CHAPTER FOUR
Des stood outside Cara’s bedroom door, her hand raised to knock, when she heard Allie’s door open.
“Powwow in Cara’s room?” Allie asked.
“Just wanted to see if she was going to watch TV downstairs tonight,” Des replied. She wasn’t about to go over the whole Dad-Mom-J thing with Allie, at least not then. She was still a little unsettled, and there was no way to predict how Allie would react.
That conversation could wait for another day. After a second full day of painting, Des wanted something mindless. She wanted escape. She wanted TV and popcorn and maybe enough wine to keep her negative thoughts at bay for a while.
“What’s on tonight?” Allie leaned against her own doorjamb just as Cara opened her door.
Des shrugged and said, “No idea. Cara? Any idea what’s on TV tonight?”
“No, but I’m up for a movie.” Cara stood in the open doorway, her gaze meeting Des’s, an unanswered question hanging between them.
“I’ll pass.” Allie disappeared into her room and closed the door.
“Des, about the letters,” Cara whispered as they went toward the stairwell.
“I’m fine, but I don’t feel like talking about it, so let it go, okay?”
“Oh. Of course. But if you want to—”
“I know where to find you. Thanks. Really.” Des descended the steps before Cara. She heard music coming from Barney’s sitting room. “Let’s see what Barney’s watching. Hope it’s a comedy. I could use a good laugh.”
It wasn’t a comedy, but season two of Outlander qualified as escapism, so Des and Cara were all in.
“Hold up. I’ll make popcorn.”
“None for me,” Barney told her. “I’m having wine.”
“Even better.” Cara sat on a low hassock. “Count me in.”
“Why can’t you have popcorn with wine?” Des asked.
“Ruins the ambience. When Outlander is over, we can put on something less intense. We can have popcorn then.” Barney gestured for Des to sit, but Des headed for the hall.
“Popcorn goes perfectly with intensity. I’ll be right back.”
Ten minutes later, Des returned, three wineglasses in one hand and a bowl of popcorn in the other. They watched in silence as Jamie Fraser, the hero of the saga, appeared near dead after the battle of Culloden, and was bracing for his execution only to be saved at the last minute, while in the 1940s, the love of his life, Claire, gave birth to their child.
“Would you time-travel if you had the chance?” Des asked when the show—and the weeping—ended.
“I would,” Barney replied enthusiastically. “I’d love to experience life in other time periods. As long as I could come back to the present for things like medical care.”
“Not me. I’m happy in this century. I like things like air-conditioning, central heat, and indoor plumbing. How ’bout you?” Des turned to Cara.
“I would, as long as I could choose the period and what I wanted to see while I was there.” Cara appeared to ponder the possibilities. “And yeah, I’d have to be able to come back whenever I wanted. So you could watch something unfolding—like the American Revolution—but come back before it got bloody or scary.”
“So you’d want to observe but not participate,” Des said.
“I’d participate until it got dangerous. Or bloody. Or scary.”
“Wimp,” Des teased.
“Totally,” Cara readily agreed.
“I’ll have some of that popcorn now.” Barney held out her hand.
Cara held up the empty bowl. “We ate it all. I’ll make more.”
As she began to rise, Allie called from the hallway, “Cara, can I borrow your car? I want to go to the drugstore to pick up some nail polish.”
“I have some you can borrow,” Des told her.
“I feel like getting out for a few minutes, but thanks.” Allie poked her head into the room and looked at Cara. “Would it be okay?”
“Sure. You know where the keys are.”
“Why don’t you walk? The drugstore is only a block and a half away,” Des reminded her.
“I want to go to the one out on the highway, in the shopping center. They have a better selection.”
Cara rose, the bowl in her hand. “I’ll be back with popcorn in about ten minutes.”
Allie followed Cara from the room, and Des could hear their voices without making out the words as her two sisters walked toward the back of the house.
“By the way,” she said to Barney, “Heather Martin called me awhile ago. She checked around and got the name and number of a guy who teaches at Althea College who’s not only interested in local history, but also writes grant proposals for organizations that are looking for funding. His name’s Greg Weller.” She got up and sat opposite Barney to face her. “Heather said he’s been working with the historical society in Carleton, which she said is about thirty miles from here.”
