# Matinees With Miriam

Vicki Essex

Having his heart stolen wasn't part of the plan!Shane Patel has a way with people—a skill that's made him a success in the condo development business. But his charms are proving useless on Miriam Bateman. The Crown Theater is the key to his company's latest project. It also happens to be Miriam's home and her grandfather's legacy. She's made it clear that it's not for sale.Despite the frustration, Shane's enjoying trying to win Miriam over. And the best part of his day becomes watching old movies with her. When Miriam's plans to reopen the theater threaten his project, though, Shane has a tough decision to make: his career or Miriam.

Having his heart stolen wasn’t part of the plan!

Shane Patel has a way with people—a skill that’s made him a success in the condo development business. But his charms are proving useless on Miriam Bateman. The Crown Theater is the key to his company’s latest project. It also happens to be Miriam’s home and her grandfather’s legacy. She’s made it clear that it’s not for sale.

Despite the frustration, Shane’s enjoying trying to win Miriam over. And the best part of his day becomes watching old movies with her. When Miriam’s plans to reopen the theater threaten his project, though, Shane has a tough decision to make: his career or Miriam.

“What are we doing, Shane?”

“I thought that was obvious.”

“I mean, what are we doing together? I want to believe you’re just trying to seduce me so I’ll sell the Crown. But...” She hesitated, realizing that admitting the truth would be giving up something of value. “I’m not sure I actually believe it.”

He met her gaze, frowning. “It’s not like that, I mean, I’m ashamed to admit it, but at first I thought that was what I’d do.” He scrubbed his jaw. Miriam felt a sting to her pride, but didn’t interrupt him. “But I really do like you. Everything I’ve done up to this point... I wanted to get close to you to understand why you’d hang on to a decrepit old building. I think I’m starting to get it now. There’s...for lack of a better word...magic here. I don’t know how else to describe it. It’s the same way I feel about this town. I can’t fault you for wanting to hold on to that.”

She smiled a little sadly. Just because he understood didn’t mean she’d swayed him to her thinking. “So where does that leave us?”

Dear Reader,

Have you ever slept over in a museum or spent the night in an aquarium? I’ve always wanted to stay someplace that could be my personal playground, alone after all the doors are shut and the public is gone. Knowing all the little secrets of a special place somehow adds to the magic, especially at night.

Unfortunately, these days I value sleep too much to go on such an adventure. As of the writing of this letter, my baby girl is just over six months old. It’s been quite an adventure. Writing Matinees with Miriam was one part wish fulfillment, one part Castaway in an old movie theater. How would you live in an historic abandoned building like the Crown? What would you do for fun? How would you shower?

Committing to that lifestyle takes a special kind of person. Miriam Bateman became my pragmatic dreamer, practical in every aspect of her life except for the fact that she lives in her own fantasyland. She’s fearless when it comes to protecting the things that matter to her, but she’s also scared of the world that has only ever hurt and disappointed her. Exploring a character who was so contradictory in her nature was a lot of fun and a lot of hard work.

My little town of Everville is seeing lots of changes, which is what life is all about. I owe this story to my husband, who is a city-planning nerd and helped me understand a lot about why municipal policy and bylaws are so important. So much of daily life is taken for granted until you threaten the status quo—something else I’m learning as a new mother.

Enjoy your latest visit to Everville, “The Town that Endures!”

Vicki

Matinees with Miriam

Vicki Essex


www.millsandboon.co.uk

VICKI ESSEX loves movies, but requires regular “movie forcenings” to get through the canon of quintessential nineties films and blockbusters, Hollywood golden-age classics and best picture nominees. She doesn’t live in a theater, but eats popcorn as though she does. She lives in Toronto, Canada, with a man, a baby, a cat and The King of Centipedes as a tenant.

Thanks to my editor, Karen Reid, and the rest of the Harlequin Superromance team for being awesome guides in my romance writing journey.

Thanks to my agent, Courtney Miller-Callihan of Handspun Literary, for all her support.

To my mom and dad, my sisters, my in-laws and the whole village of relatives and friends who came out to make my journey into motherhood less terrifying and more joyful: thank you.

To my little Mara: “When you smile, you knock me out, I fall apart/And I thought I was so smart.”

And to my husband, John, without whom none of this would be possible: there aren’t enough words to say thank you for your love and staunch support. Best of fathers, best of husbands.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Dear Reader

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

SHANE WAS PRETTY sure the Keep Out sign was clear. Then again, teenagers carrying six-packs of beer and what looked like a bolt cutter weren’t the kind of people who obeyed signs.

