9. Dreams
Dreams
Arden
I know men invading her space make her nervous. Then I touched her without thinking, anyway. We’re friends, but we haven’t spent time together. I need to back off.
Shoving my hands into my pockets, I do my best to look non-threatening and keep my gaze on the theater in front of us.
It’s hard to do when I want to soak in every bit of her presence. She’s beautiful and intelligent. I already knew that, but there are things I can’t glean from an email, like the way she straightens her shoulders or the self-deprecating humor in her tone. Or the sexy way she stood with her hip cocked in a pair of tight jeans.
Before she zipped up the jacket that turned her upper half into a marshmallow, I’d caught a glimpse of generous breasts covered by a red turtleneck sweater. Charlotte is all curves.
I indicate the opposite side of the building from where Clay stands sentry, and we work our way across the parking lot. Was it overkill to bring both cars? Probably. But there was no convincing Reese this wasn’t some kind of setup until he checked it out for himself. I don’t pay him to assume I’m safe.
I glance Charlotte’s way. Her eyes are pointed straight forward, and my attention drifts lower.
I drag my focus from her gorgeous, round ass and back to the building. “Tell me more about what’s going on with the theater.”
Coming here without disclosing I own this property rides a moral line, if not a legal one. If I can’t get her and her friends to back off with common sense advice, I’ll have to let her know she just told the villain in her story all her plans.
Of course, threatening to vandalize property owned by my company technically makes her the villain.
I’d rather she doesn’t find out I own RealFreedom until she’s finished with school. Someday, maybe, we can laugh about it.
Right now, a relationship, even a friendship, would be tainted by the fact that she relies on me financially. She could begin to view interactions with me as transactional. Or she may decide I’m the bad guy here. RealFreedom would come between us, and I’ve come to . . . rely on her emails.
“They just swooped in, bought it when nobody even thought it was for sale. Then they put up their ugly giant sign and acted like they were doing everyone a favor by removing an eyesore and planning to put some awful hotel in its place,” she says.
“Why would they build a hotel here?” Say it. Admit it makes perfect sense.
She stuffs her hands in her pockets. “I understand that part. The location is convenient. The university is getting bigger every year, and we have a bunch of NCAA teams. The football team has won three national championships in the last five years.”
“So expansion makes financial sense,” I say.
“That doesn’t mean it’s good for the community. They could build a hotel somewhere else.” She stretches out her arm. “Do you see that? Miles of undeveloped land. They don’t have to come in here and take something important to us to do it.”
“Are your friends prone to illegal activity?” I’ll need to approach this differently if they are.
“What do you mean by that?” She frowns.
“If we keep you out of hot water now, will they continue to incite you to participate in acts likely to end in an arrest record? If so, I’d suggest you find other friends. Don’t let sentiment get in the way of common sense. If you have to cut them loose, then do it. Your first responsibility is to your own well-being.”
She stiffens, and her eyes burn with righteous affront. “There’s such a thing as loyalty.”
“And it’s critical. But it goes both ways. Someone loyal to you wouldn’t drag you into it. They’d allow you plausible deniability.”
She presses her fist to her stomach.
I soften my voice. “Loyalty to your ideals is more important. Never violate your own moral compass for another person.”
She scowls. “I wouldn’t, and neither would they. I don’t need you to preach to me, and they’re not criminals. This is a unique situation. I’d call it a . . . premeditated crime of passion.”
My lips quirk before I manage to suppress my smile.
She bites her lip. “I know that’s not how crimes of passion work, but you know what I mean. It’s based on desperation.”
I nod. “I do, but desperation isn’t a valid excuse. You’ll still get the book thrown at you.”
She hesitates. “Can you keep us out of trouble?”
“You haven’t killed anyone. Destruction of property at this level is a third-degree felony. It could get you fifteen years in prison, Charlotte. But it hasn’t happened yet. We have to make sure it never does.” I can’t resist the urge to tease her. “If I have to, I’ll file an injunction.”
Her face darkens with a blush again and beads of sweat break out on her forehead. “I used that word wrong too?” she asks with a weak laugh.
Now, I feel like a dick. “Let’s say, you used it creatively.”
“Incorrectly.”
“Abysmally so,” I admit. “But I’m serious that you don’t need to worry. I’ll figure something out.”
We step behind the enormous RealFreedom Development sign. From here, it feels like we’re in our own private world, hidden from view of any passersby and sheltered from the wind. We’re twenty yards from the main entrance to the theater, and I tip my head back to take in the view.