When Barney nodded, Des continued. “He’s the one who helped their symphony orchestra get funding and organized their efforts to have Carleton’s first dwelling obtain historic designation. Maybe he’ll have some thoughts about applying for grants for the theater. It would help big time if we could get an influx of cash, however much it might be.”
“Well, don’t start spending it yet, kiddo. Grants take time. There’s endless paperwork.” Barney rolled her eyes. “Years ago, when we were thinking about buying the old Stockton mansion to use as our town hall, we applied for several grants.”
“How’d that work out?”
Barney snorted. “The house sold before we could even get our paperwork together. It’s time-consuming, so keep that in mind.”
Des couldn’t hide her disappointment. “I was hoping it worked more like applying for a loan.”
“Not quite.”
“I guess the grant person, Greg Weller, will tell me the same thing when he calls back. If he calls back.”
“Well, the money hasn’t run out yet, so don’t be discouraged. And the ideas you have for raising funds are good ones, though none of them will bring in tons of cash. But I think you’ll find you can count on people in the community becoming more interested in the theater and more willing to support it the more they hear about it. Publicity is a good thing, Des. Get people behind your project, and I think you’ll find things will begin to fall into place. I’ve already got more than a dozen folks digging around in their attics for old photos.”
“I hope you’re right.” Des picked up the wine bottle and poured a small amount into her glass. “Dad’s will didn’t stipulate what would happen if we weren’t able to complete the renovations with the money he left for the project.”
“Oh, in that case, I suppose you’ll have to stay in Hidden Falls until you can afford to finish the job.” Barney grinned. The thought of her nieces on an indefinite stay obviously made her happy, and Des said so.
“Of course it would make me happy.” Barney drained her glass of the remaining wine. “I never realized I was lonely until the three of you showed up, and then I wasn’t. You’ve made an enormous difference in my life.” The grin had faded and she became serious. “As harebrained as my brother’s idea was, making you three come live here, I have to say I’d plant a big kiss on his cheek to thank him if he were alive.” Barney rose and put her hand out for Des’s empty glass. “Best thing that’s happened to me in years. I never had children, as you know, so having the three of you is a gift.”
“So for you, Dad’s will had an unintentional silver lining.” Des pondered Barney’s admission of loneliness. It reinforced her growing suspicion that by spending so much time in the past, Barney’d denied herself a future. How, Des wondered, do we help her move forward?
“Unintentional?” Barney scoffed. “There was nothing random about any of this. I think he knew exactly what he was doing, bringing you all to me the way he did.”
“What are you saying, that you think Dad did all this because he thought you were lonely?”
“That was just a small part of it. The last time I saw him, I admitted the thought of living the rest of my life alone . . . well. That was beginning to weigh on me a bit. But he knew as well that you and Allie were, well, let’s say estranged, and he knew that Cara was alone. I think he wanted us all to be a family, Des. The theater was just the vehicle. Something to think about, dear. Now this little girl should take her last walk of the night. Come on, Buttons. Let’s take a stroll around the backyard.”
Buttons hopped off the love seat and followed Barney out of the room, leaving Des alone to wonder if Barney might be on to something.
Barney’s words reminded Des of that other Fritz, the one who’d been thoughtful and caring. The one who paid attention when you talked, who asked you what you thought or what you wanted. The one you always believed knew you. That Fritz wouldn’t be so easily dismissed.
Then again, the Fritz who left Hidden Falls with Nora, leaving behind an apparently brokenhearted J, only served to reinforce what she’d long since come to believe. Love didn’t last, and in the long run, wasn’t worth the pain. Nothing in Des’s personal experience had ever shown her differently.
Which was why she was adamant that she and Seth would never be more than good friends. She liked him way too much to ever fall in love with him and risk the type of heartbreak that always seemed to follow.
Allie sat in the parking lot, engine running, the lights off, and waited until the pickup made a wide U-turn and headed for the highway. She’d parked far enough away that the driver wasn’t likely to have seen her, but she hadn’t wanted to risk it, hadn’t wanted to have to make excuses if she ran into him inside the store. Not that she was doing anything he hadn’t done, and it certainly wasn’t against the law for a woman well over twenty-one to walk into a state liquor store and make a purchase. But still, she’d have to speak to him, and that was the last thing she wanted to do.
Ben Haldeman just seemed to be everywhere these days.
