Chapter Seven

“No doubt about it. You got yourself a beautiful fishing boat.” Skeeter Davis wiped dark hands on a rag and accepted a cold beer from Mike. “Runs dry, handles good, and those engines are sweet and clean as a baby’s behind. I don’t suppose you want to sell her?”

“Sorry.” Mike shook his head and plopped into a shaded deck chair. The heat was murderous, but here, with the gulf breeze blowing across Hermia’s stern deck, the afternoon seemed almost pleasant. “My late Uncle Elias would roll over in his grave.” He’d hired Skeeter—the brother of an Air Force buddy—to captain the Striker-44 during her first month at sea. Mike was an experienced blue-water fisherman. He’d packed, helmed, navigated, anchored, and even caught fish from time to time. But there was a huge difference between being experienced and being responsible for the lives of passengers. Skeeter had already earned his fee running the Hermia around the treacherous coastal waters this afternoon.

“You think we’re good for the Bahamas?”

“Should be.” Skeeter stretched out his legs. “Plus there’s plenty boat yards down there if something goes wrong. Long as you’ve got plenty room on your credit card.”

“Break Out Another Thousand,” Mike quoted the old acronym for BOAT. He’d sunk half his savings into Hermia’s long-distance refit during the last few months, upgrading engines, installing state-of-the-art electronics. He planned to live on his Air Force retirement pay—possibly running occasional charters—but there was still a bit of money to draw on if he needed it.

“Well,” Skeeter said, “we’ll head down to the Keys Monday, catch a few fish, see how she anchors. Then if the weather’s clear, we’re good to go.”

“Great,” Mike said with more enthusiasm than he felt. Before last night, he’d been eager to set out on his two-month cruise to the Bahamas and the Caribbean. After last night…. The sad fact was that after last night he’d have preferred two months in bed with Lane. However, Hermia’s maiden voyage couldn’t be postponed. Skeeter had another job lined up, and Mike had scheduled several fishing trips with friends, many of whom had already bought tickets to fly down and meet him.

He drained his beer. “You sleeping aboard?”

“I am.” Skeeter raised an inquiring eyebrow. “You’re not?”

“Dunno. Maybe.” Lane had her daughters, after all. “Unfortunately.” Not that he wanted to come between Lane and her children. Mike loved kids. He’d always wanted his own. Just right now, he wanted their mother more. He wondered if she’d finished working in the auditorium or, if not, if she could find an hour or two to slip away. At any rate, he’d promised to go back and check on the cleanup.

Mike waded through sweltering heat across the parking lot to the Mimosa Theater. A few hours ago, the place had been swarming with amateur handymen busily replacing bulbs, clearing cobwebs, hauling leftover bits of Uncle Elias’ dry dock to the trash. Now, with the space cleared and a thin coat of whitewash brightening the plywood floor his uncle had installed to level the auditorium, the theater had recovered a bit of elegance. It wasn’t huge—two stories, no balcony, room for maybe a hundred and fifty seats—but the inlaid sunburst ceiling was in good condition, and most of the plaster dolphins lighting the walls still had fins.

Mike located Lane in the shabby art-deco lobby, holding a stack of empty pizza boxes. The smell of cheese and pepperoni stirred the beer he’d drunk, making his stomach rumble. “Everyone gone?”

“Just left. There’s extra pizza in the cloakroom.” She set the boxes down and opened a low door. “I hid it to make sure the gidgets would get some—they’re on their way over with Gussie—but all they’ll want is one or two slices.”

“Thanks.” Mike walked through with a sense of déjà vu. The cloakroom—once the secret entrance to a speakeasy—still smelled faintly of cedar hangers, mink coats, and bathtub gin. The coats were gone, the shelves that had been lined with gentlemen’s hats crammed with seat cushions and boating magazines. But the green-paneled walls were just as Mike remembered.

“I used to pretend this was a hideout in Sherwood Forest.” He snagged a slice of pizza and moved a child’s table to look behind an empty bookcase. “Back here. Aunt Esther painted this when I was five.” He heaved the bookcase out of the way, revealing a woodland mural of trees and owls. “Uncle Elias set up targets in front of the stage for me to practice archery.”

“So that’s where all those holes came from. It took two of my high-schoolers all day to patch them in with wood filler.”

