Chapter Eight

“If we shadows have offended, think but this and all is mended, that you have but slumbered here while these visions did appear.”

Lane leaned into the newly-familiar comfort of Mike’s shoulder and joined the applause for her young-peoples’ Midsummer Night’s Dream acting class, anchored with sturdy confidence by Gemma and Jemima’s cowboy-monster-truck-brain-surgeon-fairies. She’d cut the play to thirty minutes for the auction—about half of it chasing around an imaginary forest created by the costume display cases on the floor—and the little production was a hit with guests.

So far, the whole night was a hit. The silent auction, including several bidders who were participating online, had almost reached the amount needed to get the Mimosa Community Theater off the ground. The caterers, working from food trucks, kept everyone fed. And leaving the big boat doors open allowed the party to spill into the parking lot, creating an informal carnival that had attracted much of Mimosa Key. Even the weather cooperated with cooling breezes and a brisk storm front that had produced peal after peal of exhilarating thunder but so far no rain.

Lane handed the gidgets to Clay and Lacey’s daughter, Ashley, with strict instructions that they march upstairs to bed. The newly-formed Mimosa Chamber Orchestra picked up their instruments, and Lane moved through the crowd, discussing theater, the costumes on display, Vivian Leigh and Laurence Olivier’s glamorous Midsummer Night’s Dream production and, inevitably, Lane’s own famous husband.

What was he like? Patient and generous, she reminded herself, passing out head shots Alex had signed in his sick-bed, years ago. At least Mike didn’t have to suffer through the fans. He and Nick Hershey, Willow’s husband, had discovered they were both ex-military and had gone off somewhere to measure their…um…years of service.

Meanwhile, Lane fielded questions. Did Alex enjoy life in a wheelchair? Considering the alternative, yes. Had her daughters gotten their stunning blue eyes and red hair from their dad? Alex was blond. Lane smiled. “Obviously.” Had her husband acted with Vivian Leigh? Lane eyed the teenage blogger who asked the question. How old did she think Alex was? “We didn’t know Vivian personally….”

And so on and on. Lane did her best to honor her late husband’s admirers, knowing they loved him, glad she’d had the real Alex—good and bad—to love. At last, the crowd began to thin.

Lane’s mother-in-law—tolerating Mike this evening with icy civility—swooped in to give Lane her opinion of the event. “You edited Puck’s speech,” she said. “Alex always believed Puck had the most important role in the play.”

Lane shrugged. “Midsummer’s a play that works best when it’s trimmed to fit the audience.”

“I daresay. If you think you’re smarter than Shakespeare.” Janet surveyed the auditorium. “Where’s your donation box?”

Lane hadn’t had a chance to set one up yet. “I thought we’d hold this first event without asking people for extra money.”

“Nonsense. Your startup costs are bound to be higher than you expect. Has Mimosa Community Theater filed for non-profit status?”

Paperwork. Ugh. “It’s on my list.”

Thunder grumbled. A gust of wind rattled the open doors, tugging Lane’s skirt. Mike joined them, apparently unfazed by Janet’s critical stare.

“The food trucks are packing up,” he said. “I think it’s finally going to rain. Can I get either one of you a sandwich?”

“I could kill a Cubano.” Lane realized with surprise it was almost eleven. “But I should mingle and say goodnight. People are heading home.” Thunder rumbled again. The auditorium lights flickered.

Mike kissed Lane’s cheek, throwing her pulse into disorder. She strolled between costume cases, expertly lit and styled by Barefoot Brides, bidding good night, accepting congratulations on the photo exhibit Tom and Gussie had set up showing pictures from the Casa Blanca shoot next to publicity stills of Vivian Leigh and Laurence Olivier wearing the same costumes. The front doors to the faded art-deco lobby were open, and the outdoor sign—Mimosa Theater, spelled in small bulbs over the entrance—lit the docks across the street.

“So?” Willow Hershey, normally the most self-disciplined person Lane knew, skipped through the crowd beside her writer-husband, Nick. “Is this particular midsummer night all you dreamed?”