She watched the taillights disappear onto the highway before getting out of the car. She walked across the lot and pulled hard to open the door, which she remembered from previous visits weighed a ton.
She knew exactly what she wanted and where to find it.
“Mrs. Monroe.” The young clerk nodded to her as she passed the counter and she flashed her best smile in return as she headed toward the third aisle.
She selected one bottle, hesitated for a moment, then added a second before heading for the counter.
“I see you found what you were looking for.” Kevin, the clerk, couldn’t have been more than twenty-five and he never made eye contact for more than a second.
“I did. Thank you.” Allie paid in cash, then with one more smile, left the store.
Once in the car, she was tempted to open one of the bottles, but she knew better than to take a drink and drive back to town. With her luck, that pesky chief of police would be the first person she passed, and he’d pull her over just for the hell of it. The fact that she’d witnessed him coming out of that same liquor store wouldn’t matter to him.
She drove a little farther up the road to a bar, where she picked up a six-pack to replace the two bottles she’d taken earlier in the week. Pennsylvania’s laws regarding where you could buy or sell wines and liquors as opposed to beer, in her opinion, were inconvenient and made no sense at all. If you wanted wine or hard liquor, you had to go to a state-owned store that was operated by the state’s Liquor Control Board. But if you wanted more than a six-pack of beer—which you could buy in a bar—you had to go to a beer distributor. She had read in the Scranton Times-Tribune that the law, which had been established following the fall of Prohibition, had been changed to permit wine and beer sales in certain approved supermarkets beginning in 2017, but none of the local markets were on the list.
Once back at the house, she stuck the two bottles of vodka, still in their bags, into her carryall, which she’d selected because it was large enough to hold her purchases. Not that it was a crime to drink. She just didn’t want to share—or explain. She just wanted to go back into the house and retreat to her room, where she could enjoy a cocktail or two in peace and forget about the things in her life that she couldn’t change.
Like her divorce, or the fact that her ex had talked her into letting Nikki go to a private school conveniently located near his house. Which just happened to be most inconveniently located far enough from hers that Nikki ended up staying with her father during the week and with Allie on the weekends, an arrangement that had effectively flipped the custody agreement upside down.
Allie hadn’t wanted the divorce from Clint. She’d always thought he was the only man for her and that she’d love him till death. Their marriage wasn’t perfect, but whose was? It wasn’t until after he’d asked for the divorce that she acknowledged all the things that had been wrong between them. Now, when she looked back at their marriage, she saw all the cracks that neither she nor Clint had tried to fill. The best thing to come from those fifteen years was their daughter. Nikki was the bright spot in Allie’s life, the only person she’d give her life for without hesitation or regret.
The divorce had come with an unforeseen pitfall. Clint had given her his share of the equity in the house they’d shared—the house she’d found and decorated and loved—but the maintenance and taxes, combined with her half of Nikki’s hefty tuition, stretched her assistant director’s salary to the limit. With Nikki living with Clint almost all the time now, he’d stopped paying child support. And when the TV show she’d been working on was canceled, Allie’d had to face the fact that she’d have to sell her home. She’d put it on the market shortly before she learned of her father’s death and the strange terms of his will, but then took it off, as her potential inheritance allowed her to rent the house rather than sell it. Eventually, she’d be able to move closer to Nikki’s school, which would mean Clint would have to honor the original custody agreement. Only the thought of having her daughter with her during the week—every week—kept Allie in Hidden Falls. She knew if she could stick it out until the theater renovation was completed, life would be good again.
That she was lonely as hell for her daughter, well, that was the price to pay for her temporary move to Hidden Falls. The long-run payoff would be worth it.
If she needed a little help getting from here to there, who could blame her?
She’d seen lights on in the sitting room and was pretty sure the others were still in there. She went into the house as quietly as she could and hung the key on its hook next to the back door. She opened the refrigerator and placed two bottles of beer behind the carton of orange juice. She thought about taking the other four to her room, but even on her worst night, Allie would put her foot down at drinking warm beer. She put the others on the second-to-the-last shelf in the back, where they easily could have been overlooked. She could hear the others watching television in the sitting room, so she poked her head through the open doorway to let Cara know her car had been returned safe and sound.
Des was on the floor on a large cushion, a sleeping Buttons on her lap, the dog’s four legs in the air.
