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Arty Bolton had suggested chocolates, but clearly, the old man didn’t know what she liked. He supposed a gift basket might be more appropriate than flowers. He reserved fancy bouquets for hospitalizations, funerals and first dates. He didn’t want Ms. Bateman getting the wrong idea.
Yet.
The problem was, she was hard to read. She had an almost-impenetrable stare, narrow and glassy at the same time, as if she were studying a festering lump underneath a microscope and trying to decide if it was fascinating or disgusting. She used that look liberally on him. It was a little disconcerting. He could usually pick up when a woman was attracted to him and then leverage that attraction for professional gain. Amma disapproved, mainly because her son wouldn’t settle down.
At the very least, Miriam hadn’t completely dismissed him. She’d been intrigued enough to speak to him, even if it was crisply and briefly. She could’ve called the sheriff if she’d really wanted him gone. But she’d answered his innocuous questions. That was a start. A crack in her facade. Now all he had to do was figure out how to chip away the rest of her defenses.
He scanned the profile, adding notes as he went.
Miriam Bateman, mid to late twenties.
Brown hair, blue eyes.
Proprietor of the defunct Crown Theater in Everville, NY.
Friends/Allies: Arty Bolton, grocery store owner?
He added the question mark because while the old man had come to her aid when she was in trouble, he was a lot older, making him more of a father figure who’d protect her rather than dish out any good intel. Shane had been hoping to find someone who was closer to Miriam’s age, maybe a girlfriend, a confidante, someone he could charm.
Did she even have friends? He shook his head. He wasn’t going to take her prickly attitude personally. She had every right not to like or trust him. He’d just have to figure out what made her tick and get her to open up. With that in mind, he headed out to explore the town, maybe have a beer. He’d talk to locals and see what they could tell him about the Crown’s elusive owner. It would take as long as it took. Persistence was the key—what had always made him a winner.
He’d convince her to sell him the Crown one way or another. Personal pride depended on it.
* * *
“IT’S FROM WHO?” Mira studied the potted orchid suspiciously. As pretty as it was, and as much as she was thrilled to receive it, she couldn’t imagine anyone in town wanting to buy her such a gift.
“A secret admirer, according to the tag.” Janice Heinlein grinned. “He came in while I was out, made the order with Pete. Even if I knew who it was, which I don’t, I’m not allowed to say more than that. Customer right to privacy and all that, you know.” She winked.
Mira sighed. It had to be from Shane Patel. He’d come by twice more over the past week bearing gifts, which she’d reluctantly accepted, though she’d reiterated both times that she wasn’t selling the Crown. He hadn’t seemed fazed by her rebuttals—in fact, he’d looked as though he was simply happy to bring her presents. The first had been a basket of assorted baked goods from Georgette’s Books and Bakery, along with two pounds of fresh ground coffee beans from the Grindery, a café on Main. There was simply no way to turn that down—Saul, the café owner, would be insulted. And no one could resist cookies from Georgette’s.
The second gift had been just as nonrefundable: a deli tray from Everville Grocery. Apparently, Mr. Patel was bent on feeding her and ingratiating himself with the local businesses. Since the platter had come from Arty’s, she couldn’t say no.
Mira had no doubt that the real estate developer was buttering her up for negotiations. She imagined he’d come by to show her his plans for whatever he was going to build, tell her how it would benefit the community, do some song and dance while avoiding any actual discussion of sales or price tags. The initial offer for the building had been reasonable, she supposed, for what most people thought was an abandoned building. But it wasn’t nearly enough in Mira’s estimation. Of course, she wouldn’t sell the place for anything, unless Shane could magically bring her grandfather back from the dead. Maybe not even then. Grandpa had loved the Crown with all his heart.
She turned the potted orchid in her hand, admiring the deep fuchsia blooming from the center of the blossom and lightening to a blush at the tips of the petals. How had the man known she loved orchids?
“How are the tomatoes doing?” Janice asked, rocking up onto her toes eagerly.
Mira smirked. Janice was usually too busy to make deliveries herself. She’d come to see the garden. “Come.”
The florist grinned and clapped her hands. She quickly followed Mira up to the balcony fire exit. Mira unwound the chains from around the push bar and unlocked the padlock. People had tried breaking through that door before. She’d also had to put a bike lock on the fire escape ladder to keep trespassers from climbing to the roof where her precious garden was. It wasn’t technically legal or safe, but no one was using the theater except her.
With the orchid in a backpack, they climbed the ladder. Mira stayed beneath Janice in case the older woman made a misstep. Mira was used to heights—the Crown was her home, her playground, and she could walk this place in the dark. The florist went up slowly, and eventually, they clambered over the edge of the roof and onto Mira’s gravel-topped oasis.