The three boys clipped the edges of the chain-link fence and pulled up the corner. With surreptitious looks around, they ducked beneath it, then hurried around the back of the building. Shane clenched his jaw. After the three-hour drive from Brooklyn, he’d wanted to go straight to the bed-and-breakfast, but he hadn’t been able to resist driving by the properties before calling it a night. Good thing, he thought as he got out of his car. While the block of buildings would eventually be knocked down, he still didn’t like trespassers on his property.

Well, it wasn’t all his yet. But it would be soon.

As he slipped through the gap in the fence, his blazer caught on a wire and tore. Great. It occurred to him that he should’ve called the police instead of going after the punks, but he could take care of himself.

The abandoned buildings on either side of the old Crown Theater were boarded up tight, but the rear fire door of the theater was ajar. He hesitated. The Keep Out sign aside, the owner had made it clear she wouldn’t welcome his presence.

But those punks were in there. It was his civic duty to stop them.

He slipped into the darkened building, quietly pulling the door shut behind him. The sound of breaking glass followed by a snide laugh reached his ears. He’d never understood bored teens and their need to get into trouble, especially in picturesque Everville. This town was straight out of a Norman Rockwell painting—watering holes, beaches, ice-cream parlors and a whole slew of awesome hangouts. And yet, they were in this building, messing around. His blood pumped hard. He didn’t get mad easily, but he took the intrusion personally.

His eyes adjusted to the eerie red glow of exit signs. It’d been over a decade since he’d visited the theater, and coming in from the back, he didn’t recognize where he was immediately. He climbed the short flight of stairs leading to the main lobby, a vaulted space that reminded him of the rib cage of some huge, starving beast. An empty vending machine hummed in one corner, its cold inner light flickering. He listened hard, but heard no further sign of the teens.

He wasn’t sure how he’d confront them—maybe just tell them to buzz off, or threaten them with calling the cops. He hadn’t been able to tell how old or big the intruders were in the half dark. Now that he thought about it, three against one weren’t great odds.

Something fluttered in the dark to his right. He whipped his head around—nothing. Just more tomb-like silence and a slightly dank smell. Sweat broke out on his upper lip. He stifled the urge to call out. What if those kids were armed? He was starting to regret not calling the cops.

A faint scuffle and some low murmurs reached his ears. With all the stealth he could manage in a suit and dress shoes, he crept along the wall and wedged himself against the corner by a pillar. A whiff of freshly made buttery popcorn tickled his nose. The Crown had been out of commission for nearly ten years—who’d be making popcorn now?

“C’mon, man, hold that light still,” a raspy voice said. Not that old, then—maybe sixteen or so.

“You’re so full of bullshit, Jacob. You don’t know how to pick a lock,” another voice, a touch lower, drawled.

“Shut up. I totally do, but it’s kinda hard with you shaking that light everywhere.”

“That’s cuz he’s freakin’ scared, man,” the third voice sneered. “You don’t believe those ghost stories about old man Bateman, do you?”

“Woo-oo!” The first guy cackled. “I heard that old guy hung himself off the balcony.”

“I heard he blew his brains out in the projector room.”

“I heard he was murdered by someone in his family.”

Shane’s skin prickled. He hadn’t heard any of these grisly tales. If any proved to be true, he’d have to disclose it to the development board. It could affect sales of the units.

The darkness stirred again, like shadows moving through smoke. He searched for the source but saw nothing. Maybe it was a rat...

The PA system suddenly crackled to life. A funereal carnival dirge played on a tinny piano warbled through the lobby, making the hairs on his neck stand up.

“What the hell?” one of the boys whispered.

The raspy voice quavered. “Someone else is here.”

More scuffling. Shane pressed against the wall, heart hammering. The boys were headed his way.

Suddenly, all the lights went out. He hadn’t noticed the ambient hum of electronics, but the air was dead silent now. Only the piano continued its forlorn melody. His veins filled with ice. Ghost stories that his chachi Priya had told him rose from the depths of his memory. He suddenly felt very exposed.

“Holy—”

“Go, go, go!”

Something metal clanged. A crash, and one of the boys yelped.

In the pitch black, Shane sensed movement. A pair of doors leading to the auditorium banged open, and a blast of cold air hit him.

The red exit signs flickered. A dark something glided soundlessly across the lobby, and Shane’s chest seized. He caught sight of the boys, the three of them heaped in a pile on the floor, staring wide-eyed at the approaching figure in black.

And then it spoke.

“Get. Out.”

The lights went out again. From beneath billowing black robes, the outline of a skeleton glowed neon green.

