by Amie Denman
June smiled. “I think we’re going to get along just fine.”
* * *
MEL ROLLED HIS shoulders and ran a hand through his dusty, disheveled hair. The good news was that someone—at some time—had run some new conduit in the Starlight Saloon. That meant he could tie into it and not spend the next three days trying to battle an ancient wiring schematic. Making this theater usable for the summer wouldn’t be the major undertaking he’d expected. Throughout the day, Gerry had pitched in between painting walls and muscling junk into an outside Dumpster.
The bad news was that the job was only three-quarters done but he needed food and a shower too bad to continue.
At seven o’clock, he gave up and loaded his tools in his maintenance truck. He had to put in an hour’s worth of work at the garage and then it would be lights out. Although it wasn’t his parents’ usual day to keep Ross, he’d called them hours ago to pick up the boy from day care at the Lake Breeze. They were used to such calls during the operating season. Ross was probably curled up on his grandpa’s lap right now watching television. Reruns of old black-and-white TV shows. Lucky kid. If Mel got out of here before it was very late, he’d pick up Ross so he could sleep in his own bed.
The hour in the maintenance garage stretched to three, courtesy of a mess made by one of the new hires and an emergency call to a food stand with no power. The food stand was in the Wonderful West, which had just closed. Employees and security guards were sweeping the guests toward the front, so Mel drove his personal truck along the vacant midway, hoping to make a quick fix and head straight home.
The restaurant’s power problem was an easy fix, a tripped breaker. Mel headed for his truck, pajamas and bed becoming more inviting by the moment. He could almost taste the leftover pot roast his mother would have waiting in plastic containers.
However, as he drove past the Starlight Saloon, he noticed a light on inside. He stopped and got out of his truck, cursing whoever left the light on—probably June.
It was definitely June. Because she was still there, alone on stage. On her knees working her way across the stage with black matte paint. Mel paused in the doorway, watching as she rolled paint onto the floor.
“You’ve put in a long day,” he said quietly, afraid to startle her and end up wearing a bucket of paint.
June laid the roller in the tray and sat back. “You have, too,” she said. She used the inside of her elbow to brush stray hair off her cheek. “I thought you were headed for food and a shower three hours ago.”
“I was, but I had to do some cleanup in the maintenance garage. Where’s Gerry?”
“I sent him home after you left. He worked hard today, and he seemed happy to leave.” June smiled. “I think maybe he had a date. Or he was starving.”
“When I was his age, I was always starving,” Mel said.
“And did you always have a date?”
He laughed. “With a cheeseburger.” He fumbled in his front shirt pocket. “Speaking of which...”
“Don’t tell me you have a cheeseburger in there.”
“Nope. Mini doughnuts from the vending machine. I can’t bring you one, but I can toss it.”
“Risky. I’m not a great catch.”
Mel grinned. “Lucky for you, I’m a good throw. Can’t miss.”
He fished a mini doughnut from the half-eaten package and tossed it carefully to June. She caught it left-handed and popped it in her mouth.
“Impressive,” Mel said.
“Had to,” she mumbled, her mouth full of doughnut. “My right hand is full of paint.”
“I’ve never doubted your talent.”
June chewed slowly, keeping her eyes on Mel. “But you’ve doubted other things about me,” she finally said.
He shook his head. “No.”
She resumed painting, only a quarter of the stage to go before she backed out a stage left door. Mel pulled up a chair at one of the many tables in the saloon. Unlike the big theater on the front midway, this one didn’t have orderly rows of pull-down seats numbering in the hundreds. Instead, high-top tables were surrounded by four chairs and scattered around the floor, each of them with a view of the raised stage. The room had an old dance hall feel, like in a Western movie.
“Think I need an audience for this?” she asked.
“Just keeping you company and waiting to offer you a ride home.”
“You don’t have to do that,” she said, her tone implying he was not unwelcome.
“I’d like to help paint, but there’s only room for one in that pattern you’ve got going. Wish I had a cold beer in my front pocket I could toss you next.”
She laughed. “Now, that would be risky. Either I’d miss and splatter it everywhere, or I’d catch it and not give a darn if I finished this job tonight.”
“Could finish it tomorrow,” Mel suggested.
June shook her head, never slowing with her roller. “My big plan is to give this all night to dry so we can walk on it tomorrow—at least a little bit—as we continue bringing this stage up-to-date. I ordered some big props and they’ll be in tomorrow or the next day, and I assume you don’t want to store them in Receiving or Maintenance.”
“You’re right about that.”
“Well, when you’re one-third owner of a struggling amusement park, you have to use your head.” She glanced up and grinned. “Otherwise you’ll have your back against a wall.”
“You’ll probably be glad when you get to the wall—then you can go home.”
“Almost there,” she said.
“You’re not going to be able to walk tomorrow after kneeling all this time,” Mel observed.
She glanced up sharply. “What do you mean?” Her tone was almost confrontational.
“I just mean a job like that is a knee killer,” he said. “I pawn off those jobs on the young guys.”
Her shoulders relaxed and Mel could tell, even from across the room, her expression did, too.