“You realize that dog is snoring.” Allie couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious.
Des nodded. “That’s because she’s comfy and happy and feels safe. If she could purr, she would.”
“If you say so.”
“Every dog should be this lucky. They all deserve a home like this. It’s why rescue is so important.”
“Thank you for the PSA. See you all in the morning.”
“Hey, come watch a movie with us,” Cara called after her.
“I’ll pass,” Allie said.
“Wait, let’s see the nail polish.” Cara held her hand out. “What color did you get?”
“Oh. I didn’t find anything I really wanted. Just feeling picky tonight, I guess. Thanks for loaning me your car, though.”
“You’re always welcome to use it. You know that.” Cara held the remote control in her hand. “You sure you don’t want to join us? We just discovered Barney’s never seen The Princess Bride. Hard to imagine, right?”
“Inconceivable!” Des quoted one of the more well-known lines from the movie.
“Not my favorite, but you all enjoy.” Allie turned to leave the room.
“Are you okay?” Cara asked.
“Just a headache. I’m going to go up and lie down.”
“Let me know if you need anything.” Cara’s eyes shifted from Allie’s face to the large bag, as if she suspected what was inside.
Allie sensed Cara knew there’d been no stop at the drugstore.
“I hope you feel better, dear.” Barney’s face showed some concern. “This is the third headache you’ve had in as many weeks. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to make an appointment for you with Dr. MacLeod?”
“No, no. That’s not necessary. I’ve always been prone to headaches. It’ll pass, but thanks.” Allie walked to the kitchen with a sigh of relief. She needed ice and a glass. “Any lemonade left?” she called back to the sitting room.
“Should be some in the door,” Cara replied.
Allie filled a large glass with ice, then poured in as much lemonade as she could without causing an overflow. She took a sip or two, then headed for the steps and began her climb up the winding stairwell.
“Dr. MacLeod?” Allie heard Des ask. “Any relation to Seth?”
“His sister,” Barney replied.
There’d been more conversation, but Allie was too far up the steps to understand what was being said. Once inside her room, she locked the door and went into her bathroom for the glass she kept there. She scooped a few ice cubes into her glass, then poured in some of the lemonade. Back in her bedroom, she sat in the chair next to the window and removed the bottles from her bag. One she slipped under the chair, the other she opened. She raised the window sash and topped off the lemonade with the vodka, then set the bottle on the table next to her.
“One for now, one for later,” she whispered before taking a long drink.
From the window, Allie could see the path that led through the woods to the falls.
“The hidden falls of Hidden Falls,” she murmured.
She took a sip and thought about the falls into which Barney’s fiancé had fallen and where he’d drowned years ago.
At least Barney and Gil had never had the pain of growing apart, of watching their relationship shrivel and die. They’d never argued over the kids or money or who spent too many hours at the office or worked on weekends. Or who they were texting in the middle of the night.
Allie heard Cara’s bedroom door close, and moments later she heard Barney and Des chatting at the end of the hall, then the sound of floorboards squeaking, and two more doors closing. The house fell silent except for the occasional tap of the pipes and the whoosh of breeze through the trees.
Allie pulled the chair closer to the window, opened it a little wider to bring in more of the breeze, then poured herself another drink. She watched the leaves on the trees sashay from side to side as the wind picked up. When she finished the drink, she pulled the throw from the back of the chair, wrapped it around her, and fell into a deep sleep. She awoke the next morning, surprised to find the throw, the chair, and the window ledge soaked from the rain that had blown in through the open window. She stood unsteadily, her head pounding, wet clothes clinging to her body, her hair a long, pale, damp mess.
“Ugh.” She grabbed her phone in one hand and held her aching head in the other and shuffled into the bathroom. She peeled off her wet things and, still holding her head with one hand, got into the shower hoping to melt off the chill and chase away the hangover.
After a day of rain, the temperature took a dive toward cool, so before heading off to the theater in the morning, Des slipped on a favorite sweater over black pants. Normally she’d wear a sweatshirt and jeans, or something equally casual, but this morning, she had a ten o’clock appointment with Greg Weller, and she wanted to show a little bit of polish. After all, the man was not only a professor at the local college, but one who might be able to help obtain some funding for the theater. She knew there was truth to the old adage you only get one chance to make a first impression, and she wanted to make a good one. She even swiped on mascara and lip gloss before leaving the house.