The boys screamed. Shane squinted against the strobe light flickering from within the empty vending machine, catching the stop-motion-like progress of the teens as they tripped over each other sprinting toward the front door.

One of them paused to look back, the way an emboldened and inexperienced lion cub might when facing an angry badger.

The shadowy figure stopped. It raised its arms. A series of soft cracking noises punctuated the piano melody. The boy yelped as bright green globs exploded on his chest and arms.

Was that ghost using a paintball gun?

The doors burst open as the three trespassers stumbled out. The wraith stood there a moment longer, then drifted toward the exit. It set the bolts on the top of the door, then locked a large dead bolt.

Shane was still plastered to the corner when the figure turned around. It pulled out a smart phone and hit a few buttons. The strobe light stopped, and blinding emergency floodlights turned on, washing the lobby in dirty brown light. A second later, the piano music ceased. The figure in black wasn’t quite so menacing now. It stood barely five-three, draped head to toe in filmy, artfully ragged cloth. Not an inch of skin showed, not even the small, delicate hands. An indigo-hued black light hung from a chain around its neck, which explained how the skeletal figure could be seen in the dark.

This was no ghost.

Relief and amusement swamped him. He stepped out from the corner and cleared his throat. “Miriam Bateman, I presume?”

He thought catching her off guard would shock her into revealing herself. He was wrong.

With lightning reflexes, the figure raised the paintball gun and pulled the trigger.

* * *

MIRA HAD NO tolerance for trespassers. Why anyone thought they could simply waltz into her theater to hang out, drink beer and piss against the walls like a bunch of animals...

The little bastards were lucky she didn’t own a real gun.

The paintball gun huffed a fierce volley of Day-Glo green pellets at the remaining intruder. Not only would he be cleaning the stuff out of his clothes for days, but he’d probably have some nice bruises, too. The sheriff wouldn’t have a hard time finding him or his friends.

As the first volley hit him square in the chest, he twisted away, hands shielding his head, exposing his ribs and thigh to the assault instead. He reeled back as she stepped forward. The closer she got, the worse the impact would hurt.

She let go of the trigger briefly. “Get out,” she gritted, though it didn’t have the menace the voice-changing app on her phone gave her. “You’re trespassing. The sheriff is on his way. Get out or I’ll put one through your eye.”

“I followed those boys in here. I thought they were causing trouble—”

“I’ll cause you trouble. Get out!” She pulled the trigger again. Three paintballs hit him square in the crotch. His face contorted, his mouth opened in a silent scream and, eyes crossed, he collapsed.

Mira lowered the gun. He wasn’t getting up. And she was pretty sure he wasn’t faking his agony. Crap. That wasn’t good. She put the gun aside and dialed the sheriff, filling him in on her situation.

“I’m driving as fast as I can, Mira,” Ralph McKinnon told her gruffly, “but I’m still about ten minutes out. I called Arty. He’ll probably get there before me.”

“There was a fourth one, Ralph. Older guy. I shot him in the nuts with my paintball gun. He’s down.” She kept her gun pointed at him and leaned in far enough to ascertain if the man was still breathing. He had his hands cupped around his crotch and his eyes squeezed shut.

Only a little remorse broke through her self-righteous fury. He was wearing a fairly nice gray suit and a pink tie, all of it now splattered with neon green paint. Clearly he hadn’t been with those punks. Not that it excused him from breaking into the Crown.

The sheriff sighed. “I should never have given you those shooting lessons.”

“Hey, you were the one who was all about standing your ground.”

“Does he need an ambulance?”

“Hey, you,” she said to the stranger. “Do you need an ambulance?”

The man gurgled something that sounded like a no.

“Nah,” Mira told Ralph. “But get over here quick. If he tries to get up, I might have to unload on him again.”

“Please don’t.” The man rolled over and looked up at her with wide eyes. “I just wanted to drive those kids off.”

“I’ll see you soon, Sheriff.” Mira slipped her phone back into her pocket, muzzle still trained on the man. He was dark skinned with jet-black hair and large, dark eyes. No rings on his fingers, so he wasn’t married—no wife to come after her in case she’d accidentally neutered him.

She hefted the paintball gun menacingly. “So you’re, what, a good Samaritan?”

“I’m Shane Patel from Sagmar Corp.,” he said hoarsely, easing himself up. Worried he might try to disarm her, she brandished the paintball gun. He raised his hands. “Are you Miriam Bateman?”

Mira realized she still wore the head-to-toe wraith costume. He wouldn’t have recognized her anyhow—she didn’t have much in the way of a social media profile and preferred to stay anonymous online. All the same, she kept the cowl and veil on.

