by Vicky Loebel
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 c
ooking 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.”
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 sa
y 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.”
