by Drea Stein
Not quite a Parisian café, which tended to have an excess of subway tile, dark wood, and the smell of very strong coffee, but this suited Queensbay. People here didn’t seem to mind a little sand between their toes. The fragrant smell of buttery baked goods mixed in with the scent of what Colleen was sure was going to be the soup of the day, a lobster bisque. That might be a lunch worth coming back for, but first she needed to get through coffee.
A blonde was working behind the counter, and Colleen breathed a sigh of relief. Darby was a redhead, and this girl was not. Still, she silently berated herself for her cowardice. She was a grown woman. The past was the past. She was about to go up and place her order when the swinging doors to the kitchen opened, and Darby appeared, dressed in pink rubber clogs, checked pants, and a white chef’s top coat, her name stitched across it. Her red hair was pulled back away from her face and there was a spray of freckles across her nose. Darby was talking over her shoulder to someone in the back, shouting something about fresh mushrooms over the sound of running water.
She held a tray full of cookies and turned to speak to the girl manning the counter: “Melissa, make sure you get the brownies cut from the pan and put out in the case.”
Darby whirled around, balancing the tray as she dodged the swinging door and the scurrying of Melissa to get to work. Colleen tried to hide the smile. Darby had always been a bundle of energy, able to do a million things at once. It used to be organizing school dances and agitating for better cafeteria food. Now it was cooking and running a café.
But Darby froze when she saw Colleen. It was only an instant, but she saw the recognition and annoyance flash across Darby’s face before she set the tray down and began filling the case. The silence stretched out between the two of them. Colleen wanted to break it, but she thought that maybe Darby should, maybe with a simple, “What are you having?”
And, then Colleen would say, “A coffee please. And one of those pain au chocolats I keep hearing about.”
And then Darby would say, “Ah yes, thank you. I took a pastry class in Paris.”
To which Colleen would answer, “I used to live there, you know …”
And then they would talk about how wonderful Paris was, and Colleen would invite her to La Belle Vie’s grand opening and ask her to make some appetizers.
But the question never came. Colleen waited, the silence stretching between them, until she was sure that everyone must have noticed. Darby finished placing her croissants on the rack in the case and then, without a word, disappeared back into the kitchen.
Colleen blinked. Nothing. Not a word.
Melissa, the blonde girl, was looking at the swinging of the kitchen door with a slight frown of confusion, as if she wasn’t sure what had just happened. But once her boss was gone, her training took over, and she snapped to attention: “May I help you?”
Colleen just shook her head, felt the shaking start, and turned heel and ran out into the fresh air. The sun was higher now, the air warmer. It promised to be a splendid day, and a whole future awaited her. She had thought that it would be easy, but she was wrong. It wasn’t going to be easy. But there was no place else to go. She couldn’t go back to Paris. She’d thought she could come home again.
She squared her shoulders and faced the shutterless façade of the Treasure Emporium. This town was hers just as much as Darby Reese’s. And eventually, Darby would come around. They had been friends once. You didn’t just give up that much history over something that had happened long ago.
Chapter 8
The light poured through a tall, high window, turning the faded red velvet curtains into something resembling gleaming swirls of drapery, revealing a hint of former glory. If Jake closed his eyes and concentrated, really concentrated, he could almost imagine what it had been like in here, in the building’s heyday.
Dressed up in their finest clothes, white tie and tails for the men, gorgeous gowns and tiaras for the women, couples mingling before the show began, making small talk, sipping champagne, listening to snatches of music playing from the orchestra as it warmed up, overlaid with the sound of laughter, of stories being told, stock tips exchanged, the news of the day hemmed and hawed over. His eyes flew open as a shadow crossed them. He caught a glimpse of fluttering wings, heard the shuffling sound of pigeons high above him. The mood broke, and he wondered what the hell he had been thinking. This place was nothing but a dump and needed lots of work, more than he’d ever undertaken.
His idea was crazy as hell, and he was starting to feel like he was just as crazy. Of course, it didn’t help that he’d been thinking about Colleen again, all evening, all night. He just couldn’t get her out of his head. He flipped open his notebook, looked at the page where he’d drawn a few sketches. A newel post that he wanted his carpenter to recreate for a house he was fixing up in the Heights. Then there was a doodle of a roof line for a more modern house he was restoring in the woods, and then came the sketch featuring Colleen.
He hadn’t realized as he was doing it that he’d been drawing a memory of that night, after the prom when he’d found her, alone, vulnerable and upset. She had said something about her father not making it back in time for graduation and she had started to cry, hadn’t she? Or had they started to kiss? Either way, it had landed them in a tangle of limbs and lips and clothes that needed to come off. And then … it had been interrupted. They had met up again and for a few brief weeks they had shared everything about themselves, except for being with each other. They had decided to take that part slow, but the connection between them had been intense. And then she had disappeared. Literally, there one day, gone the next, off early to college and some job. And she had never once come back. Until now.
