by Vicky Loebel
“There you are,” Mike rumbled behind her.
“Mikey!” The gidgets ran to him.
Lane turned and then hesitated, seeing an unexpected frown. Mike looked like an opera star who’s been locked out of his dressing room, thunderous.
His eyebrows flattened. “You were supposed to meet me at McDonalds twenty-five minutes ago.”
“Oh.” She checked the time. “Sorry. We dashed across the parking lot to order fliers. I thought you’d probably run late with Charity—”
“And Mima’s shoes are untied.” He knelt to repair the offending laces, took the girls by their hands, and marched them out the door into the September sunshine.
Lane fished for a credit card…and then a different card that had room on it…and paid the attendant, arranging to pick up the fliers in an hour. By the time she got to McDonalds, the gidgets were wolfing down chicken nuggets and staring longingly at the play structure.
“Don’t you feed your own children?” Mike sat on a hard plastic swivel chair, drumming his fingertips on the table. “They’re half starved.”
“They’re kids. They burn a lot of energy.” What was his problem?
“And the Caribbean Pirate shirt I brought Mima is inside out.”
“She likes to read it in mirrors.” Lane sat next to her daughters. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing.” He made a never-mind gesture. “I’ll get you a soda.”
“Iced tea. And fries.” This was beginning to look like a conversation that needed carbs. Lane sat with the girls, wondering if now was the time to start worrying about Mike. Had Charity Grambling been spreading malicious gossip? Was he mad that she’d blown money on fliers? Was he actually accusing her of being a bad mother?
“I’m done.” Mima crushed her empty nuggets box and stood on her chair. “Can we go play?”
Mike returned with Lane’s food. “You can start by not standing on the furniture.” He lifted Mima to the ground.
Lane frowned. “You can play,” she said, asserting her role as parent. “After you clear your tray and thank Mike for lunch.”
The girls squealed thanks, bounced off the trash can, shed their shoes, and were inhaled by a pink tube.
Lane braced herself. “So are you mad at me?” She placed the bag of fries halfway between them. “Or did something go wrong at the closing?”
Mike pulled out a salty french fry. “The Captain’s Club withdrew their offer.” He pinched the potato between his thumb and forefinger before squashing it like a bug. “Charity blocked the sale.”
“You’re kidding.” Lane couldn’t believe it. “She called five times last week to make sure you’d be there.”
“It’s my fault. I should have scheduled a private appointment. The escrow agent cut two checks—one for me and one to deposit into the theater’s account. When Charity realized the Captain’s Club was funding MCT, she walked.”
“But she can’t. You’ve got a contract, right?”
“The Club will lose some earnest money. Apart from that, they can do what they want, which is apparently whatever Charity Grambling dictates.”
“Dammit.” There went Lane’s theater seats. “Just damn. But…we can manage. We’ve got electricity, a stage, an almost working sound system. People won’t mind if things are a little rough.” This was community theater, after all. “I’m sure Barefoot Brides can lend me some stacking chairs.”
“A hundred-fifty chairs? All winter? Won’t they need them for weddings?”
Lane winced. Her friends at Casa Blanca had already done too much. “I’ll just…I don’t know. Borrow chairs for a couple of days and take it from there.”
Mike dumped the fries onto the paper mat. “That’s not all.” He smoothed the bag and creased it in half. “I didn’t mention this before, because I planned to take care of it, but there’s a lien on the building. Great-aunt Essie didn’t pay her property taxes during the last seven years.”
“She didn’t? Seriously?” This was the first Lane had heard of it. “For seven years? How much do we owe?”
Mike named an amount. A terrifyingly large amount.
“Oh.” She dug her fingernails into her palms. “Oh. Well.” There went Lane’s salary. “I guess…we’ll have to use the town council grant. It’s not enough, but surely the county will set up some sort of payment plan.”
“It has to be paid in full.” Mike shook his head. “Under Essie’s will, MCT has to cover the building’s expenses.”
“Well, yeah, technically, but this isn’t our debt. Besides, you didn’t sell, so that condition shouldn’t matter….” Lane dug her nails deeper. “Unless you’re kicking us out?”
“Really?” Mike’s hands closed, too. “That’s the first thing you think of? That I’m double-crossing you?”
“No, the first thing is that Charity Grambling is a conniving, manipulative…oh, crap.” Lane got it. “She’s going to kill my grant.”
“The town council grant requires the theater company to remain free of debt. Charity showed me the paperwork. She thinks she can shut you down and get the building cheaper after it’s empty.”
“Can we borrow money for taxes? Privately?” But Lane had nothing. No income. Not even a car. Just the little bit set aside for the girls. “Couldn’t…?”
“I can’t cover it,” Mike said gruffly. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the cash, and nobody will lend that kind of money against my Air Force retirement pay. As far as the bank’s concerned, my boat’s a liability, not an asset. And the Mimosa Theater building has no value except to someone who wants the corner lot it’s sitting on.”
“So that’s it. We’re finished.” Lane felt like she’d been punched in the heart. Punched, pushed into the street, and run over by a fleet of busses. There had to be something….”
“If you give up the theater today, Charity said she’ll still buy the building.”