“Why are you here, Mr. Patel?” She recognized his name, of course. All those letters from the property developer had gotten on every last one of her nerves.

“I wanted to speak with you personally.” He sat up, his knees pinched together protectively. Contrition inched onto his face. “I wanted—”

“I already told you, the Crown’s not for sale. Sheriff McKinnon will be here shortly to escort you off my property.”

He straightened, ready to argue. “My associates—” She gestured with the muzzle of her weapon, and he got the hint, cutting off his sales pitch sharply. “It was rude of me to call on you so late,” he amended hastily. “I’m sorry for barging in on you like this. Seriously, I meant no harm. I was only driving by when I saw those kids.”

Doubt stirred inside her. He hadn’t tried to hurt her or damage the Crown as far as she could tell. Nor did he seem to be trying to burn down the place to expedite the sale of the property—she’d heard stories of developers doing just that. His nice suit was ruined, and he’d probably be covered in bruises tomorrow. She’d be lucky if he didn’t press charges against her.

She lowered the gun. “Sorry about your suit,” she said reluctantly. “You can send me a bill for the dry cleaning.”

“Not to worry. It was in need of a little color anyhow.” He got to his feet. “I’ll wait for the sheriff. I can give him a description of those guys who broke in.”

“That’s not necessary.” She didn’t want him there any longer than he had to be. “You can go.”

He looked around, lingering, as if waiting for an invitation to sit and have a coffee.

“You’re here rather late,” he remarked.

She stiffened. “I’m often here late.”

“The back door was open.” The almost-fatherly condescension in his tone irritated her. “Do you normally leave it unlocked?”

“It’s a tricky lock. Been like that forever.”

He frowned. “Maybe you should board the door up.”

Mira glared. She didn’t like to be told how to run her life. She held up the gun. “I think I have security covered.”

“Mira?” Arty’s gruff voice echoed from the back lobby. “Where are you?”

“I’m here. Everything’s fine.”

A moment later, Arty Bolton strode in, his sweater inside out, his graying hair flying in all directions. She could see him putting it all together in his mind as he took in the scene, and he sagged in relief. “Christsakes, Mira, that costume could scare the black off a zebra. What the hell is going on?” His gaze narrowed on the man from Sagmar. “Who’s this?”

“Shane Patel.” He wore his smile as readily as his ruined tailored suit. “We’ve had a misunderstanding. I was trying to rescue Ms. Bateman from some teens who broke into the building—”

Rescue? What a lying piece of—

“Mira, what have I said about barring and locking all the doors?” Arty glowered at her.

She glared right back, then realized he couldn’t see her face. She pulled away the cowl and unhooked the veil. “You know how that back door is.”

“And if it weren’t for this brave young man—”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Shane said modestly. Mira felt a flicker of appreciation for the correction, but Shane Patel wasn’t anywhere near the vicinity of her good graces yet. “She had me dead to rights. As you can see.” He gestured at his green-spattered suit.

The lines in the older man’s face deepened. He gave a put-upon sigh. “Mira...”

“Why are you mad at me?” she asked, irritated. “He was trespassing.”

“I was trying to do my neighborly duty, honestly.” He sounded sincere, but all Mira could hear was the slime beneath his words. And yet, he was winning Arty over. The older man’s expression eased with sympathy and gratitude.

Mira summoned her outrage. “Arty, this is the guy I was telling you about. The one who wants to buy the theater.”

“Oh.” He regarded him a moment, then held out a hand. “Arty Bolton. I own the Everville Grocery down the way.”

“I know.” He grinned. “I guess you don’t remember me, Mr. Bolton. My family and I used to come to Everville every summer when I was a kid. I came by the grocery store frequently to get bubble gum cards.”

“Wait a sec.” Arty squinted. Mira looked between the two, flabbergasted this intruder could have any possible connection to the man who’d been watching out for her since her grandfather had died four years ago. The grocer pointed. “I do remember you, I think. You were tiny, and you had huge ears. You were friends with the Latimers. Your parents used to stay at one of the big cottages by Silver Lake, right? I’m trying to remember... Ran... Ranjeet?”

“That’s my dad.” Shane’s face broke out into a brilliant grin.

“Well, hot dog. How is your family?” They got to talking about a past Mira knew nothing about. She was feeling steadily more and more uncomfortable. She hated being out of the loop, hated that strangers had been in her home, hated how she was simultaneously being ignored and made the center of attention. She rubbed her arms and huffed. Her personal space felt violated.