He was about to rip out the page and crumple it up, as if that might make him forget, but he heard the creak of the door. Quickly he closed his notebook and looked up. Jackson Sanders, his business partner, stepped into the gloom of the Queensbay Showhouse carefully, as if afraid of getting his fancy shoes dirty. Jake had sensibly dressed in work clothes and boots and didn’t care that they were probably already covered in pigeon crap.
“Are we supposed to be here?” Jackson asked, as his eyes scanned the space.
“I used a key,” Jake answered. Jake could tell when Jackson’s stare landed on a couple of the pigeons on one of the tall clerestory like windows. A frown crossed Jackson’s face, and Jake fought back laughter. Jackson didn’t like pigeons, never had, and after a particular incident in third grade had never quite forgiven the breed. Manfully, he squared his shoulders underneath his tailored jacket and stepped further into the shadowy gloom.
“You mean the key that didn’t work?”
“How do you know that?” Jake said, but guilt tugged at him. It had been a long time since he’d done any breaking and entering.
Jackson gave a short bark of laughter. “Even I can tell when wood’s been broken. What did you do, jimmy the wooden bar off the door?”
“Details,” Jake muttered. He had thought that the key would work, and he’d be sure to nail the board back on before he left. Jackson said nothing, just arched an eyebrow and took a slow, deliberate circuit of the main floor of what had once been the Queensbay Showhouse. Built in the 1870s by a Gilded Age robber baron with a “summer estate” along the shores of the harbor, he had wanted to bring the show to him, rather than have to travel to New York City for opera, musicals, and other entertainment.
The theater had been a jewel set among the hills of the harbor, an ornate, square building with so much fancy work that it resembled a wedding cake. The good times had ended sooner rather than later, when the robber baron had gone bankrupt. Ill-fated revivals of the place had occurred over the decades, like summer stock theater and then when that failed, a townie move theater that had survived until the multiplexes up on the highway had moved into town.
Since then the building had been empty, dormant. Now it stood in ghostly disrepair, owned by the town’s historical society. They had tried to rais
e enough money to restore it, maybe turn it into a museum, but Queensbay already had one museum, and the building needed a lot of work. For as long as Jake could remember, the Showhouse had sat vacant, on its own little high spit of land, slowly tipping closer and closer to the water, dangling precipitously over the edge, like an actual wedding cake that had been kept out too long in the heat of a crowded ballroom. Still, it had always fascinated him, and he had always wanted to get inside, to see what treasures the building held. Now that he was in here, his mind was racing. The smell of old wood and possibilities was exciting to him.
“Look at this place. The workmanship, the detail,” Jake said to Jax and swept his arm around, trying to take it all in. Ornate carved moldings, the curving staircase to the second floor. And that was just the lobby. The actual auditorium had frescoes on the ceiling and some of the biggest chandeliers he had ever seen. Of course the power didn’t work anymore, and he’d heard more than his fair share of scuttling feet that surely indicated a rodent problem, but there were ways to fix all of that.
Jackson grunted, and Jake tried not to laugh. His best friend was a tried and true modern type of fellow. Jax preferred clean lines over ornate details, straight edges over curves. Even his house, which had once been a boxy, mid-century ranch, had been completely redone into a sleek glass, concrete, and dark wood bachelor pad. Now that Jax shared it with his wife, Lynn, a few feminine touches had been added, but the two of them were well matched when it came to keeping things clean and simple.
“Doesn’t the history of the place get you excited?”
Jackson shook his head, and Jake could see from Jackson’s expression that the cost calculations were starting to race through his mind.
“Do you know what it’s going to cost to fix this place up?”
“Not exactly,” Jake said. He had an idea, but he knew that Jackson wouldn’t like the answer.
“More than it’s worth,” Jackson answered, unnecessarily.
“But look at that,” Jake said and strode to the side of the theater, the one that faced the water. Curtains, tattered, faded, probably once velvet, most definitely moth bitten and mouse gnawed, practically fell apart in his hands as he yanked them open.
“All right,” Jax agreed. “It’s a good view.”
“A good view?” Jake sputtered. “It’s an amazing, awesome, awe-inspiring view.”
“It’s a little cloudy out there. Hard to see anything,” Jax said and stood with his arms crossed.
Jake looked at him. True, clouds were starting to roll in, but the air was still perfectly clear. The surface of the harbor was a flat, stone-like gray. Sunny, no, but it was still majestic.
“People will pay a fortune for this view,” Jake answered, and he knew they would. The old real estate cliché about location, location, location was true for a reason. Waterfront property sells.
“What, are they going to look at the view while they watch some third-rate off-Broadway show?”
“Huh?” Jake pushed back his cap and scratched his head.
“You know, some second-rate revival of Cats or Phantom of the Opera. Or maybe you plan on renting it out to the Queensbay players? Or maybe you want to let the high school use it for the annual production of Our Town?” Jax was gesturing now, really getting into it. “I can’t quite imagine Mrs. Sampson, singing, trying to hit the high notes, can you?”
Jake couldn’t help laughing as an image came into his mind with sudden clarity.
“What’s so funny?” Jax asked, stopping. He noticed he was standing on a stain of something indeterminate and moved a little to the side.