“It’s so much more.” Lane hugged her. “Thank you.” When Charity forced them to move the catering outside, Lane assumed she’d have to settle for cold sandwiches. Not so, Willow, who’d set up an enormous seafood barbeque surrounded by fruit stands, ice-cream stands, gourmet food trucks—including the one Mike had slipped off to for Cubanos—and, of course, a bar serving mimosas. All this was protected from rain by wedding tents from Barefoot Brides, draped in twinkling colored lights. Casa Blanca had even provided valet parking and set up a shuttle to run guests back and forth from the resort.

“I can’t imagine how much this is costing you,” Lane said as Clay and Lacey Walker came into the lobby.

“Nonsense.” Lacey dismissed her worries. “In the first place, we’re full this week, thanks to your event. That’s not normal in summer, even over the Fourth of July. It’s fantastic publicity, and frankly Casa Blanca needs the write-off. Barefoot Brides, too, I bet. The resort’s having a good year.”

Mike joined them, giving Lane time to blink back tears of gratitude. He asked, “Is the theater set up as a non-profit?”

“It will be,” Lane promised. “Before the week is out. I swear.”

“As long as it’s before the end of the tax year.” Clay laughed. “As a matter of fact, I want to talk to you about another deduction.” He gestured at the shabby lobby. “I’d like to restore this room. It would be a fun Art Deco project for my architecture business. We can draw up plans, pro bono, and work on raising construction funds next year after your big repairs get done.”

“That’s….” Lane let rumbling thunder cover her lack of words. How had she ever come to have such loyal friends? “That’s lovely. I’m not sure the Captain’s Club will allow it, though, once they own the building.”

Mike put his arm around her. “We’ll sign a contract with Clay’s firm before I sell. That ought to tie their sails in a knot.”

“Maybe.”

Thunder roared—a long, echoing series of blasts joined by searing flashes of lightening. Balloons, tied to the valet sign, jerked, bobbed, and popped. Mike and Lane hurried to the lobby doors to hold umbrellas for departing guests. Rain pelted down as a steady stream of cars rolled up from valet parking.

Lightning strobed brighter. There was a crack so loud Lane wasn’t sure she’d heard it. She stood on the sidewalk, dazzled, and felt Mike’s hand reach for hers. When Lane could think again, the world was dark. All up and down Pleasure Pointe, the only illumination came from car head and tail lights, streaked with rain.

Lane ran inside, relieved to find the auditorium’s emergency lights and red exit signs working properly. Another flash and triple bang of thunder ripped the air, followed by less impressive rumbling as the worst of the storm moved on. The last few guests lined up to get their cars.

Javier, Lane’s valet friend, tossed her a cheerful wave. “I see you got that tune up after all, Ms. T.”

“Mind your own business.” Lane couldn’t help smiling. She brushed dripping wet hair out of her eyes, wondering if there’d be hot water when she finally got to bed. Thinking that maybe she and Mike….

Tom and Gussie ran through the downpour around the building from the parking lot. “Everything’s fine outside,” Gussie reported, laughing. “Food trucks are gone. Barbeque’s out and packed up for tomorrow. The judge let a few stragglers into the Captain’s Club so they wouldn’t be huddled under tents during the lightning.”

Lane nodded, partly irritated but mostly grateful to her meddling father-in-law.

“The barbeque’s out?” Mike frowned, wrinkling his nose. “I still smell smoke.”

Mike and Lane went back through the lobby to the auditorium. Water had streamed in through the boat doors, flooding the plywood floor, but all the costumes were safe and dry in their display cases. Outside, the parking lot shimmered pearl gray in the rain, lit by fainter and fainter bursts of lightning.

“Mom! Mommy!” Gemma’s voice came from the stairs. “We couldn’t sleep.”

“It’s too noisy,” Mima complained.

Lane went to meet them. The glow from the lights seemed brighter, or maybe her eyes were getting used to it.

“We smelled smoke.” Ashley held Gemma’s hand and passed Mima to Lane. “I felt the door to the apartment and it was cool, so I brought the girls downstairs.”

The auditorium was definitely less dark.

“Look.” Gussie pointed. High up along the top of the stage curtains was a red flickering light.

Lane felt her life drain out and pool around her feet.

“Call 911,” Mike said. “Get everyone out. The building’s on fire.”