The Sugarhouse Blues

by Mariah Stewart

  The divorce had come with an unforeseen pitfall. Clint had given her his share of the equity in the house they’d shared—the house she’d found and decorated and loved—but the maintenance and taxes, combined with her half of Nikki’s hefty tuition, stretched her assistant director’s salary to the limit. With Nikki living with Clint almost all the time now, he’d stopped paying child support. And when the TV show she’d been working on was canceled, Allie’d had to face the fact that she’d have to sell her home. She’d put it on the market shortly before she learned of her father’s death and the strange terms of his will, but then took it off, as her potential inheritance allowed her to rent the house rather than sell it. Eventually, she’d be able to move closer to Nikki’s school, which would mean Clint would have to honor the original custody agreement. Only the thought of having her daughter with her during the week—every week—kept Allie in Hidden Falls. She knew if she could stick it out until the theater renovation was completed, life would be good again.

  That she was lonely as hell for her daughter, well, that was the price to pay for her temporary move to Hidden Falls. The long-run payoff would be worth it.

  If she needed a little help getting from here to there, who could blame her?

  She’d seen lights on in the sitting room and was pretty sure the others were still in there. She went into the house as quietly as she could and hung the key on its hook next to the back door. She opened the refrigerator and placed two bottles of beer behind the carton of orange juice. She thought about taking the other four to her room, but even on her worst night, Allie would put her foot down at drinking warm beer. She put the others on the second-to-the-last shelf in the back, where they easily could have been overlooked. She could hear the others watching television in the sitting room, so she poked her head through the open doorway to let Cara know her car had been returned safe and sound.

  Des was on the floor on a large cushion, a sleeping Buttons on her lap, the dog’s four legs in the air.

  “You realize that dog is snoring.” Allie couldn’t resist pointing out the obvious.

  Des nodded. “That’s because she’s comfy and happy and feels safe. If she could purr, she would.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Every dog should be this lucky. They all deserve a home like this. It’s why rescue is so important.”

  “Thank you for the PSA. See you all in the morning.”

  “Hey, come watch a movie with us,” Cara called after her.

  “I’ll pass,” Allie said.

  “Wait, let’s see the nail polish.” Cara held her hand out. “What color did you get?”

  “Oh. I didn’t find anything I really wanted. Just feeling picky tonight, I guess. Thanks for loaning me your car, though.”

  “You’re always welcome to use it. You know that.” Cara held the remote control in her hand. “You sure you don’t want to join us? We just discovered Barney’s never seen The Princess Bride. Hard to imagine, right?”

  “Inconceivable!” Des quoted one of the more well-known lines from the movie.

  “Not my favorite, but you all enjoy.” Allie turned to leave the room.

  “Are you okay?” Cara asked.

  “Just a headache. I’m going to go up and lie down.”

  “Let me know if you need anything.” Cara’s eyes shifted from Allie’s face to the large bag, as if she suspected what was inside.

  Allie sensed Cara knew there’d been no stop at the drugstore.

  “I hope you feel better, dear.” Barney’s face showed some concern. “This is the third headache you’ve had in as many weeks. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to make an appointment for you with Dr. MacLeod?”

  “No, no. That’s not necessary. I’ve always been prone to headaches. It’ll pass, but thanks.” Allie walked to the kitchen with a sigh of relief. She needed ice and a glass. “Any lemonade left?” she called back to the sitting room.

  “Should be some in the door,” Cara replied.

  Allie filled a large glass with ice, then poured in as much lemonade as she could without causing an overflow. She took a sip or two, then headed for the steps and began her climb up the winding stairwell.

  “Dr. MacLeod?” Allie heard Des ask. “Any relation to Seth?”

  “His sister,” Barney replied.

  There’d been more conversation, but Allie was too far up the steps to understand what was being said. Once inside her room, she locked the door and went into her bathroom for the glass she kept there. She scooped a few ice cubes into her glass, then poured in some of the lemonade. Back in her bedroom, she sat in the chair next to the window and removed the bottles from her bag. One she slipped under the chair, the other she opened. She raised the window sash and topped off the lemonade with the vodka, then set the bottle on the table next to her.

  “One for now, one for later,” she whispered before taking a long drink.

  From the window, Allie could see the path that led through the woods to the falls.

  “The hidden falls of Hidden Falls,” she murmured.

  She took a sip and thought about the falls into which Barney’s fiancé had fallen and where he’d drowned years ago.

  At least Barney and Gil had never had the pain of growing apart, of watching their relationship shrivel and die. They’d never argued over the kids or money or who spent too many hours at the office or worked on weekends. Or who they were texting in the middle of the night.

  Allie heard Cara’s bedroom door close, and moments later she heard Barney and Des chatting at the end of the hall, then the sound of floorboards squeaking, and two more doors closing. The house fell silent except for the occasional tap of the pipes and the whoosh of breeze through the trees.