Jake took a deep breath and said, “You think I want to turn this back into a theater?”
“Yeah,” Jax said slowly. “You did play the part of the Prince in The Little Mermaid in eighth grade.”
“I just did that to impress Amy Waters.”
“Still, it was quite a performance, even if you were trying to impress her. Who are you trying to impress this time? Is it the waitress at the bar up on the highway, the one who’s just doing it until her modeling career takes off? You know, I am pretty sure there are easier ways to get in her pants.”
“I don’t want to get in her pants.”
Jax raised an eyebrow, his expression disbelieving.
“Well, I don’t, honest,” Jake said and meant it. He couldn’t even remember that girl’s name; she was of no interest to him. Her pants were not on his mind at all; instead, he had to push a sudden of image of Colleen and her form-fitting jeans aside. He was talking business now and needed to stay focused. “That’s not what I want to do with this place.”
“I don’t think trying to turn this back into a movie theater is a sound business plan either. You know they have the multiplex up on the highway with the big seats and the waiter service. I don’t think an art house theater is going to survive that kind of competition.”
“Do you think I’m crazy? I know none of that stuff will fly. I love culture as much as the next guy,” he said and waited while Jax stifled a laugh. “I’m not a complete moron.”
“Never said you were,” Jackson said, but his voice held a ribbing tone as if he still thought Jake was crazy.
“So I like movies better than the opera. Sue me.”
“I’m with you there, brother. Seriously, man, what do you want to do with this place?”
Jake waited a beat before he delivered his announcement. “Apartments. Actually high end, retirement community apartments. For empty nesters.”
Jackson was silent a moment, and then he slowly turned, looking around, and Jake could see that he was considering the place in a new light. Another pigeon winged its way over their heads, flitting from one sunny window perch to another.
“Apartments,” Jackson said, an interested grin on his face. He clapped Jake on the back. “Now you’re thinking.”
Jake waited.
“You know it would be a big job.”
“Huge,” Jake agreed.
“We’d need an architect.”
“Absolutely.”
Jax rubbed his jaw. “Are you sure we could even sell them for what they’re worth?”
“Absolutely, especially with the views and the amenities we’re going to add. And, I’m pretty sure that dock is fixable.”
“You mean sell them with boat slips?”
“Yup, and I was thinking that there might be space to add a small restaurant too. Waterside dining open to the public, with space for boats to pull up.”
“Very, very interesting,” Jackson said, then added, “It’s a gut job.”
“Totally.”
“Who owns it?”
“Historical society.”
Jax nodded. “Tricky group of people to deal with. Mrs. Sampson’s the president.”
“She loves me,” Jake said, knowing that Mrs. Sampson was seventy if she was a day.
“I don’t think your usual strategy of loving and leaving them is going to work on her.”
Mrs. Sampson had been married to Mr. Sampson for fifty years. Jake knew because he’d built a dance floor for their backyard anniversary party.
“I guess I’ll just have to rely on my charm,” Jake said.
“Do you want me to handle it?” Jax asked.
It was Jake’s turn to smile. Jax was talented at many things, but people skills weren’t his area of expertise.
“Thanks. I’ll handle the public relations aspect of it. Maybe you can start talking to an architect, figure out some cost models, and research similar projects.”
Jax nodded, and Jake was pleased to see that the wheels of Jax’s methodical brain were already hard at work. Jake turned around, looking at the shadows and feeling that spark of excitement that always preceded a challenge. This, his idea, could really happen.
Chapter 9
After leaving the Golden Pear Café empty-handed, Colleen had settled for a cup of strong tea made from the ancient plug-in kettle in the back of the shop. It looked just as junky as everyth
ing else in the store, but the water was reliably hot. As the morning wore on, she grew hungrier and thought longingly of the lobster bisque she’d scented, but decided to settle for the granola bar she’d stuffed in her purse. There was plenty to do in the store, mountains of it, and she didn’t need to waste her precious time or money on eating at restaurants. Not when she had a budget figured out to the last penny.
She lifted the lid of the dark wood-and-glass display case and spritzed the cleaning solution over the inside of the glass, wiping away a thin layer of grime. The display case was solid and handsome; it just needed some elbow grease to bring it back to life. When she had first opened the door to the shop, she had inventoried everything, and this had contained World War II medals, pillbox hats, and ladies’ gloves.
“Why the heck did you put World War II medals and hats together?” she said to herself, though she was really invoking Phil. He had always seemed to know where to find any piece of his inventory, no matter how small or obscure, but she had been lost when she took over.
After many long hours of sorting things out, Colleen realized that there was a method to Phil’s madness. Chronological organization, of course. As she cleaned the case, she almost laughed as the answer came to her. “Because World War II was the last time anyone had worn hats.”
The medals and the hats had gone downstairs, gotten inventoried, and been stacked in boxes on the shelves. She had found that there was a lively online auction market for them, and she had slowly been selling things off, pleasantly surprised at the trickle of money pouring into the bank account and the excited emails of the buyers.
