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“They don’t involve more weapons, do they?”
“Give me some credit. There’s more than one way to crack a nut.”
* * *
“MS. WELKS.” SHANE greeted Everville’s mayor. She looked up from her paperwork, smile lines radiating around her face. Her dark red hair was the color of a banked ember. He was put in mind of a lioness watching her cubs from a hot, flat rock.
“Mr. Patel, thank you for coming.” She gestured at the visitor’s chair across from her cluttered desk. “Can I offer you some tea? Coffee?”
“Nothing for me, thank you.” He wasn’t sure the tiny “mayor’s office” even had room for an electric kettle. There wasn’t much in the way of a town hall in Everville. The main administrative building housed a bevy of municipal functions, but Ms. Welks’s office was barely the size of his living room in his Brooklyn condo. Filing cabinets stacked with bulging folders and yellowing binders surrounded the perimeter. An overgrown mother-of-millions plant by the window spilled out of its cracked pot, its progeny scattered over the water-stained credenza and linoleum floor.
“Sorry about the mess,” she said, noticing his silent assessment. “Life of a municipal bureaucrat.”
“I’ve seen worse,” he said, though the paperwork was usually spread over offices ten times this size in other cities he’d worked in. And there were usually assistants to help with this kind of thing. The mayor of Everville didn’t even have a secretary. “You wanted to talk?”
She nodded. “I heard you made quite an impression with your condo presentation at the high school.”
“I sure hope so. The people who attended certainly made a good impression on the food tables.” He studied her surreptitiously, trying to gauge her feelings. Certainly there were some who’d voiced their concerns to her over the past two days.
Mayor Welks chuckled. “Sorry I couldn’t make it myself, but I have to appear somewhat impartial. I’ve been hearing talk around town. You’ve got people buzzing, which is always good. Well, usually.”
“You heard about Bob Fordingham?”
She rolled her eyes. “He’s a man of his own convictions, even when he’s contradicting himself.” She sniffed. “I won’t be coy about it. He hates me for winning the election. He’ll do anything to undermine my administration.”
“I’ve dealt with guys like that before. He’s just one man, though. It’s really a matter of who he’ll sway to his way of thinking.”
“He has the ear of some more conservative thinkers. Older folks who haven’t appreciated the way the town’s changed over the past few years.”
“I’ve dealt with folks like that, too.”
“I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Patel.”
“Shane is fine.”
She nodded. “Unfortunately, Bob Fordingham isn’t the only one I wanted to talk to you about.” She slid a folder toward him. “Miriam Bateman’s lodged a formal protest to Everville’s town council against the rezoning of her property.”
The pit of his stomach swooped at the mention of Miriam. “But the zoning board hasn’t even voted on this yet.”
“Seems she’s getting a jump on it. She’s really not keen on selling the theater.”
“Do you have any insight into her reason?”
“I don’t know her personally, and I never knew Jack Bateman. From what I hear, he was a good man.”
He hesitated. “Do you know how he died?”
“You’re referring to the suicide rumors.” She shook her head. “I don’t know if they’re true. Stories get conflated around here. All I do know is that he left everything to his only grandchild, Miriam.”
He added that to his mental file on Miriam. He’d ask Arty or someone else about Jack Bateman. Getting to the root of Miriam’s attachment to the Crown was key to taking it off her hands.
“You understand that you’ll probably have to defend your project at the next town meeting. Miriam’s protest will likely be followed by others.”
“You’ve had success changing people’s minds before,” he noted.
“I don’t change minds, Mr. Patel. I support projects that will ensure Everville endures and grows.” She dropped her pen on the notepad in front of her. “It’s not my job to convince people what’s good for them. All these infrastructure projects I’ve supported are about shoring up the foundations of this town, prepping it for growth. Your condo is one of the first major private investment opportunities the town has seen in years. But no matter how good it looks on paper, I serve my constituents.”
“And does the project still look good to you?” he asked carefully. He’d heard from Laura that former mayor Fordingham hadn’t been coy about seeking a bribe from Sagmar in exchange for his support. The company had already offered other cosmetic and peripheral infrastructure incentives—a splash pad and playground, a new park, all kinds of beautification—but Big Bob had wanted his fat palms greased.
“I think affordable modern housing is what this town needs. The jobs and new blood it’ll bring in will benefit the whole community. Nothing is worse for the economy than stagnation. Nonetheless, my job is to serve the people.” She paused, gazing out the window. “The zoning meeting is about a month away. I’ll listen to any and all concerns the townspeople have, as will the other members of the board. You’ll understand if I tell you now that we should limit our private meetings until the zoning board vote is over.”