She never got tired of the view up here. With careful attention to where and how things were planted, the garden thrived with little interference, and in mid-May, the place was like Eden. Thick, healthy vines and climbing plants twined around the freestanding trellises, providing cool shade for the more delicate plants. Marigolds and citronella protected many of the produce plants from bugs. A few sparkly rainbow-colored pinwheels and flapping pennants warned birds away. A wind chime she’d made as a child for Grandpa out of shells, beads and tiny jingle bells clattered and tinkled in the breeze from one decorative arch.
Janice headed straight for the bean and tomato boxes. She fingered the leaves and gently turned the tiny yellow blossoms. “Looking good. The extra shade’s a good idea up here, too.” She nodded at the faded patio umbrellas arranged around the boxes of produce that couldn’t handle full sun. She stuck her fingers in the soil. “Good drainage. Nice and moist. I think you’ll get a bumper crop.”
“I hope so.” Mira picked some stray weeds out of a planter full of squash and filled a watering can from one of the many rain barrels placed around the roof.
“Your grandfather would be proud of what you’ve done with his garden.”
Mira smiled sadly. Grandpa had had a crush on the florist and had often wistfully joked about marrying Janice so Mira could have a grandmother. And he’d been a hell of a flirt. When Mira had gotten a little older, she’d wondered if the two had ever had some kind of relationship. But as far as she could tell, they’d only ever been friends.
They placed the new orchid in the small plastic greenhouse with her other tropical plants and chatted about the various health issues some of her specimens were having. Mira had worked this garden alongside her grandpa since her early teens. Jack Bateman had loved growing things. When they’d lived together, his bungalow hadn’t had much in the way of a front or backyard, which was why the rooftop garden had been his pride. Keeping it alive was just as important to Mira as keeping the Crown in her possession.
After half an hour of puttering, Janice and Mira climbed back down the ladder and headed into the theater. “Be honest, Janice. Was it Shane Patel who bought me that orchid?” Unwanted warmth wormed through her with the mere mention of his name.
“I really couldn’t say.” The older woman’s shrug and secretive smile suggested otherwise.
Mira rolled her eyes as she relocked the balcony door. “Well, at least he didn’t bring it himself. He’s been bugging me all week. I don’t have time for him. I have a lot of work to do.”
“Oh?”
“Life of a freelance writer,” she said, with no resentment. She enjoyed her work—it was just a lot of juggling projects.
“I didn’t mean ‘Oh’ about your work. I meant ‘Oh’ as in, I didn’t realize Mr. Patel was courting you.”
Mira’s cheeks burned. “He’s not courting,” she corrected prudishly. “He’s looking for a way to buy the Crown from me. Honestly, I’ve no idea why he won’t take a hint. I’ve been pretty clear.”
Janice scratched her nose. “Maybe you should talk to him, see what his plans are.”
Mira shook her head. Handsome, charming men like Shane could not be trusted. He wanted her property. That was it. She couldn’t trust a single compliment, kind word or platitude from him.
“If there’s nothing he can say to convince you,” Janice went on reasonably, “then it wouldn’t hurt to listen, would it?”
“I have more important things to do than sit through a sales pitch.”
“Well, if you won’t talk to him directly, come to the open house he’s having down at B. H. Everett. I heard from Cheyenne he’s giving a presentation about his project and what it’ll mean for the town.”
That gave Mira pause. Mayor Cheyenne Welks had pushed important infrastructure projects through and secured funding to do the much-needed upgrades to the water mains and sewer lines. She’d been a real boon for the town, a progressive liberal thinker who’d swayed some of the conservative cronies on town council to invest in the future.
That Shane Patel had the new mayor’s ear was significant. Cheyenne’s agenda had been one of growth and change, and her vision had done much to improve life in Everville. If she thought the Sagmar project was a good thing, Mira would have a battle on her hands.
What would Grandpa do? He’d always said keeping Everville alive was all about growing and changing.
But not the Crown, Mira insisted. Some things had to stay the same—everyone needed an anchor in a storm. The theater had once been the cultural heart of the town, and it would be again—as soon as she could figure out how to reopen.
Maybe the first step was to make her intentions public.
* * *
SHANE WENT THROUGH his mental checklist as he scanned the pamphlets, Sagmar-branded swag and hors d’oeuvres being laid out. This informal presentation of the condo project was meant to keep things transparent with the locals. He’d dealt with NIMBYs before, and had convinced the company that spending the time and resources to assuage their fears was paramount to their success. A small investment early could save them huge headaches later.
And so, it was with a big smile and a huge spread of locally purchased treats from the various small businesses in town that Shane opened the doors to the B. H. Everett High School’s gymnasium. All week, he’d put up flyers around Everville inviting folks to find out more about the new downtown development.