  Allie pulled the chair closer to the window, opened it a little wider to bring in more of the breeze, then poured herself another drink. She watched the leaves on the trees sashay from side to side as the wind picked up. When she finished the drink, she pulled the throw from the back of the chair, wrapped it around her, and fell into a deep sleep. She awoke the next morning, surprised to find the throw, the chair, and the window ledge soaked from the rain that had blown in through the open window. She stood unsteadily, her head pounding, wet clothes clinging to her body, her hair a long, pale, damp mess.

  “Ugh.” She grabbed her phone in one hand and held her aching head in the other and shuffled into the bathroom. She peeled off her wet things and, still holding her head with one hand, got into the shower hoping to melt off the chill and chase away the hangover.

  * * *

  After a day of rain, the temperature took a dive toward cool, so before heading off to the theater in the morning, Des slipped on a favorite sweater over black pants. Normally she’d wear a sweatshirt and jeans, or something equally casual, but this morning, she had a ten o’clock appointment with Greg Weller, and she wanted to show a little bit of polish. After all, the man was not only a professor at the local college, but one who might be able to help obtain some funding for the theater. She knew there was truth to the old adage you only get one chance to make a first impression, and she wanted to make a good one. She even swiped on mascara and lip gloss before leaving the house.

  “My, don’t we look spiffy this morning.” Allie had stood back and assessed her sister’s appearance. “Wherever you’re going, it must be important. You’re not wearing denim in any form. And I find the sight of you in something other than one of your tacky T-shirts curiously disturbing.” She ran her hand up Des’s arm. “I didn’t know you even owned any cashmere.” Allie glanced down at Des’s feet. “And you’re wearing real shoes. Oh, let me guess. Those ratty old tennis sneakers of yours finally fell apart.”

  “I’m wearing this sweater because all my T-shirts with tacky sayings on them are in the wash. And I’m saving my ratty sneakers for our next night out at the Bullfrog.”

  “Well, if you can’t wear the latest in country chic to the only bar in town, where can you wear it? So where are you going?�
��

  “I’m meeting someone at the theater to discuss the possibility of having him work with us to obtain a grant.” Des paused with her hand on the back door. “Where are we with the Art Department from the college?”

  “I’m waiting for Dr. Lindquist to call me back.” Allie looked at her phone and scrolled through her calls. “Oh wait. She called last night.” Allie frowned. “Where was I?” Then a shrug. “Whatever. I’ll call her this morning.”

  Des walked to the theater, dodging puddles from last night’s storm. As she crossed the street, she noticed a man standing in front of the building, looking up at the marquee, which was still covered with boards. He turned when she drew closer.

  “Des Hudson?” he asked tentatively.

  Des nodded.

  “Greg Weller.” He approached with his hand extended to her and stepped out from under the marquee into the sunlight.

  He was a half foot taller than Des, with straight light brown hair, dark brown eyes, a slender build, and a very straightforward gaze. He pinned Des with those dark eyes and seemed to look right through her.

  Cute.

  “It’s good of you to come.” She shook his hand and smiled at the directness of his gaze. He was boyishly good-looking and casually but well dressed in khaki slacks and a light tweed jacket over a collarless shirt.

  “Are you kidding? I’ve been wanting to get inside this old place for the longest time. I’ve heard stories about the Sugarhouse for as long as I’ve been at Althea.”

  “How long has that been?”

  “I went to undergrad and grad school there, so we’re talking fifteen years.”

  Fifteen years would make him just about her age.

  “Aren’t you young to have a doctorate?”

  “Nah. Actually, I was a late bloomer. Didn’t decide to get a master’s until it occurred to me that I wouldn’t get anywhere without one. Then it seemed foolish not to go all the way with it. Once you decide that your future lies in academia, there’s only one path to get ahead, and that’s with a doctorate. But hey, we’re not here to talk about me.” His attention shifted from Des to the theater. “Can we go inside and take a look?”

  “Of course.” Des opened the main door.

  “This door is incredible.” Greg stood back and studied the turquoise door, where the tragedy and comedy masks rendered in stained glass took up the top fifth of the door. “Wow. That . . . wow. That’s so unexpected. That window is beautiful.”

  “I know. We were surprised to find it, too.”

  “Any idea who made it?”

  Des shook her head. “None.”

  “I’ve never seen anything like it.” Greg was still staring at the glass.

  “Neither had we.” She walked through into the unlit theater, found the wall switches, and turned on the overhead lights.

  “I don’t know where to look first.” Greg turned a very slow 360 degrees. When he finished, he did it again, as mesmerized the second time as he’d been the first. “The painting here in the lobby . . .” He was at a loss for words as he gazed at the hand-painted vines entwined with climbing roses that trailed around the arched doorways.

  “I had the same reaction. We all did.” Des stood in the center of the wide lobby and watched as he tried to take it all in.

  “The colors are still so vivid. Any idea who the artist might have been?”

  “No clue. There might be a name with the original plans for the building, but we haven’t located them.” Des paused to reflect. “Actually, we haven’t really looked.”

  “Do you know who built the theater?”

  Des nodded. “My great-grandfather.”

  She gave him the short version of how the first Reynolds Hudson had built the theater as a gift to the town and to the miners who’d made him rich working in his coal mines.