“My, don’t we look spiffy this morning.” Allie had stood back and assessed her sister’s appearance. “Wherever you’re going, it must be important. You’re not wearing denim in any form. And I find the sight of you in something other than one of your tacky T-shirts curiously disturbing.” She ran her hand up Des’s arm. “I didn’t know you even owned any cashmere.” Allie glanced down at Des’s feet. “And you’re wearing real shoes. Oh, let me guess. Those ratty old tennis sneakers of yours finally fell apart.”
“I’m wearing this sweater because all my T-shirts with tacky sayings on them are in the wash. And I’m saving my ratty sneakers for our next night out at the Bullfrog.”
“Well, if you can’t wear the latest in country chic to the only bar in town, where can you wear it? So where are you going?”
“I’m meeting someone at the theater to discuss the possibility of having him work with us to obtain a grant.” Des paused with her hand on the back door. “Where are we with the Art Department from the college?”
“I’m waiting for Dr. Lindquist to call me back.” Allie looked at her phone and scrolled through her calls. “Oh wait. She called last night.” Allie frowned. “Where was I?” Then a shrug. “Whatever. I’ll call her this morning.”
Des walked to the theater, dodging puddles from last night’s storm. As she crossed the street, she noticed a man standing in front of the building, looking up at the marquee, which was still covered with boards. He turned when she drew closer.
“Des Hudson?” he asked tentatively.
Des nodded.
“Greg Weller.” He approached with his hand extended to her and stepped out from under the marquee into the sunlight.
He was a half foot taller than Des, with straight light brown hair, dark brown eyes, a slender build, and a very straightforward gaze. He pinned Des with those dark eyes and seemed to look right through her.
Cute.
“It’s good of you to come.” She shook his hand and smiled at the directness of his gaze. He was boyishly good-looking and casually but well dressed in khaki slacks and a light tweed jacket over a collarless shirt.
“Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to get inside this old place for the longest time. I’ve heard stories about the Sugarhouse for as long as I’ve been at Althea.”
“How long has that been?”
“I went to undergrad and grad school there, so we’re talking fifteen years.”
Fifteen years would make him just about her age.
“Aren’t you young to have a doctorate?”
“Nah. Actually, I was a late bloomer. Didn’t decide to get a master’s until it occurred to me that I wouldn’t get anywhere without one. Then it seemed foolish not to go all the way with it. Once you decide that your future lies in academia, there’s only one path to get ahead, and that’s with a doctorate. But hey, we’re not here to talk about me.” His attention shifted from Des to the theater. “Can we go inside and take a look?”
“Of course.” Des opened the main door.
“This door is incredible.” Greg stood back and studied the turquoise door, where the tragedy and comedy masks rendered in stained glass took up the top fifth of the door. “Wow. That . . . wow. That’s so unexpected. That window is beautiful.”
“I know. We were surprised to find it, too.”
“Any idea who made it?”
Des shook her head. “None.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it.” Greg was still staring at the glass.
“Neither had we.” She walked through into the unlit theater, found the wall switches, and turned on the overhead lights.
“I don’t know where to look first.” Greg turned a very slow 360 degrees. When he finished, he did it again, as mesmerized the second time as he’d been the first. “The painting here in the lobby . . .” He was at a loss for words as he gazed at the hand-painted vines entwined with climbing roses that trailed around the arched doorways.
“I had the same reaction. We all did.” Des stood in the center of the wide lobby and watched as he tried to take it all in.
“The colors are still so vivid. Any idea who the artist might have been?”
“No clue. There might be a name with the original plans for the building, but we haven’t located them.” Des paused to reflect. “Actually, we haven’t really looked.”
“Do you know who built the theater?”
Des nodded. “My great-grandfather.”
She gave him the short version of how the first Reynolds Hudson had built the theater as a gift to the town and to the miners who’d made him rich working in his coal mines.
“Wow. That’s quite a legacy. But I meant the architect.”
“I’m sure we have that information. I’ll look it up and get back to you.”
“After you called, I thought I should do a little research on the theater. Your father popped up, of course. And you inherited the theater from him? It’s been in your family since it was built?”