He’d hoped for a good-sized turnout. He hadn’t imagined the place would be packed by eight o’clock.
“If you feed them, they will come,” Arty Bolton said with a chuckle. The grocer had provided numerous catered trays of deli meats, similar to the one Shane had ordered for Miriam last week. She’d accepted it grimly, so he considered that progress.
“I’m glad for all the interest,” Shane said, though he kept an eye on the wrinkled brows and scowls circulating around the professionally done display boards. A couple of strong, dissenting voices could turn a crowd against the project. “Do you know if Ms. Bateman is coming?”
“Mira? I doubt it. She doesn’t get out much. Always working, that one.” Arty cleared his throat. “Course, this does all concern her, so it’d make sense if she did show up. Then again, if she’s not selling to you, then none of this matters, does it?”
“I hope to change her mind,” Shane said confidently.
“Been talkin’ to some folks,” Arty ventured, scratching his nose. “Seems your people have been working on this deal awhile.”
“It began almost four years ago, just as I was joining the firm,” Shane confirmed, wanting to ensure Arty understood Sagmar had nothing to hide. “But I didn’t take over this project until about two years ago when Mayor Welks was elected. Soon as I heard they were considering Everville for the location, I fought to have it placed here and took the project on.”
“Means something to you, then?”
“A lot. I loved this town when I was a kid. We only came for the summer, but I looked forward to it every year. I want to see it thrive. I’m willing to put money on it, too,” he admitted. “I have my eye on one of these units so my parents have a place they can escape to during the summers. Maybe I’ll retire here myself one day.”
“You’ll have to build it first.” Arty studied him. “You wouldn’t consider moving it to another location in town?”
Shane glanced away, keeping his cards close to his vest. He didn’t want to reveal too much. Sagmar already owned the properties on either side of the Crown; Miriam’s theater was the lone holdout. While the project could technically be moved to another location, it would mean months if not years before he could proceed, and even then, there was no guarantee the same situation wouldn’t arise with any other property. No, this development would be built where the Crown stood. He just had to make Miriam Bateman see its benefits. “If there were better venues, we would’ve taken the project there.”
He excused himself as people waved him down. He spent the next hour or so fielding concerns from the locals—most of them perfectly sensible questions about the environmental impact, the property values, how the new build would affect traffic and so forth. He could see, though, that despite his answers, people weren’t altogether convinced.
“I just don’t think this project is suited for Everville,” one man said boldly. “It doesn’t fit with the rest of the town.”
Shane turned toward the bombastic voice. “I assure you, Mister...?”
“Bob Fordingham, former mayor.” The beefy, balding man with a ruddy complexion and prominent paunch put out a meaty hand. Shane shook it, clenching his teeth as the man squeezed unnecessarily hard.
“Mr. Fordingham, yes, of course, my Sagmar colleagues mentioned your involvement in the initial stages of planning.” He kept his tone light, reminding himself that the current mayor, Cheyenne Welks, had trounced the man in the last election. “I thought you supported this project wholeheartedly.”
“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.”
“I’m upset because Shane Patel won’t get the hint.” She started taking the harness off. “I can’t sell the Crown. This place is my home. It’s all I have left of Grandpa.”
“That’s all well and good, honey, but it doesn’t explain what happened to you out there.”
Her shoulders sagged. “It was nothing. You know I don’t like it when people pressure me. Or stare.”
Yeah, he knew. Miriam’s parents had been a couple of deadbeats from the start, and when they did pay attention to her between drunken binges, they either berated her ruthlessly or expected her to perform like some kind of circus monkey. Jack had pulled her out of that hellhole away from his no-good son when he’d discovered they’d been leaving her alone for days at a time. That rough beginning had made her an easy target for gossip and bullying in school, too.
“I didn’t think you’d show,” Arty said.
“I didn’t, either. But I had to make myself clear to Mr. Patel.”
Arty studied the flush in her cheeks when she said his name. He knew Janice had brought that orchid to her from a nonexistent secret admirer. It seemed Mira had fallen for the ruse. “He’s not a bad guy. Used to spend his summers in Everville. He’s practically one of us.”
“He isn’t.” She said it so sharply, Arty wondered at her hostility. He decided to push the matter.
“I don’t know. He’s easygoing, knows the terrain, the people. For a kid who only spent two months a year here, he’s got a better memory for folks’ names and occupations than most.”
She made a dismissive “Pfft” sound, but didn’t say anything to contradict his claim.
“Y’know, I don’t think he’s going to stop trying to convince you to sell.”
She paused. “I know.”
“So...what? You gonna call Sheriff McKinnon to kick him off your property every time he comes around?”
“Ralph has better things to do.” She turned, a shrewd look in her eye. “No, I’ve got better ways to stop him in his tracks.”