook her head. The sunlight through the flower shop window made her white-blond hair glow as it tumbled around her ears. Arty longed to touch her. He kept his hands stuffed in his pockets instead. “Anyhow, what makes you think this Shane Patel is any good for her? Sounds like he’s only after her property, and I doubt he’s the kind to stick around.”

“A man knows when another man is interested,” he said firmly. “He lit up like a lightbulb when he saw her last night.”

“Maybe it was just the paint from that paint gun. You should take that thing away from her before someone loses an eye.”

“And do what? Give her a real gun? She needs some kind of protection, but hell if I give her anything worse than a BB.”

“What she needs is to move out of that place.” Janice huffed. “I know Jack would be grateful for how you’re looking out for her, but he wouldn’t have wanted her alone in that old theater for the rest of her life.”

Arty’s chest ached, hearing Janice’s wistful tone. They all missed Jack Bateman. Miriam’s grandfather had been a fixture in Everville, a grinning beanstalk of a man who was as at ease camping with his granddaughter as he was running the projector at the Crown. He and Arty had been friends since childhood. The man would have known better how to handle Mira.

“I think Mira is happy,” Arty said gruffly. “Her definition of it, anyhow.”

“She didn’t pick up her own groceries this week,” Janice pointed out.

“She had deadlines to meet. You know how she gets when she’s focused on work.”

“It’s not healthy, Arty. She needs to be around people, too.”

He lifted his shoulders. “She talks to people on the internet.”

“That’s not the same.”

“Jan, she’s twenty-eight, not twelve. She’s an adult. Her life isn’t conventional to us, sure, but times have changed. She likes her privacy. She’s not starving. She’s got a job, a roof over her head...all things considered, she’s doing all right.” He wasn’t sure whether he was trying to convince her or himself.

“‘All right’ isn’t always enough,” Janice returned staunchly. “Before you know it, she’ll be an old woman living alone in a decrepit theater.”

Arty grimaced. He usually deferred to Janice when it came to Mira’s well-being, being a woman and all, but they frequently disagreed on how to handle the young woman’s introversion. The fact was, he wanted to honor his friend by helping his granddaughter become the woman she wanted to be. If it meant arguing with the woman Jack—and Arty—had been sweet on most of their lives, so be it.

His main concern was that Mira was alone—and that would bother him less if he were younger and knew he had many more years to keep an eye on her. But the incident with the trespassers had hammered home how perilous her situation was. Next time, it could be someone far less benign than a bunch of troublemaking kids. Someone who wouldn’t be scared off by Halloween costumes and paintball guns.

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.”

“Ms. Bateman—”

She closed the door firmly and bolted it tight, the booming sound punctuating the end of their interaction. It echoed through the building, shuddering through the cavernous halls until it was swallowed up by darkness and silence.

She waited one minute more for her cell phone to chime, indicating that Shane Patel had left the premises. It beeped once. Gone.

She let out a breath. Well. If that wasn’t a clear enough message, she wasn’t sure what would be.

CHAPTER THREE

SHANE STUDIED THE mostly blank profile he’d composed of Miriam Bateman as if it would provide some clue about the mysterious theater owner. He’d never met anyone so obstinately unfriendly—especially in Everville. Everyone was nice, or at least, that’s how he remembered them. The kids at the beach on Silver Lake and in town had all been cool with him and his sister, and he’d gotten along with everyone he met. Of course, he’d been gifted with the ability to charm people—something his mother had warned him about. But Miriam was a conundrum.