“Charlotte Miller,” I tease, “you told your legal counsel that this building was beautiful.”
I assess the faded and peeling mauve paint. The missing shingles on the gambrel roof. The rotting wood surrounding the doorframe. If I look harder, I’ll find more damage. According to my managers, there’s nothing architecturally significant about it. It doesn’t meet the requirements for the Historical Preservation Society.
“It is beautiful,” she insists.
I lift an eyebrow. “Are you kidding, or do you need glasses?”
“You have to look with your heart,” she says sheepishly.
I turn my attention back to the building, then shake my head. “I’m an attorney. I appear to lack the anatomy for heart eyes. ”
As it stands, this place is a money pit. There’s no logical argument for it to remain. “I spoke with someone at RealFreedom before I came out here. They tell me the location guarantees a return on investment. The theater itself is a financial drain. That’s not even taking into consideration that the cost to update it is more than the entire value of the property, and those costs will never be recouped.”
“I don’t know much about tax laws, but couldn’t the loss be a write-off or a charitable contribution? Not everything of value can be measured by its cost,” she says.
“They tell me Blackwater doesn’t need its own theater because the university has a prolific drama department.” The words, themselves, are matter-of-fact, but my tone says Convince me.
I don’t want to be the bad guy here, but I don’t understand her obsession with this rotting building.
“That leaves the townies on the outside looking in. They can pay for a ticket and watch, yes. But they don’t get to be part of it,” she says.
“That’s an important distinction?” It’s not something I’ve given any thought to. I visited my aunt’s estate in Blackwater a grand total of two times in my life, prior to attending Steve’s funeral.
Though, I’ll admit when Steve mentioned his hometown, a sense of familiarity had intrigued me enough to let him get his foot in the door. This is a small town. For me to meet him randomly felt like . . . I don’t know . . . a hint from the universe to pay attention.
The properties I purchased since the funeral were something else. I told my people it was because of the potential for growth here. The truth is more complicated.
I wanted an irrefutable connection to Charlotte. I needed to make good things happen for her. I can’t explain why or justify it.
She shakes her head. “The townies and the college usually don’t mix. Them having a drama department doesn’t help us.”
Stepping away, she points to the terraced area next to the building. “That’s where we do Shakespeare Under the Stars. Every summer, this little town does a different play, all with local actors. Some of the acting is terrible, but it’s wonderful . The high school’s theater department is run by the music director, and all they do are musicals. This is the only opportunity most of these kids get to be part of something like this. And it’s not just about the plays. They learn so much about history and teamwork and a hundred other skills. They become part of something.”
In her enthusiasm, she seems to forget her nervousness and gives my forearm a squeeze. “There are people in Blackwater who spend their whole year waiting for these productions. Shakespeare Under the Stars is the only time people come to this town for us , not BSU. Greg Wilson has acted in every Shakespeare performance for the last twenty-seven years. This town is nasty with their prejudices. It’s the nineties. It shouldn’t be like that, but it is. People here act like being an unwed mother is a crime against humanity. For someone openly gay, it’s a million times worse. But this theater community doesn’t just welcome everyone, they genuinely love and appreciate each other. For some people in Blackwater, this is the only place that feels like home.”
“Does it feel like that for you?” I ask.
She clears her throat, her eyes wet. “It does. From the beginning, these people had my back.”
Her revelation changes everything.
She goes on. “I know you think we’re not very cultured here. We aren’t. But my dad played Mercutio in 1972. There are people here who are interested in this sort of thing. We’re farmers and schoolteachers and loggers. And we built this . I do set designs and costumes. There’s a place for everyone who wants one.”
I cover her cold hand where it rests on my forearm. The touch is minimal, less contact than a handshake. It ’ s nothing.
So why is my subconscious saying “It’s everything”?
I arrange my expression into neutrality and pretend to be interested in the grassy area surrounded by terraced stone walls that act as a type of small-scale stadium seating.
“Inside, we do all sorts of shows.” She’s charmingly enthusiastic, her tone almost reverent.
This building is a disaster. I could give her something bigger and better where she and her friends could come together. “I could build another theater closer to town. It would be a win-win. RealFreedom would utilize this property to its best advantage, and a new theater could better serve the needs of the community.”
Her brows furrow. “You’d do that?”
I nod and make eye contact with her. “I would.”
“That’s . . . really generous of you.” Her lips turn up at the corners, but her eyes don’t smile.
The wind sneaks around the buffer of the sign and blows her long honey-blonde hair in front of her eyes.