Sheriff McKinnon arrived a few minutes later. One hand rested on his service piece as he assessed Shane and listened to what he had to say. Mira then told her side of the story—she’d been working when the silent perimeter alarm she’d installed alerted her to the intruders. From there, she’d called him, put on her costume and taken up her post, initiating her “haunting protocol” program to play itself out.

The sheriff rubbed his eyes. “I don’t see why you can’t have a normal security system like everyone else,” he said. “Or a guard dog.”

“Those kids came in here looking for trouble.” She raised her chin. “I just gave them what they wanted.”

“Always one for theatrics, just like your grandfather,” Arty said with a touch of exasperation. “They could’ve been more than kids, Mira. It’s not safe for a girl on her own. You need to move out of here.”

She glared at Arty in warning. Not everyone who knew her knew that she lived in the theater. It wasn’t something she openly shared, especially not with the law or strangers like Mr. Patel.

The sheriff glanced around disinterestedly. “Is anything missing? Any property damage?”

“There’s a broken beer bottle in one corner—they were drinking. They were trying to pick a lock on that storage closet, too. Nothing in there of value, though.” She pointed to one corner. Ralph checked it out and declared it hadn’t been damaged.

The sheriff made a note on his pad. “Mr. Patel... I presume you won’t be pressing charges?” The question was a half warning.

“Not at all, Sheriff.” Again, that too-big smile. It gave Mira goose bumps.

“Mira?”

She shook her head reluctantly. No sense in causing more trouble or giving Shane Patel reason to sue her.

“All right. If either of you remember anything else about what you saw, call me. I’ll do a drive around the neighborhood—see if I spot those troublemakers. If I catch them, I might need you both to come down to the office and identify them for me.”

“I’m staying at the Sunshine B and B,” Shane said. “I’m here on business.”

“For how long?”

He slid Mira a lopsided grin. She met his stare head-on, her face fixed with stony dislike. “As long as it takes.”

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.

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.”

“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.”

“You can’t just assume she’s a shut-in. You hardly know her.”

“That’s the problem. I can’t find out anything about her. She isn’t on Facebook or Twitter or anything. Not under her real name, anyhow. Her best friend in town is the old man who runs the grocery store, and he couldn’t even tell me what she was into.”

Priti regarded him, chin tilted, then smiled slowly. “You like her.”

“What?”

“You like her,” she teased. “And you’re frustrated you can’t do your usual wine and dine to get her to like you back.”

“That’s ridiculous. She shot me in the nuts with a paintball gun. She barely said thank you for all the gifts I brought—”

“See, that’s your problem right there. You think a woman owes you something just because you pay attention to her.”

He was taken aback. He wasn’t that entitled—was he? Then again, Miriam Bateman was probably the first woman he couldn’t coax a real smile out of. And it did annoy him.

He suddenly felt a little sick about himself.

“Even if she were interested, you still want to take away something that obviously means a lot to her,” Priti added. “Of course she’s suspicious of your motives.”

“I’m just trying to be nice.”

“So that she’ll sell you her property. C’mon, Shekky, don’t act like the injured party here.” His sister swigged her drink. “I’ve never seen you go after anyone seriously enough to believe it would last. You like the chase, and you like to win. This woman can smell a predator a mile away. I’d have shot you in the nuts, too, if I saw you coming.”

“I wouldn’t have.” Chloe beamed at him, flicking him a flirty look.

Any other day he might have offered to get her a drink, but he was too preoccupied with the conundrum of Miriam Bateman.

His father waved him over. He was standing with his cousin Sanjay, who worked at the electronics store Shane’s father ran. A year older than Shane, Sanjay had always been the dutiful one, the one Shane assumed would take over the family business if and when his father retired. Shane had helped out at the shop when he was younger, but while he was a good salesman, he wasn’t as savvy with electronics as Sanjay.

“We were just talking about you,” Sanjay said by way of greeting. “Ranjeet was thinking of expanding the business, maybe opening a smaller branch just for repairs.”

It always weirded him out how his cousin addressed his father by his first name rather than Uncle like all his other cousins did. “Where would you open it?”

“Ideally, not far from the shop, but the rents are pretty high. Don’t suppose you know any good real estate agents?”

“I’ll get you some names.” He nodded to his father. “Things going okay, Baap? How’s your knee?”

“It’s fine.” Ranjeet waved him off. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“I try to make him sit at the front, but he won’t.” Sanjay gave a put-upon sigh.

His father didn’t like to be reminded that he was closing in on seventy. Shane had meant the query to subtly clue him in on the advance of his years, and that maybe expanding the business at this stage was questionable, but his father knew his son’s tactics too well and dodged. “How’s Everville these days?”

“It’s great. A lot has changed since our last vacation there.”