  “Wow. That’s quite a legacy. But I meant the architect.”

  “I’m sure we have that information. I’ll look it up and get back to you.”

  “After you called, I thought I should do a little research on the theater. Your father popped up, of course. And you inherited the theater from him? It’s been in your family since it was built?”

  “Except for a brief period when it had been sold. My father bought it back.” No sense in going into the whole story of how Fritz had lost interest, sold it, and then bought it back when the buyer ran out of money and threatened to level it. Or of how, when he knew he was dying, Fritz developed a sentimental attachment to it.

  “I wonder if your father gave the buyer all the pertinent construction documents.” Greg frowned. “You really should begin to look for those.”

  “Why would they be important?”

  “Well, if we’re going to write a grant proposal for funds intended to renovate the building, it would make our case stronger if we could name the architect, as well as the artist who painted all the decorative elements. Famous architects and artists always make a project more valuable to the agencies who offer grants. If you’re lucky, it’ll turn out to be someone well known.”

  “Because that would add value to the building,” she said thoughtfully.

  “Exactly. It makes it easier to get the attention of whichever foundation you’re targeting, because they’re going to want to be part of any restoration that has historic significance. There are only so many dollars to be given out, and there’s much competition for them. So the more historically important buildings—or those with the most important components—will have a better chance to obtain those grants. For example, if it turned out those stained glass theater masks in the front door were created by Louis Tiffany, it would get the attention of a lot of folks.”

  “I see your point.” She looked up at the ceiling. “And if we were able to determine that an artist of note did all the painting . . .”

  “Right. And if the architect turns out to be someone well respected, you’d be more likely to get what you need.” Greg directed his gaze toward the ceiling. “Could I go up and take a look?”

  “Of course.”

  Des watched as Greg easily climbed to the top platform, which had been erected the previous evening. He was more athletic than he appeared, and she wondered what his arms might look like under that jacket.

  “Have you been up here?” he called down to her.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Oh, then you should see how—”

  “Uh, no. No thank you.”

  “Seriously?” He leaned over the side of the railing and looked down.

  Des’s stomach flipped just imagining what the view from there must look like.

  “As a heart attack.” She looked away. “Besides, the painting’s pretty much the same up there as down here. Except for the damaged areas.”

  “Different perspective, but okay.” He walked the length of the platform, checked out the areas where moisture had caused flaking, then climbed down as quickly as he’d ascended. “This place is fascinating. It would be a crime not to restore it.”

  He walked around the lobby, then pointed to the arched opening that led to the seats. “May I?”

  “Of course.” Des followed him through the doorway. “We haven’t had the time to begin the renovations on the stage, but it’s in the game plan.”

  “What do you need?” Greg walked toward the stage.

  “We need new stage curtains, new lighting, a new screen. The stage itself could use refinishing, but I suppose it’s not critical that the wood floor looks new. It looks shabby to me.”

  He walked around the orchestra pit and climbed the steps to the stage. “It looks well used, that’s all. Unless you’re planning on hand-sanding and refinishing it yourself, I’d leave that on the back burner until you’re up and running.”

  “Good advice,” was all she said, not wanting to point out that since her father’s will hadn’t required her to hang around until the theater was up and running, she probably wouldn’t be in Hidden Falls by the time it was operational. The thought brought an unexpected fe
eling of hollowness to her stomach.

  She showed him the balcony and the projection room, where he made no attempt to hide his interest in the tins containing film from an era gone by.

  “I guess it’s too much to hope the old projector’s still around,” he noted.

  “It was here. A part was broken, so a friend took it home to see if he could figure out how to fix it.”

  From there, they went downstairs into the basement to see the office, and she shared with him the stack of original movie posters that had once been in the glass frames in the outer lobby and outside under the marquee.

  “These are amazing.” He flipped through them. “Just mind-blowing. Look at these. Some of my favorite classic films: A Farewell to Arms. The Philadelphia Story.” He paused for a moment at the third poster in the pile. “I don’t know this one. Walk of Fear.” He glanced over at Des.

  “My mother.” She tapped the name that was printed in large letters at the top of the poster. “Honora Hudson. That was one of her biggest roles. Her favorite, actually.”

  Nora’s last significant role, the last time any studio had put big money behind her since she’d missed so many rehearsals due to morning “headaches.” It didn’t take long for the director to figure out that her headaches were hangovers, but Des saw no reason to go into any of that with Greg.

  “Let’s go back up and take another look at the lobby,” she suggested.

  They left the office, leaving the posters rolled out on the desk, and headed toward the steps.

  “I guess the first thing I should ask is, do you think there’s a chance we could be successful in obtaining a grant?” Des turned off the balcony lights. “And if so, would you be willing to work with us?”

  “I’d love to work with you. And I think you could get some grant money. I think the history alone would make the theater of interest to several foundations. Let me talk to some people and see what their thoughts might be. In the meantime, if I could get some photographs of the building, it would give me something to work on.” His eyes raised skyward. “Pictures of the ceiling before the damage and after could be of use as well. We might use them to point out the urgency of obtaining funds.”