“Don’t look at me.” Mike grinned. “Robin Hood never misses.” He ran his hand along a coat rack. “Does the old door still work?” He turned a coat hook and the door, hidden between two strips of paneling, swung inward. “I see it does.”

“You’re kidding.” Lane joined him. “I never knew this was here.”

“Enter ze haunted szpeakeazy,” Mike beckoned in his best Transylvanian accent. “Vollow me eef you dare.” He flicked a switch. Amazingly, a few of the bulbs came on.

Lane took his arm. “Spooky.”

Inside was a narrow room that ran the length of the auditorium, lined on one side with 1920s bistro tables and stacks of dusty chairs. Six windows, bricked over during Prohibition, formed shadowed arches along the outside wall.

“Wow,” Lane said. “We must be under the green room—the actors’ lounge. I never thought to wonder what was here.”

“There’s a room in back where they stored liquor during Prohibition. People used to boat over from Naples, pretend to come to the theater, and sneak in here to drink.”

“Hey.” Lane nudged him. “People came for the theater, too. Famous people like Frank Sinatra used to drop in and even perform. We’ve got lots of old programs and photographs.” She walked to a table covered in looping strips of wood and spider webs. “What’s this? Depression-era sculpture?”

“My hot-wheels track. Homemade.”

“You’re kidding.” She leaned in to examine it and sneezed.

“You know….” Mike pulled Lane back, turning her toward him. Her long dark hair was gray in front with dust. “You know….” He brushed cobwebs away and resurrected Dracula. “Venn I vas twelve, I sought zis vas zee pervect make-out hideavay.”

She looped her wrists around his neck. “Why’s that?”

“Dim light.” Mike backed her toward a stack of furniture. “Privacy. Atmosphere. At the right moment, I’d make a noise and she’d be putty in my hands.”

Soft fingers toyed with his haircut. “Did it work?”

“Hundreds of times, in my imagination. In real life….” He kicked a stack of chairs, sending them clattering. Lane lurched into his arms. “Hey, look.” Mike kissed her. “Success.” He put one hand behind her waist and cinched her close. The action arched her back, leaving her mouth open. He took advantage of the opportunity, sliding his hand down her jeans, loving her soft, squirming response.

Lane tugged his shirt out of his belt and ran her fingernails up his sides.

He shuddered. “How long until the girls get home?”

“Hours. Months. Possibly years.”

“I thought you said Gussie was—”

“Mommy.” Yells echoed from the auditorium. Feet clattered on the plywood floor. “Mommeeee.”

Mike and Lane ducked into the cloakroom, grabbed pizza, and met the hurricane winds of her daughters head on.

“Mommy.” They zoomed in circles around the lobby. “We got to be cowboy-monster-truck-brain-surgeon-fairy-princesses.”

“Brain surgeons, huh? That’s new, isn’t it?” Lane held the pizza out of their leaping reach. “Go wash your hands.”

The girls were swallowed into the theater’s ladies’ room.

Mike pulled an old kid-table and chairs out of the cloakroom and nodded hello to Lane’s friend, Gussie. This morning, managing the photo shoot, she’d been a bundle of fiercely contained energy. Now Gussie looked relaxed and happy, if a little tired.

“How’d it go?” Lane asked, setting out pizza as her daughters returned.

“Fantastic. Better than I imagined, not that that’s ever a surprise where Tom’s concerned.” She waved a computer tablet in the air. “Don’t rat me out—I snuck the rough shots off the computer for you.”

“Ooh. Ooh.” The women bent over the tablet, cooing.

Mike had viewed some of the photography prep when he’d dropped off the girls and had thought it mostly looked like a disorganized mess. Now, in photographs, he saw an artistic blending of costumes and impressionistic props, cleverly framed to make the backdrop of Casa Blanca’s Moroccan architecture feel other-worldly. The plan to use Lane’s friends instead of models had been clever, giving the photographs a human quality that contrasted with the fairy costumes.

“That’s Titania and Oberon,” Mima pointed with greasy fingers that didn’t quite touch the screen. “They’re king and queen of the fairies. Except it’s really Aunt Lacey and Uncle Clay with pointy ears.”

Her sister said, “Demetrius and Lysander both want to marry Hermia. But Oberon makes Demetrius fall in love with Helena, so that’s OK.”

“Sounds complicated.”