“I miss that place,” his father said wistfully. “The fishing on Silver Lake is still the best.”

Sanjay and Shane both chuckled. If Ran wasn’t talking about the business or the latest cricket match, he was talking about fishing.

“Well, maybe you should take some time off and visit for a weekend. I’ll be staying there for a few weeks.”

“A vacation? That’s unlike you, Shekhar.”

“Not exactly.” He told them about the Crown and Miriam Bateman, and the town meeting scheduled in June. “It’s my personal time, but it’s an unofficial working vacation.”

“Ah. Apples don’t fall far from the tree. Just like you, Ran, he doesn’t know how to relax.” Sanjay toasted him with his drink.

Ranjeet ignored him. “I remember that old theater. I took you kids to see all the Indiana Jones movies there. Shame it closed.”

“There’s a new big theater in Welksville.”

“Yes, but these old independent movie houses are an endangered species, you know. A whole industry has collapsed because of digital projection.”

“For someone whose business revolves around selling the latest and greatest in technology, I wouldn’t think you’d defend the obsolete for nostalgia’s sake.”

“You can’t put a price on nostalgia. Theaters like the Crown remind me of the ones I went to in Mumbai as a teen...” He lapsed into Hindi as he described the classic Bollywood films he’d seen when they were still new then, and how he’d met his wife, who’d been a movie set manager back in the day. Shane’s connection with his Indian roots had always been tentative at best—he’d been born and raised in New York and had lived all his life in the Tri-State area. While he appreciated his father’s point of view, Shane was a man of the here, now and future.

“Well, the Crown’s defunct. It’ll be condemned before it ever opens again,” Shane said. Strangely, the thought made him feel a bit guilty.

His father shrugged. “Too bad. But you know what they say. ‘Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or the present are certain to miss the future.’”

Shane narrowed his eyes in thought. “Gandhi?”

Ranjeet frowned. “No, JFK. Read a book now and again, son.” He went to refill his drink, limping slightly.

His cousin chuckled. “Gotta give your dad credit. His health’s not the best, but his mind is sharp as ever.”

Shane thought about the condo in Everville, about how nice it would be for his parents to have a place to retire to. He prompted his cousin. “Sanjay, I was wondering if you’d help me with something. How are your hacking skills these days?”

“Depends,” he said slowly.

“Nothing illegal, promise. I’m just trying to learn more about Miriam Bateman. I can’t find anything about her on the internet. She’s like a ghost.”

“You mean she’s smart.” Sanjay smirked. “It’s not safe out there with all the weirdo real estate developers stalking you.”

“I’m not stalking her. I just want to find out what she likes, what her interests are. I need to connect with her. Can you help?”

“Sorry, that’s beyond my skill, though I do have an old buddy from MIT who might help. He’s a private investigator who specializes in digital identities.”

“Yes. Perfect. That’d be great.”

Sanjay sent him an odd look. “You sure you’re not stalking her?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” He suppressed the exasperation climbing through him. Why did his family think he was such a creep? He was only doing his job. “All I’m interested in is the building, and she’s pretty much the last hurdle. The rest is up to town council, but at this stage I doubt they’ll turn the project down.”

“You mean turn you down.” Sanjay grinned.

He toasted his cousin. “Tell me more about this PI.”

CHAPTER SIX

SHANE DIDN’T GET back to Everville until the middle of the following week. He’d had paperwork to do at the Sagmar offices, and then he’d had to arrange for a more permanent place to stay for his “vacation” and pack. The B and B was nice, but he needed a better Wi-Fi connection if he was going to work. He wouldn’t waste this vacation relaxing.

He found a sublet near Silver Lake—a little house just down the road from the beach, much like the place his family used to vacation in. It took him an additional day to settle in. He bought groceries, set up the internet connection and then made some phone calls. The PI Sanjay had recommended worked fast—he’d already emailed a preliminary report on Miriam Bateman. Shane sat down to read it.

Miriam Bateman

Born: December 1, 1986,

Hudson Falls, NY

Parents: Jeannie Ansen (mother)—deceased (overdose)

Richard Bateman (father)—incarcerated at Rochester Penitentiary, serving twenty years for drug possession, drug trafficking, possession of a firearm, perjury in the first degree, contempt of court, assault on a police officer...

The list went on. Shane grimaced. He kept reading.

Education: BA in Film Studies, CUNY

Currently employed: Freelance writer for various publications under the pseudonym M. J. Baille.