“Give up?” That wasn’t going to happen. “Walk away?”
“The place can’t run on nothing. Even Essie knew that. It’s either walk out now or get thrown out in a few weeks. At which point, we’ll make a lot less profit from the sale.”
“I can’t believe you want to give in for the sake of a little profit.”
“It didn’t sound little when I was donating it to you.”
“To restore your building.”
“To give you a job.”
“And what will I do after the theater’s gone?” Was this what Mike wanted? “Go with you?”
“Why not? Yes. Come with me. You said yourself the building isn’t important.” He stretched out his hand, but she couldn’t quite take it. “Start a new theater—Shakespeare of the Sea. There’s a community of live-aboard families around the world who will welcome you. We’ll have the girls, financial stability, everything we want.”
“Everything you want. All packed neatly into the Hermia like perfectly-stowed cargo.”
Mike took his hand away. “I’m sorry my offer insulted you.”
“I’m not insulted.” Lane’s head was swimming. “It’s very generous. You’re very generous.” Wait, had Mike proposed? If so, not very romantically. “I’m in shock.”
“What shocked you? The fact this crazy theater scheme—a plan Uncle Elias had the good sense to block for thirty years—finally fell on its face?”
“It didn’t—”
“Or the idea I might possibly ask you to give my life a try?”
“For goodness sake, Mike. You don’t even like your own life.”
“What?”
“You weren’t on that boat five minutes before you moved into my flat.”
“I thought you wanted me there.”
“You spent half the time on your fishing trip talking to me.”
“So we’d have time—”
“Why bother?” Lane interrupted. “Why bother getting closer if all you want is to travel the world?”
“Well, why were you talking to me? To make sure I’d give you the money?”
“Well, I can’t wait for you forever.”
“I never asked you to.”
“That’s right. You didn’t.” Mike got to his feet. “Give me your keys.”
“You’re leaving? Now?” And he’s taking my car? What would Lane do without transportation? How would she get the girls home? “You’re going back to your boat?”
“I think that’s best.” Mike dropped the keys to his pickup on the table. “Keep the truck. It’s safer than the MG.”
Don’t go. I love you. I’ll do whatever you want. But Lane had made that bargain once. She’d given up everything for Alex and he’d abandoned her. She turned her face away. “Bye.”
“Good bye.” Mike kissed her cheek lightly. “I’ll call you. Soon.”
“OK.” She watched him carry her heart out the door.
“Mama.” Mima tumbled, head first, from a slide. “Where’s Mikey going?”
Gemma joined them. “Is it time to pick up our fliers?”
Lane found a tissue and blotted her eyes. “Not yet.” She took a cooling sip of tea. “Go back and play.”
“Are you sick?” Gemma’s arms circled her neck.
Mima captured her waist. “Are you catching cold?”
Lane swiveled the chair and pulled them both onto her lap. Mike hadn’t left with her heart. She had two hearts still beating right here in her arms.
“Just a sniffle,” she told the girls. “But that won’t change anything.” They might be bankrupt ten days from now, but it was going to be a spectacular ten days.
She kissed her daughters on top of their heads. “What’s our motto?”
They all said it together. “The show must go on.”
Chapter Thirteen
Skeeter Davis stood in the stairway leading down from the Hermia’s salon. “Tell me again how long you been on this boat?”
“Long enough.” Inside the lavatory, Mike gritted his teeth against the sting of antiseptic. The cut wasn’t deep—only a scrape—but it was layered on top of the other five bruises he’d earned recently by ramming his brains into the Hermia’s bulkheads.
He closed the medical locker and returned to the galley to finish stowing supplies. It was a beautifully compact kitchen, with the original stainless steel sink and teak cupboards married to modern countertops and low-energy appliances. But it did seem determined to kill him.
“Toss the fruit?” he said.
Skeeter reached into a box behind him and began throwing down mangos, bananas, papaya, even a breadfruit, which Mike caught with a pang, remembering Gemma’s request for one of Captain Bligh’s trees. The memory was followed—like most thoughts during the last few days—by the echo of his words. Don’t you feed your own children?
Mike stowed produce in hanging nets under the cabinets. Now the galley was truly crowded, but it was worth it for the sake of his first paying charter. It turned out there were a lot of tourists who liked the idea of a nostalgic fishing voyage. And Hermia, with her sleek Scandinavian comfort and 1970s vibe, apparently hit the right notes. Within days of listing the Striker-44 online, it had been booked solid for months.
Skeeter leaned in from the stairs. “Don’t forget coffee.” He held out a large vacuum-sealed bag.
“God forbid.” Mike stowed it in its assigned place in the cupboard. He shut and latched the door, resisting the urge to bang his head on the wood.
Don’t you feed your own children?
Of all the words he could have said—starting with please forgive me for crushing your dreams—how had he managed to pick the worst, the most unjust of all? Mike had been so frustrated, he hadn’t dared stay and talk. His only option had been running away.
Don’t you feed your own children?
If only he hadn’t let Charity see that escrow check. But he’d been so full of himself, so eager to race off and give Lane the donation, that he’d spoiled everything. Now Mike was stuck with an expensive building he didn’t want and Lane’s life was in ruins.