“Oh,” she said. “I see what you mean.”
“You’ve got talent for renovation projects,” Mel continued, filling in the silence as June painted. “Good ideas. A real eye for design. If you ever give up performing, we could put you to work in the maintenance department.”
“I’m never giving up,” June said. Without looking at him, she held up her left hand with her thumb and index finger posed half an inch apart. “I’m this close to getting a part where I can dance and even more.”
“What’s even more?”
“Sing. Act. Have lines instead of only being in the chorus line. I thought I just wanted to dance when I left here years ago.” She paused and a flush spread over her face. Was she thinking about leaving him behind?
June left her words hanging in the musty air between them as she rolled smooth swaths of matte black paint, neatly covering every inch of the stage. After five more minutes of painting in silence, she sat back, roller in hand, and surveyed her work.
“Looks great from where I’m sitting,” Mel commented. “And I’m not just saying that because I’m so hungry I’d consider eating out of this condemned kitchen.”
June laughed. “Think anyone will care if I pitch this roller in the Dumpster when I paint myself out the side door? It’s cheap and I’ll never get the black paint off it—at least not tonight and tomorrow it’ll be too late.”
“Pitch it. Got dozens of those in the warehouse and I sure don’t feel like washing it out tonight. I can get the house lights and meet you outside. Give you a ride in my truck.”
“I’d love to wash some of this paint off my hands.”
“No running water in here yet, not till we get it turned on, which I’ll do tomorrow. I promise. I’ve got some stuff in the truck that’ll take most of the paint off.”
June sent him a crooked, tired
smile. “The man with a solution for everything,” she said.
“And I can make fries and serve up hot dogs if Starlight Point gets desperate enough.”
She shook her head, smiling. “That was quite a day. Looking back on it now, it was the most fun I’d had in quite a while,” June said. “I hope I said thank you.”
“You did. Evie, too. Your brother has no manners, of course.”
June rolled on one more swath of paint. “Okay,” she said, blowing out a long breath, “I’m done. You can kill the lights now if you don’t mind.”
Mel slid off his chair, weary legs complaining, and headed for the control panel by the bar. He’d forgotten he’d left his truck running out front, but now he was glad. The headlights illuminating part of the trail were his only light when he killed the main switch. In the dark, he felt his way around the bar and headed out the front door. It was a short walk around the side of the saloon to the stage door.
He was surprised to find June still sitting on the ground. He figured she’d be halfway to his truck before he could count to five.
“You okay?” he asked.
“Sure,” she said, her voice sounding distant. Maybe she was just tired. Heck, they were all tired. The summer season was always a meat grinder. This year’s improvement projects were taking a toll—not that she hadn’t brought some of that on herself. He hoped she wouldn’t ask about the parade again. He’d pulled the beer truck out of the far corner and looked into it. It was...rustic. And that was a compliment.
She wasn’t moving, a slender shadow on the ground just outside the stage door. She extended a hand toward him in the darkness. “Help a girl up?”
“Sure,” he said, reaching for her automatically. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Uh-huh. My leg is just...asleep. All that kneeling and painting.”
“Told you.”
He could’ve sworn she caught her breath as he pulled her to her feet. She leaned against him, her head on his shoulder. He smelled her hair, just a hint of some kind of berry-scented shampoo. Maybe a little paint and dust mixed in, but still sweet and tempting. He cautiously put a hand on her back and massaged in a small circle.
This is not what I expected. June the flight risk was standing still. Practically in his arms. It was more wonderful and frightening than he cared to admit.
“If I weren’t so tired, I’d stand here all night and let you do that.”
“I’m available.”
“Just a little more until my knee—I mean my leg—wakes up. Then I’ll be out of your hair and you can go home. Long day today,” she said quietly. “Long day tomorrow, long months ahead.”
Mel kissed the top of her head so gently she probably didn’t notice. Even as close as she was now, June Hamilton had been out of reach his whole life, like a circle drawn an inch too wide all around him.
“I should give you that ride I promised,” he said.
June nodded. Mel reluctantly loosened his hold on her and turned them both toward the white path made by his truck’s headlights. He kept an arm around her, and she didn’t make a move to shake him off.
He opened the passenger door and winced at the creaking sound from his aging truck. When June climbed in and he shut the door, the noise echoed in the deserted park.
“Lonely here tonight,” Mel commented.
“Not during the day. I heard the train, the shooting gallery, the Western Streak and the horns on the antique cars all day long.”
Mel leaned on the door frame and regarded June through the open window. “Do you ever get lonely in New York?”
He had no idea what made him say it. The cold steel under his fingertips reminded him he was a fool for asking, for hoping for anything where June was concerned.
“Plenty of people and noise there, too,” she said lightly.
Mel circled the truck and got in the driver’s seat. “Bet they don’t have a shooting gallery where you get twenty-five shots for only twenty-five cents.”
“Have you put in some time there with your son?”
Mel laughed, glad to break the tension for the drive. He started down the Western Trail and along the silent midway to the parking lot. “I save up my quarters all winter long.”
June drew in a quick breath. “What about Ross? Who’s taking care of him tonight?”