A list of writing credits was included, with hyperlinks to her articles. She wrote on a number of subjects, mainly about pop culture, with copious movie and book reviews. Shane read through a few of the shorter ones. Her tone and style were whip-smart and a little snarky. And these weren’t just typical plot summaries with thumbs up or down: they delved into deeper issues, criticizing Hollywood for its lack of diversity and strong roles for women. She went on at length about several films that had missed major storyline opportunities. She dissected the themes and significance of several works.

He found more articles by M. J. Baille on the decline of independent second-run theaters. She waxed on about the lost nostalgia of the smaller theater. She complained about how difficult it was to fill seats in expensive megaplexes with good independent films when people could download movies illegally. It seemed she knew everything there was to know about the movie industry, and had even interviewed some of Hollywood’s biggest names.

Shane sat back after nearly three hours of intense reading. It was fascinating stuff, and he agreed, or at least sympathized, with some of her views. No wonder she was so invested in the Crown. It wasn’t just a representation of her grandfather’s legacy—it was the last stronghold in her ongoing war against change and progress.

Prying the property from her hands would be a lot more difficult than he first thought. But every battle had a turning point, every defense a weakness. He just had to find hers.

* * *

MIRA CLOSED HER laptop after a long, hard day of writing. Her neck cracked as she rolled her shoulders. She really needed to get away from her desk more often, but freelancing meant longer hours and more work by necessity. People often smarmily remarked on how nice it must be to work from home in her pajamas, but they had no idea how hard she worked for so little pay and zero benefits or job security. Frankly, she’d probably be better off if she served coffee at the local café. Human interaction and food service were not her calling, however. The lingering smell of burned soup was proof of that.

Her thoughts strayed to Shane. He had said he’d be back Monday, but he hadn’t phoned, emailed or come by, and it was now Thursday. Not that she was expecting him to—in fact, it was a good thing he hadn’t. Maybe he’d finally given up.

That was only wishful thinking on her part, though. Since Grandpa’s passing, she’d felt as though she’d been waiting for the other shoe to drop. That shoe was the demise of the Crown. If she didn’t get the theater open and generating income again, the city could condemn the building.

Mira rubbed her eyes. Worrying about it wouldn’t solve anything, and she didn’t need another sleepless night. She needed to relax.

She rummaged through her collection and pulled out Casablanca. It’d been her and Grandpa’s favorite movie. She’d cut her teeth on film storytelling listening to him talk about all the ways it’d become the timeless classic that it was. She’d made it the subject of numerous projects and essays in film school.

She popped the DVD into the player connected to the older model digital projector she’d bought secondhand online. It wasn’t a theater-quality piece of equipment—it was mostly used for office presentations and not much good for projecting on anything bigger than Mira herself, plus the replacement bulbs were hard to find—but it was better than her laptop screen. She’d always believed in watching movies the way they were meant to be watched.

As the on-disc commercials and advertisements played, she put a bag of popcorn into the microwave, then on a whim, decided to hook herself into the harness to have another go at that busted rig coupling. She didn’t need to sit through the film to enjoy it—she knew all the lines by heart, though she did love that moment when Ilsa meets Rick again for the first time in the film.

In short order, she was hooked into the rig and was pulling herself along the track, checking every inch as she went. The broken coupling that joined one part of the track to the next was bent just enough that she couldn’t get the wheels of the stock to jump the gap. Replacing it would be best, but the more she looked at it, the more she wondered if shifting it a few millimeters over would solve the problem. She studied the bolts in the ceiling—she wasn’t sure she had the equipment to take them out, or the strength, but she had to try.

Stretching, she pulled herself up and grabbed the wrench from her tool belt. She could barely get a grip on the bolt. Her arms were about two inches too short to get any real purchase, but she twisted anyway, torquing her whole body in the hopes that something would give.

Something gave, all right. Her biceps protested sharply, and pain shot through her wrist. The wrench clattered onto the stage below. The sudden release of tension made her tip downward, almost headfirst, and the sudden shift in weight made her spin in place. She flailed, trying to right herself like a wildly tilting helicopter blade. Tools slipped from her belt and rained down onto the stage below before she managed to grab hold of the track to stop her wild midair pirouette. She caught her breath and waited for the world to stop spinning.

That had never happened before. She looked up and groaned: part of the ceiling where the track was bolted had come loose. A steady drip of dirty brown water leaked from the gaping hole.

No need to panic. The track was still connected, so all she had to do was pull herself back to the catwalk. She reached for the tether rope, then swore when a tug didn’t return her to safety. The rope had tangled up around the rig.

She spent ten minutes trying to use the slack to get it unlooped from the tangle, but it was hopeless. She gave a frustrated whimper as the music in Casablanca swelled. She had no choice—she’d have to call Arty or Janice to help get her down.