“Except for a brief period when it had been sold. My father bought it back.” No sense in going into the whole story of how Fritz had lost interest, sold it, and then bought it back when the buyer ran out of money and threatened to level it. Or of how, when he knew he was dying, Fritz developed a sentimental attachment to it.
“I wonder if your father gave the buyer all the pertinent construction documents.” Greg frowned. “You really should begin to look for those.”
“Why would they be important?”
“Well, if we’re going to write a grant proposal for funds intended to renovate the building, it would make our case stronger if we could name the architect, as well as the artist who painted all the decorative elements. Famous architects and artists always make a project more valuable to the agencies who offer grants. If you’re lucky, it’ll turn out to be someone well known.”
“Because that would add value to the building,” she said thoughtfully.
“Exactly. It makes it easier to get the attention of whichever foundation you’re targeting, because they’re going to want to be part of any restoration that has historic significance. There are only so many dollars to be given out, and there’s much competition for them. So the more historically important buildings—or those with the most important components—will have a better chance to obtain those grants. For example, if it turned out those stained glass theater masks in the front door were created by Louis Tiffany, it would get the attention of a lot of folks.”
“I see your point.” She looked up at the ceiling. “And if we were able to determine that an artist of note did all the painting . . .”
“Right. And if the architect turns out to be someone well respected, you’d be more likely to get what you need.” Greg directed his gaze toward the ceiling. “Could I go up and take a look?”
“Of course.”
Des watched as Greg easily climbed to the top platform, which had been erected the previous evening. He was more athletic than he appeared, and she wondered what his arms might look like under that jacket.
“Have you been up here?” he called down to her.
“Uh-uh.”
“Oh, then you should see how—”
“Uh, no. No thank you.”
“Seriously?” He leaned over the side of the railing and looked down.
Des’s stomach flipped just imagining what the view from there must look like.
“As a heart attack.” She looked away. “Besides, the painting’s pretty much the same up there as down here. Except for the damaged areas.”
“Different perspective, but okay.” He walked the length of the platform, checked out the areas where moisture had caused flaking, then climbed down as quickly as he’d ascended. “This place is fascinating. It would be a crime not to restore it.”
He walked around the lobby, then pointed to the arched opening that led to the seats. “May I?”
“Of course.” Des followed him through the doorway. “We haven’t had the time to begin the renovations on the stage, but it’s in the game plan.”
“What do you need?” Greg walked toward the stage.
“We need new stage curtains, new lighting, a new screen. The stage itself could use refinishing, but I suppose it’s not critical that the wood floor looks new. It looks shabby to me.”
He walked around the orchestra pit and climbed the steps to the stage. “It looks well used, that’s all. Unless you’re planning on hand-sanding and refinishing it yourself, I’d leave that on the back burner until you’re up and running.”
“Good advice,” was all she said, not wanting to point out that since her father’s will hadn’t required her to hang around until the theater was up and running, she probably wouldn’t be in Hidden Falls by the time it was operational. The thought brought an unexpected feeling of hollowness to her stomach.
She showed him the balcony and the projection room, where he made no attempt to hide his interest in the tins containing film from an era gone by.
“I guess it’s too much to hope the old projector’s still around,” he noted.
“It was here. A part was broken, so a friend took it home to see if he could figure out how to fix it.”
From there, they went downstairs into the basement to see the office, and she shared with him the stack of original movie posters that had once been in the glass frames in the outer lobby and outside under the marquee.
“These are amazing.” He flipped through them. “Just mind-blowing. Look at these. Some of my favorite classic films: A Farewell to Arms. The Philadelphia Story.” He paused for a moment at the third poster in the pile. “I don’t know this one. Walk of Fear.” He glanced over at Des.
“My mother.” She tapped the name that was printed in large letters at the top of the poster. “Honora Hudson. That was one of her biggest roles. Her favorite, actually.”
Nora’s last significant role, the last time any studio had put big money behind her since she’d missed so many rehearsals due to morning “headaches.” It didn’t take long for the director to figure out that her headaches were hangovers, but Des saw no reason to go into any of that with Greg.
“Let’s go back up and take another look at the lobby,” she suggested.
They left the office, leaving the posters rolled out on the desk, and headed toward the steps.
“I guess the first thing I should ask is, do you think there’s a chance we could be successful in obtaining a grant?” Des turned off the balcony lights. “And if so, would you be willing to work with us?”