Mima pirouetted around the kid table. “And we’re Peaseblossom and Mustardseed.” There were a lot of pictures of the girls. Some cowboy fairies, a few brain-surgeon monster trucks. Scattered between the crazy photos were several shots of two ethereal winged fairy children with luminous blue eyes and flowing, waist-length red hair.

“Oh, Gussie.” Lane’s eyes teared. “They’re wonderful.”

Mike nodded. “Tom’s a patient man.”

“He’s willing to wait until he gets what he wants,” Gussie replied. “Check these.” The last photos showed Tom DeMille dressed in a muscle shirt and leather pants, posing among the other figures. It wasn’t a period costume, but somehow the bad-boy combination of tattoos and muscles added a fitting note.

“Wow, Tom’s hot,” Lane exclaimed, sparking an unexpected twinge of jealousy in Mike. “The man was born to be Puck. How’d you talk him into it?”

“It wasn’t me.” Gussie giggled. “He kept grumbling that the shoot was too saccharine, and Ari told him to put his muscles where his mouth was.”

“It works. It’s wonderful. I don’t suppose he’d let me cast him in the show?”

“Not a chance. You’ll have to draft some other hunk.” Gussie winked at Mike. “Anyhow, gotta go. We’ll bring the costumes back tomorrow, OK?”

“Thanks so much.” They shared a girlfriend hug. Then Gussie left and Lane dropped to the floor to listen to her daughters’ day. Mike took another slice of pizza and leaned against the lobby concessions bar, letting the cheerful babble flow past. His ex-wife Cindy’s girls were just about this age. If things had been different….

Mike shook his head. He’d tried with Cindy, offered to take a desk job, change diapers, even stay home full time. If they’d had kids, the breakup would have happened anyway, except it would have caused everyone a lot more pain.

“Halloo!” A man’s voice interrupted Mike’s thoughts.

“Gramps.” The girls rocketed out of their chairs. “Gramps!”

Judge Talmadge. Mike traded glances with Lane, wondering what her father-in-law wanted. They followed her scampering daughters and discovered the judge and Charity Grambling inspecting the spruced-up auditorium.

“We’re here—” Judge Talmadge started.

“Gramps! Gramps! We got to be cowboy-monster-truck-brain-surgeon-fairy-princesses-Peasebottom-Mustardseeds.”

“Now, ladies.” Judge Talmadge knelt, bringing his face to grandchild level. “What happened to our courtroom voices?”

The volume dropped to an excited murmur.

“Hello, Charity.” Lane didn’t quite cross her arms. “What are—what can we do for you?”

“Your workers took up half the lot, today. Some of our Fourth of July boaters had to park blocks away.”

“That lot belongs to the theater.”

“Technically. But was it necessary to ruin everyone’s holiday? Now that you’re cancelling the auction?”

“We what?” Lane’s face reddened. Mike stepped forward and put his arm around her waist.

“The building failed its inspection. Your public use permit has been revoked by the town council. Didn’t you see the notice?” Charity smiled sweetly. “It’s posted on your front door.”

“Inspection? Permit? What are you talking about? No one uses those doors.” Lane rushed to the lobby. There was a hollow rattle followed by a heavy squeak. A moment later she came back, holding a yellow slip of paper. “I don’t believe this. It isn’t real.”

“It’s real, all right. The township’s building inspector came through yesterday while you were out.”

“But how? Who let him in? Why wasn’t I….” Lane goggled at her father-in-law. “You used my spare keys?”

“Well, Lane,” the judge said, looking a little guilty. “You know the girls’ grandmother and I have never felt this building was safe. The inspector was quite shocked about the state of your stage lighting. He said the whole theater could go up in flames.”

“I know. That’s why those lights are disconnected.”

“You’ve got roof leaks and broken locks. The ventilation system’s out of date. He couldn’t get to the sprinkler panel—”

“They work. We had them serviced two years ago. And all the other stuff—um, most of the other stuff—is getting fixed once I get the auction money.”

“That will be tricky,” Charity said, “since you can’t hold the auction until after the building’s repaired.”

Lane’s fists curled. “But—”

Mike took her arm. “Ms. Grambling, Judge, as building owner, I understand your safety concerns.” He hadn’t liked the look of the wiring, either. “The last thing anyone wants is a fire.”