“Of course.” After all, optics were important. Everyone in town would know by the end of the day that he’d been by to see the mayor. She rightfully wouldn’t want anyone thinking those visits had affected her decision.
“I’ll ask that you conduct yourself professionally while you’re in town. It’s hard not to trip over elected officials here.”
“I understand.” Plenty of council members had businesses in town—he’d have to be careful about who to patronize. He didn’t want to be seen as favoring a few shops or services over others.
“Good. Nothing’s more important to me than the relationship between people and community, and I believe in good, democratic governance. The foundation for that is trust, transparency and truthfulness. That is something I will not jeopardize.”
“I hear you loud and clear.”
They parted ways soon after that. Shane headed back for the B and B, chewing over the mayor’s words.
She was a woman of strict morals—honest, dutiful and clearly intelligent. It was no less than he’d expected, considering the thoughtful, articulate emails and phone calls they’d exchanged. There’d be no bribing her or the other council members. Not that Shane would resort to that—not ostentatiously, at any rate. Miriam Bateman was a different story, though.
A month. He hadn’t thought he’d have to wait quite that long, though he supposed he could head back to New York in that time and return for the zoning board meeting.
Then again, he hadn’t yet secured the Crown, and from what he could tell, he would have to work hard to pry it from Miriam Bateman’s claws.
There were worse things than hanging out in Everville during the summer. Reacquainting himself with the town that had been like a second home to him wouldn’t be a trial.
* * *
MIRA FINISHED HER last blog post for the day and hit Publish. It’d been a grueling week with her deadlines. While she appreciated how much her editors liked her work, writing ten or more pieces daily was exhausting. The money was too good to turn away, though, and she needed every penny to pay the property taxes.
She frowned at the time—almost eight. She’d thought she’d be able to water her garden, but she preferred not to climb up to the roof in the dark. She thought again about the never-ending list of repairs and improvements and where “install rooftop patio lights” fell. Too far down, unfortunately. Working locks, busted plumbing and wonky electrical were top priority. While she could do a lot herself—the internet was great at teaching her all the DIY she needed to maintain the theater—she wasn’t stupid enough to think she could take on a job that required a certified professional.
“Don’t worry, Grandpa, I’ll get it all done, starting with the wiring,” she promised to the empty room as she got up to heat a can of soup in the little pot on the hot plate. “Or do you think the leaking urinals in the men’s room are more important?”
A hollow whistle broke the silence as changing air pressure creaked through the cavernous building. The wind outside was picking up—she knew the sound of every groan and thump like the beat of her own heart. She sighed. “I know, I don’t need to use them, but I’m worried about the pipes cracking in the walls, leaking all over the place. You know what water damage does.” Water was the most patient and most destructive of the threats to the Crown.
Well, except maybe for Shane Patel.
The man was insufferable. She hadn’t seen him since that presentation at the school gymnasium. Filing that formal complaint to the mayor must have finally put him off. Thank God. She wasn’t sure she could deal with his big, stupid smile, as if he was friends with everyone in Everville...
If the movies had taught her anything, it was to never trust handsome charmers.
She screwed up her face. “He’s not handsome, he’s just...new and different.”
The theater’s old ventilation shafts shuddered softly, as if with laughter, and she glared up at them. Tightening the bolts on the shaft brackets moved up the to-do list. Shane Patel was nothing more than a novelty, and an unwelcome one at that. He was like Harold Hill in The Music Man, a huckster after every red cent he could get, or in Mr. Patel’s case, her building. He would get what he wanted and be out of there as soon as the deal was done.
Well, that deal was never going to be done. She’d make sure of it.
Her perimeter alarm chimed. She checked her phone, wary about who was on her property at this time of night. She grabbed her paintball gun as the shadow moved across the security camera’s view, but then paused. She recognized that broad-shouldered silhouette and wide-stepped saunter. The figure banged on the front door.
With a disgusted grunt, she put the gun down, hastened toward the entrance and opened it. “What do you want?”
Shane’s eyes twinkled. Was he laughing at her? “Sorry for coming by so late. I wanted to talk to you before I left town.”
She blinked. “You’re...leaving Everville?” She didn’t know why her stomach dipped, or why disappointment pricked her so keenly.
“Just for the weekend. I’m heading back to New York for a family gathering, but I should return Monday. Tuesday at the latest.”
“Oh.” It came out stupidly. She wished she had some witty, cutting remark.
“I spoke with the mayor the other day. I understand you’ve filed a formal complaint against the development of the condo.”
She straightened, unsure why she felt a surge of guilt. “I have. And I won’t be the only one.”
