Читать книгу Matinees With Miriam - Vicki Essex - Страница 13
ОглавлениеAT 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.”