“Exactly,” Charity crowed.

“But I think we can pull the stage fuses at the electrical box. Then there’d be no possible danger from the wiring.”

“You’d still have power and lights in here. Chafing dishes, cans of Sterno with open flames, extension cords.”

“I’ll cancel the caterers,” Lane offered. “We’ll get food trucks and keep any cooking outside. How’s that?”

“I don’t believe….”

Mike said, “What if we leave the rolling boat doors open? That will create a thirty-foot wide emergency exit directly off the auditorium.”

“Sounds hot and buggy.” Charity sniffed. “Besides, it’s going to rain.”

“We’ll buy umbrellas and set up fans.” Lane stepped forward, planting her hands on her hips. “And anyway, those things aren’t safety issues.

“Maybe not,” Charity admitted. “But today’s the Fourth of July. Tomorrow’s Sunday. The town can’t reissue your permit until business hours on Monday, and let’s see, when was that auction supposed to be? Tomorrow night?” Her upper lip curled. “Too bad.”

“Charity Grambling, that’s just playing dirty.”

“You’re wrong. It’s playing for dirt, which is what this property will be after we bulldoze it to make a nice, smooth parking lot.” She turned to go.

Judge Talmadge rose from speaking to his granddaughters. “I’m sorry, honey,” he told Lane. “Your mother-in-law and I believe this is for the best.”

“Aargh.” She pressed clenched knuckles against her temples. “No!”

Mike stepped forward. “What if I sell the building?”

“What?” Lane stared at him.

Charity turned back. “I’m listening.”

“How about if I promise to sell you the Mimosa Theater building?” Mike asked. “Can you get Lane’s permit restored today?”

“You’ll sign?” Charity opened her handbag and took out a copy of the real estate contract. “Right now?”

Mike’s mind raced. Charity couldn’t bulldoze the building as long as Mimosa Community Theater paid their bills. Meanwhile, without the auction, there’d be no MCT at all. He turned to Lane. “What do you think?”

“It’s your property,” she said thinly. “Do what you want.”

“OK.” Mike took the contract, reread it carefully, and signed. Two phone calls later, Lane’s permit had been miraculously restored.

Judge Talmadge retrieved a stack of Tupperware containers out of a cooler in his Cadillac. “Janet sent these,” he said sheepishly, handing the stack to Lane. “It’s potato salad and ribs from our barbeque. We’ll all be gathering by the causeway to watch the Naples fireworks in a couple hours, if you and Mike care to join us.”

“Maybe,” Lane told him. “Thanks.”

The judge shook hands with Mike. “I hope we’ll have the chance to become better acquainted.”

“I hope so too, sir.”

Mike watched the judge and Charity drive away. “I’m sorry,” he said, escorting Lane and the girls back inside the building and to her apartment stairs. “But at least you’ll have a few weeks before the sale closes to get the theater in order.” She’d lose her home, Mike realized. Charity was bound to kick her out of the flat. “I’m really sorry. I guess I’d better head back to my boat.”

“Sorry?” Lane hugged him. “Are you kidding? I thought we’d lost the theater for sure. You saved our bacon.”

“Bacon.” Mima joined the conversation. “Yum.”

Lane nudged Mike’s shoulder. “Are you coming upstairs?”

“I, um.” He gestured at the girls. “Is that OK?”

“What do you think, gidgets?” She bent and lifted them, one in each arm. “Should Mom and Mike keep shacking up?”

“He’s not going to move in?” Gemma asked.

“Nope. Mike has his own home on the water.”

“And he’s about to sail away? On a boat? Without us on board?”

“That’s the plan.”

Mima asked, “What about sharks?”

“No sharks on board, either,” Mike told her. “They have to get their own boats.”

The girls leaned toward each other across their mother’s chest and held a whispered conference. “OK, he can sleep over,” Gemma pronounced. “On one condition.”

“What’s that?”

“Bacon!” Mima exclaimed.

“And pancakes,” her sister added.

“And sausage!”

“That’s three conditions. But I agree.” Mike held out his hand for a high-five. “As long as you both promise to help clean up.”

“That’s four conditions.” Gemma smacked his palm. “But it’s a deal.”

Mima grabbed Mike’s wrist, left her mom, and swung ape-like across to him. “A cowboy-monster-truck-sausage-pancake deal.”