Was that genuine concern and alarm in her voice?
“Left him home alone with a phone and a take-out menu. Like I usually do. Made sure he knew where the matches are hidden.”
June punched him lightly on the upper arm. He grinned.
“Sleepover at my parents’ house. I don’t know what I’d do without them. Right now he’s probably wearing superhero pajamas and a goofy smile, sound asleep with my mother’s cat.”
“He’s adorable,” June said.
They crossed the empty parking lot and took the Old Road to June’s mother’s house, where June was staying for the summer. Mel pulled into the driveway and put a hand on her arm before she could slide out.
“Thank you,” he said.
“You’re the one who gave me a ride.”
“But you painted that stage floor so I don’t have to find someone to do it. And you helped me finish those vending-machine doughnuts. Probably saved my life.”
June’s smile shone in the faint light from the dashboard. “Good night, Mel.”
Mel waited until she went in the house before he backed out and headed home. He couldn’t help but wonder...who watched over June when she was alone in the big city?
CHAPTER SEVEN
GLORIA, THE HEAD of the wardrobe department at Starlight Point, rolled a big bin through the back door of the Midway Theater.
“Got costumes for your dress rehearsal today,” she said, giving June a reproving look. “Since you keep forgetting to send your performers over to me in Wardrobe, I thought I better come to them.”
“Sorry,” June said, “we were—”
“Busy. I know. Happens every year. Everyone wants their costumes exactly how and when they want ’em. Think they come out of thin air.” Gloria sighed dramatically and wiped her brow. “I’m used to you showbiz types.”
For decades, Gloria had made costumes for the live shows, decisions about all the seasonal uniforms, and hemmed and altered more clothes than an army needed. In charge of laundry, fitting, ordering and cajoling, she’d shoved people of all sizes and ages into something befitting their jobs at Starlight Point. Staying on her good side, June knew from experience, had many benefits including emergency repairs and other situations where it was good to know a professional seamstress.
June gave the older woman a long hug. “I love you, Gloria,” she said. She laughed and pulled the covering off the bin. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She drew out six sets of sparkling silver costumes for females and six matching vests for the male performers.
“Ooh,” she crooned. “These are amazing. I love this material—I knew it was a winner when I saw it on the bolt.”
“You’ve got a good eye,” Gloria said. “All the costumes are fresh and people are going to be dazzled.”
A good eye. Mel had said the same thing about her work on the theaters.
“Thanks. And thank you for all the extra work you’ve done. I know we don’t usually start from scratch with every single costume, but I wanted this year to be special.”
Gloria nodded, helping June sift through the costumes and hang them on waiting racks backstage. The Broadway revue June had produced required three costume changes, all of them lightning-quick. June’s favorite costumes were the ones with feathers and boas, reminiscent of the glamorous big musicals of the middle of the twentieth century.
“The top hats were tough,” Gloria said as she lined up tuxedos with tails on the rack. “I had
to send back the first ones we ordered because they were cheap-looking. And they shouldn’t have been,” she huffed, “considering the amount we paid for them.”
June had paired elegant red evening gowns with the tuxedos, and she pictured herself wearing one and dancing to the Broadway medley she’d choreographed. It would be so nice to dance in her own show, but this summer was about helping Starlight Point while also helping herself. Resting her knee was her smartest move if she wanted to grab as many years of the spotlight in New York as she could.
She’d get her chance to sparkle on stage in a few short months. If she got the part of her dreams, a lead in White Christmas, it would take her through the fall and holiday seasons and showcase her ability to sing and dance. That role would open doors for the rest of her career. And that show had amazing costumes from the World War II era, a period of Broadway musicals she truly loved.
“Seems to me that planning shows is a real talent of yours,” Gloria said. “In addition to singing and dancing.”
June smiled and warmth spread across her cheeks. Gloria had always been a part of her life, almost like an aunt. A somewhat grouchy aunt who was difficult to please.
“I sat in on a rehearsal yesterday,” Gloria continued, “and this is the best we’ve ever seen at the Point. Of course I’ve only been doing costumes twenty-five years, so what do I know.” She pulled out a red tomato stuffed with pins and draped a measuring tape around her neck. “But I think it’s obvious these shows are going to be a tough act to follow for whoever’s in charge next year.”
June draped a red sequined gown over her arm. The heat drained from her cheeks when she realized the direction Gloria was heading with her praise.
“Just saying it’s a shame you won’t be around next year,” Gloria added, patting June’s arm. “But I know you’re after the big prize. You won’t win a Tony Award burying your light here at Starlight Point.”
Gloria pulled a pair of sewing scissors from her apron pocket and clipped a loose thread from the dress over June’s arm. June scooped more costumes and accessories from the waist-high bin, organizing them according to act and dancer. Methodically, she slipped costumes on hangers and lined them up on the bar. She didn’t resent Gloria’s questions. It was hard to be offended by someone who’d made her first ballet costumes two decades ago and had been a friend and mentor all her life. And Gloria understood...right? June had gone so far, but she wasn’t done yet. Why come within an arm’s length of your dream and not grab it?