And get yelled at, most likely. She could just imagine the smug satisfaction with which Arty would tell her he’d been right about the rig. Or the utter disappointment and worry on Janice’s aged face as the older woman gently told her for the billionth time that everything she did was risky and dangerous. She set her teeth as she pulled out her cell phone. At least that hadn’t fallen in her wild spin.

The perimeter alarm chimed. The feed brought up an image of a tall man in jeans and a T-shirt with something in his arms.

It was Shane Patel.

Relief and elation flooded her, overriding the dread that came with confronting the man after her public breakdown. In spite of her humiliation, she’d never been so glad to see the real estate developer.

She dialed his number. She’d programmed it into her contacts list after he’d given her his card only because she wanted to make sure she could screen his calls, not because she’d ever intended to call him.

“Shane Patel.”

“Mr. Patel, it’s Mira—Miriam Bateman.” She was a little chagrined by how breathless she sounded. “I can see you’re standing outside the Crown.”

He paused. She imagined he was searching for a camera.

“The back door is open. Listen, I’m in the auditorium. I... I need your help.”

“Is everything all right?”

“I just need you to hurry in, please.” She didn’t want to be beholden to him, but she’d prefer he help her down rather than Arty or worse, the fire department.

“Okay, hang on. I’m keeping the line open. Are you hurt? What’s the problem?”

Mira hesitated. “It’s kind of hard to explain.”

“Not another fire, I hope?”

“No.”

“Are you sure you’re not hurt? Do you need an ambulance?”

“I’m fine. Just get in here,” she said impatiently.

She heard the outer back door groan open. His footsteps were muffled by the carpeting, and then the doors to the auditorium opened. “Miriam?”

The music to the film chose that precise moment to swell. Ilsa and Rick, meeting again after years apart. Her face flushed as Shane approached the stage, his head swiveling as he scanned the rows of worn velvet-covered seats. “Ms. Bateman?” he called again. “Where are you?”

“Up here.”

He squinted and shaded his eyes against the floodlights above her. “How...?”

“It’s a fly rig,” she explained. “It was installed years ago for a production of Peter Pan. I was doing some maintenance, but the track broke loose and I’m stuck.”

“Holy—” Shane leaped onto the stage and stared up into the fly gallery from beneath her. Thank God she wasn’t wearing a skirt. “I’ll call the fire department.”

“Please, don’t. I’m fine. The rig will hold.” She hoped. “I just need to get down.”

“How?”

“My lead line is tangled.” She gave the rope a wave to demonstrate. “If you can find a long stick or something to get it off the rig, I can pull myself back.”

He disappeared behind the heavy, faded curtain. She could hear him rummaging around. “I don’t see anything here. Is there a broom or something in your office?”

“No. A rope will do, if you can throw it to me.”

He reappeared a minute later, rope in hand. “How’s this?”

“Great! Now, the ladder to the catwalk above the stage is to your right.” She pointed. “Climb up and throw me one end.”

He looked up, frowning. “Maybe I should just call the fire department.”

“No need for that.” She couldn’t bear it if they saw her like this. And who knew what the fire marshal might say if he discovered she was living here. “A lot of them are volunteers from around the county. They’ll probably be getting ready for bed. Or they might have a real emergency.”

She could see Shane’s brow furrow even from up there, and she got a feeling he was holding something back. “What’s wrong?”

“Is the ladder safe?”

“I’ve never fallen from it.”

“And the catwalk?”

She huffed. “What’s the matter?”

He wiped a hand across his mouth. “I should call the fire department.”

“No! Please, Shane—” she gripped the rope and spun herself around “—I’m begging you. I don’t want them here.” She couldn’t handle a bunch of townspeople shaking their heads at her. Whispering about her. Stupid girl, getting herself tangled up there...

He didn’t look convinced. Desperate, she made a bargain. “Look, if you help me down, I’ll listen to anything you have to say, sit in on all your presentations, whatever. Just don’t call anyone else.”

He hesitated. “All right. Hang on.”

It took a really long time for him to climb the ladder. The rungs rang with each step. The higher he got, the longer the pauses between clangs. Eventually, he reached the catwalk. He gripped both rails, the rope he’d found slung over his shoulder. His jaw worked as he focused on her. He’d gone quite pale.

“Are you all right?”

“I...have a thing...about heights.”

“It’s not that high up,” she assured him hastily, though Grandpa had told her a stagehand had once fallen and broken both legs decades ago. “Just don’t look down.”

“Wasn’t my plan.” His voice was thin, coming out on a shaky breath.