“I’d love to work with you. And I think you could get some grant money. I think the history alone would make the theater of interest to several foundations. Let me talk to some people and see what their thoughts might be. In the meantime, if I could get some photographs of the building, it would give me something to work on.” His eyes raised skyward. “Pictures of the ceiling before the damage and after could be of use as well. We might use them to point out the urgency of obtaining funds.”
“Well, we have some funds left in the account my dad left us, and we’re hoping to have some insurance coverage. We think we’re eventually going to need a grant, because there’s a good chance we’re going to run out of money before we finish. We were just about ready to start refurbishing the seats and replacing the carpets before the storm caused the damage.”
“So you’re looking for funds in the event you’ll need them down the road.”
“It wouldn’t be a good idea to wait until we’ve run out of cash to start looking for a bailout.”
“True enough. And of course, the process isn’t a quick one. The paperwork alone will take time.”
“Which brings us to the question of how much that time is going to cost us. What do you normally charge for a situation like this one?”
“I’ve never really had a situation like this one.” He smiled. “And frankly, I’d consider it a privilege to work with you to put the Sugarhouse back into operation again.”
“No, no, we don’t expect you to not charge a fee. That wouldn’t be right.”
“Des, do you know what I do at Althea?”
“You’re a history professor.”
He nodded. “My focus is on American history. This year, I started teaching a class on the era when coal was king right here in the Appalachians. What you’ve told me about your family—your great-grandfather’s commitment to his miners—is just the sort of material I like to include in my lectures. It makes the history real to know personal stories about the players. I’d like to learn more about your great-grandfather and the operation of his mines and his remarkable philanthropy for the course.”
“I’d be happy to share whatever I know, but I think you should speak with my aunt. She knows much more than I do.”
“I’d love to meet her.” He glanced at his watch. “And I’d love to continue this conversation with you, but I’m going to have to get back to campus. They’re having graduation rehearsal this afternoon, and I’d like to be there with my students.”
“Of course. I appreciate the time you’ve spent with me. I’ll walk you out.” Des headed toward the front door, Greg walking alongside her.
“I can’t believe this place has been boarded up for so long.” He looked around as they walked. “You’ll have to tell me the story of how it came into your hands. I know you said you inherited it from your father, but I sense there’s more to the story than a simple inheritance.”
They left the building, and Des turned to lock up.
“Hey, you’re just the person I’m looking for,” Allie called from the sidewalk.
“Come meet my sister,” Des told Greg.
When they reached the sidewalk, Des turned to Allie. “Allie Monroe, this is Greg Weller. He’s going to look into the possibility of getting a grant for the theater. Greg, my sister Allie.”
“Great to meet you. Des just gave me a tour of this wonderful building of yours. You must be thrilled to be an owner of such a treasure.”
“It’s been a thrill a minute,” Allie deadpanned.
Greg laughed. To Des he said, “I’ll be in touch. I’d like to continue the conversation over dinner one night this week.”
“Great. You have my number.”
Greg turned to Allie. “Nice meeting you.”
Allie and Des watched him walk the half block to his car.
“He’s kinda hot, in a tweedy kind of way. Nice shoulders. Cute face. Great eyes. Nice . . . walk.” Allie nodded slowly. “And he wants to ‘continue the conversation over dinner.’ ”
“To talk about the theater.”
“Over dinner? Please.” Allie leaned over and whispered in Des’s ear, “I bet he thought you were kinda hot, too.”
“Maybe. With any luck.”
“Luck’s got nothing to do with it. He had that look about him. Like he’s really interested. You?”
Des recalled her words to Cara about Seth. “He’s definitely my type.”
Well, Greg did check all those boxes that Seth did not. He was certainly academic enough by anyone’s standards, and she’d always liked that buttoned-down look. She felt a stab of disloyalty to the man she’d professed to be her friend. Then a second stab, this one of regret, as she remembered having walked off without even saying good-bye to him in the park.
“Is Joe here?” Allie was saying. “I thought he said he had some photos of the ceiling. I finally caught up with Dr. Lindquist from the college’s Art Department, and she said she didn’t have time right now to drive out, but if we had any photos she’d take a look at them and get back to us.”
“Joe doesn’t have photos, but I know who does. I’ll take care of it.”