He’d tried to apologize during calls. She’d tried to forgive him. But the easy camaraderie they shared seemed to have splintered apart.
Don’t you feed your own children?
Some things couldn’t be glued back together. In a few days, Lane would put on her one and only performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream. And then the project that bonded her to Mike would be gone.
So Mike had asked Skeeter to help him start running charters. That wouldn’t bring in enough money to support MCT, but at least he’d save the building and start paying off taxes. Maybe in a few years, the theater could reopen.
“That’s it.” Skeeter nodded approvingly. “Good to go.”
Mike followed his friend into the blazing Caribbean sunshine. Even docked among larger, more expensive boats, the Hermia’s sleek lines made her stand out.
“She’s in great shape,” Skeeter said. “You done a fine job prepping.”
“Yeah.” It had given Mike something to feel proud of. “Thanks.”
“But I don’t believe you should take out this charter.”
“I thought you said I was ready and able.”
“Able, yes. Ready, maybe not. Apart from bits of scalp where you keep hitting yourself, your head’s not in the boat. The ocean’s an unforgiving lady.”
Mike didn’t deserve forgiveness. “But—”
“I got business in Naples. What do you say we swap jobs? You handle paperwork on the mainland, while I run your charter.”
“Go back to Naples?” Mike frowned.
“You have to face your woman sometime. Unless you plan to give up? Let some younger, better-looking man have her? She’ll get snatched up, you know, now she’s used to having a man in her life. Nobody that fine going to wait around while you sulk.”
“I’m not sulking.” Was he?
“The course of true love never did run smooth.”
That was a line from Lane’s Shakespeare play. “You really want to take out this charter?”
“And more. I’m sick of hopping boat to boat, and I got a feeling your heart’s on the land.”
“You want to go into business together?” He studied Skeeter’s broad features and dark, open complexion. The man was ten times the seaman Mike would ever be if not the most organized guy in the world. Still, he was right. Mike didn’t love Hermia. As a matter of fact, fishing around the world suddenly struck him as a spectacularly stupid idea.
“OK.” He fist-bumped Skeeter’s closed hand. “Let’s draw up a plan.”
Chapter Fourteen
“Ninety-six, ninety-seven….”
Mayor Samuel Lennox rapped his gavel on the prohibition-era table that had been dragged into the Mimosa Theater lobby. “I hereby call this emergency session of the Mimosa Key Town Council to order.” He rapped again. “On the agenda this afternoon are the cancellation of the town council’s grant to MCT, the condemnation and seizure under eminent domain of the theater building, and the approval of funds for the construction of public parking on this site.”
“Ninety-eight….” Lane sat out of sight cross-legged on the cloakroom floor, counting cash and listening to her execution squad. She owed her mother-in-law’s refreshment committee one-hundred dollars for the coffee and cookies they were setting up for the theater premier. And while she knew Janet didn’t expect to be reimbursed, Lane was determined the first and only performance of A Midsummer Night’s Dream would be free of debt.
“Ninety-nine, ninety-nine and three quarters….” Lane searched around her for coins. She’d used the final proceeds from the costume auction—and some fast talking—to keep the lights on through today. On Monday, the electric company was going to shut off power, but tonight, Mimosa Community Theater would go on in all its glory.
“Whereas….” Out in the lobby, Charity Gramb
ling read her list of complaints. “Whereas the Mimosa Theater building is seven years behind on property tax….”
Lane ground her teeth, glad no one could see her. Exactly why they were holding the town council meeting in her…in Mike’s…soon to be condemned building, she couldn’t say. Probably so Charity could wave the check—the beautiful, lovely grant check that had already been written—under everyone’s nose before ripping it up.
The play was scheduled to start in barely over an hour.
“Goodbye, old girl.” Lane patted the cloakroom floor. She ought to be backstage straightening costumes, calming stage fright, but when the town council decided to meet right under her nose…. Lane bit her knuckles in fury. She wished Mike were here. He’d been in Naples on business this week, but they’d seen each other only briefly, and always with the girls.
One performance. One single performance to an auditorium containing the fifty-six chairs they’d managed to scrape together for family and friends of the cast. But it was going to be fantastic.
“Is there any discussion,” Mayor Lennox asked, “on the motion to condemn this building?”
“I have a discussion,” Mima’s small voice piped up. “I think it stinks.”
Mima. Lane stuffed coffee money into her jeans. The girls’ babysitter, Ashley—tonight’s Puck—had offered to keep Gemma and Jemima backstage with the cast. They must have escaped.
“I think it stinks, too,” Ashley’s voice echoed.
Lane ducked into the lobby and looked around in surprise. Not only was the modest space packed with spectators, but the entire cast of Midsummer Night’s Dream—dressed in glorious homemade costumes—had assembled in the auditorium behind the open lobby doors.
“We all think it stinks.” Tip, Lane’s sound and lighting guy, spoke over the babble of replies.
“Order.” Mayor Lennox struck his gavel. “Order.”
“Everyone shut up.” Charity Grambling glared the room silent. “You aren’t recognized.”