“I didn’t think you would be. I’ve encountered plenty of resistance to other Sagmar projects, but we’ve always managed to address community concerns.” He held out a thick file. “I wanted to give you this. It’s a portfolio containing the specifics of the Sagmar condo we’re proposing for the site—almost identical to the one I filed with city planning.”
She glanced between him and the file warily. “I don’t need that. I already got all your emails. This won’t change anything.”
“Maybe not, but you might find the information helpful for your deputation.”
“Deputation?”
“At the next town meeting. You submitted a formal complaint, so you’ll get to give a five-minute presentation to the council about why you don’t want a condo here.”
She stared at him, feeling as though a trap were closing around her. She didn’t need to speak publicly about why she didn’t want the condo there. The Crown was her home. Not that anyone openly acknowledged it. Then again, Shane Patel probably didn’t know she lived there.
“But...why would you give me this?” She nodded at the folder. In her experience, opponents didn’t try to help each other.
Shane gave a light chuckle. The sound brushed against her senses with a featherlight caress, and her skin prickled. She liked that sound too much. “I don’t want to hide anything from you. I’m giving you this information so you can do your research properly. No one at Sagmar will hold any nonprivate information back from you, either. The company firmly believes in working with the community so that we can make sure we have the best fit, the best use of space, the best mix of business and residence. We don’t just drop concrete boxes into towns so people can spend years complaining about how they look or how terrible they are. We build homes.” He held the file out to her. “I want to work with you, Miriam.”
Awareness shimmied through her. He sounded sincere, but she didn’t always trust the way things sounded. She couldn’t let him past her defenses. Not for a second.
“I’m sorry—” his nose lifted as he looked past her “—but is something burning?”
CHAPTER FIVE
AT FIRST MIRA thought he was pulling some kind of ruse. Then she smelled it, too.
“My soup!” She bolted inside, tripping across the worn carpets through the semi-darkness to the rear office. Thick steam and gray fumes billowed from the tiny pot on the hot plate and filled the room in two distinct layers like a miasma parfait. She reached for the pot, but snatched her hand back from the handle. The soup had boiled dry and the pot itself was red-hot. Bits of what had once been chicken and vegetables popped and flared briefly into tiny flames before becoming greasy black smoke.
“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.”
The banquet hall they’d rented for his sister’s birthday was packed with friends and family and his parents’ business associates. There were probably a hundred people there—a fairly small gathering. His cousin Poonam’s wedding had hosted close to five hundred guests. His sister, Priti, hadn’t wanted a big affair, but his parents loved parties—they’d make an event out of anything. Shane had a feeling that they were hoping their terminally single children would finally meet someone at one of these shindigs and get married so they could throw a “real” party.
He spotted Priti surrounded by a group of her old high school friends, sipping machine-made margaritas and dancing. She looked happy, maybe a little drunk. She waved him over.
“You guys,” she addressed her friends loudly, “you remember my brother, Shekhar, right?”
“Shane,” he corrected automatically.
“You changed your name?” One of the women peered at him speculatively, eyes gliding up and down his body. Her name was Chloe, he remembered—the sporty one who’d been Priti’s friend since forever.
“He changed it in college. He’s a bad Indian son. No pride in his family-given name.” Priti batted her lashes and laughed.
He shrugged. Anglicizing his name had simply been easier for everyone. It was awkward having to repeat his name several times to people as he shook hands with them. That, and he’d hated the nicknames people came up with.
“So what do you do, Shane?” another of his sister’s friends asked politely.
“Real estate development. I work at a company called Sagmar.”
“My apartment’s a Sagmar building!” Chloe exclaimed. “What do you do there?”
He explained his role in the company, how he negotiated and acquired property and scouted out sites. He loved his job and was happy to chat about it. Soon, he was talking about the condo project in Everville and all the problems he’d been having acquiring the Crown Theater. Some of the girls’ eyes glazed over, and a few of Priti’s friends drifted away or excused themselves to get a drink. But his sister remained rapt. She had fond memories of Everville, too.
She tapped a finger to her lips. “So...this woman won’t sell her building because...?”
“Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, it has sentimental value to her, but from what I’ve seen, the place is falling apart. I don’t know how she even affords the taxes on the place. It seems like she can barely keep the lights on. It’s actually a bit depressing.”
“Just because she doesn’t have an apartment in Brooklyn and earn six figures doesn’t mean she’s not happy.”
“I think she might be a bit of a shut-in.”
“Why? Is she some kind of crone, wearing tissue box shoes and collecting her urine?”
“She’s only twenty-eight.” He swirled the ice cubes around his glass. “It’s just that she’s always at the theater. God knows what she’s doing there. And the one public event I saw her at didn’t go well—she kinda freaked out. Like some kind of panic attack.”