I tuck the silky strands behind her ear, my fingertips grazing the cold, soft skin of her cheek. She doesn’t flinch.
“This is another of your wistful yearnings. It isn’t what you want,” I say.
“Why do you always ask me what I want?” she blurts.
“Because it matters.”
“If I thought that, I’d spend my life doomed to disappointment.”
I dip my head to make eye contact. “You can’t really believe that, or you wouldn’t have applied for the scholarship you have now. You wouldn’t be so passionate about this place.
“I applied for the scholarship believing I’d never get it. This meeting is about figuring out how to keep me and my friends out of trouble. I need to save The Rosalind. It’s not the same thing as walking around with my head in the clouds,” she says.
“Hopes and dreams are what keep us moving forward.”
“You never struck me as a dreamer,” she says.
I frown. “I suppose I forgot how for a while.” Even Reese has noticed a shift in my attitude. In recent months, I’ve felt oddly optimistic. “And then I remembered.”
Her expression gentles. “I’m glad for you. I can’t see myself being that person again.”
“If you cage your dreams out of fear, sooner or later, they’ll tear you apart from the inside.”
She rubs her forehead. “This isn’t about fear.”
Jaw set in a stubborn line, I scowl at the blank marquee. “You need to avoid lying or get better at it. You have too many tells.”
She freezes. Then she rallies. “Are you ever wrong?”
I shoot her a dry sidelong glance. “Not that I plan to admit to.”
She huffs with humor. “Me, neither.”
She takes a deep breath and indicates the building. “I need this place to stay right where it is. If you want to call it my dream, then go ahead. Steve’s real memorial service with our friends was here. And my parents shared their first kiss backstage. I’m attached to this building.”
My lips curve slowly upward.
“The location is connected to the Rosalind Estate. Twice a year, they open the grounds to the public with a spring fling and an apple festival. The theater coordinates with the events, and they usually end up being the two biggest fundraisers of the year. I don’t even know how RealFreedom managed to get their hands on it. It was never on record as being for sale.”
The estate is owned by my aunt, which is the only reason RealFreedom managed to buy the theater. She likes me.
My gaze traces the building as I make calculations in my head. Finally, I turn to Charlotte. “I’ll pitch keeping and renovating the theater as a tax write-off. It's solid marketing to establish goodwill in the community.”
“Just like that? Will they go for it?” she asks doubtfully.
“Absolutely.”
“How can you know that?”
Because I ’ ll fire them if they don ’ t. “If the owner of the company can’t establish goodwill now, then future . . . ventures . . . will be more difficult. Maybe even impossible. He’s not interested in being viewed as a soulless, town-devouring monster. ”
Her mouth drops. “You already tracked down the owner? No way.”
I deflect with humor. “Yes way.”
She gives me a wrinkle-nosed smile at my unexpected response. “You’re the last person I’d expect to quote Wayne ’ s World.”
“Lawyers can’t find Mike Myers funny?”
Waving a hand up and down, she tilts her head to the side. “You’re more than a lawyer, Arden. You’re the most interesting person I know.”
It’s a strangely gratifying compliment. Particularly since she hasn’t read any of the tabloid gossip about me. What she knows is who I am beneath the layers of wealth, my history, and my famous family.
I clear my throat. “They’ll probably rename the theater and fill the entire side of the barn with a tacky ‘Sponsored by RealFreedom’ sign. So everyone knows to ‘appreciate their benevolence.’”
She smiles, but her lips roll in for a moment. “Do you think RealFreedom should have a go-between from the community to partner with about the renovations? It’d be awful if they came in and changed everything so much that it lost all its charm or history. It could use some restoration, not a gut job.”
And she says she doesn ’ t have any dreams. “The building will need to be renovated to code. RealFreedom will have the final word, but it could help to have a liaison.”
Her brows furrow, and she looks almost sick with anticipation.
“It might be nice if that person had an interest in or some experience with architecture?” I lift an eyebrow.
“They’d let me? Have some input with the company on this project?”
“I don’t see why not. The community should have a voice.”
She throws her arms around me and presses her temple to my jaw. Everything in me simultaneously relaxes and ignites as I engulf her in a squeezing hug.
“You do know they’ll need some ego stroking, right?” she asks.
Laughter bursts out of me. After a moment, she steps back and beams.
At the sight of her smile, I forget how to breathe.
“What is it?” she asks.
What I’m about to say will make me sound like a lovestruck teenager. I’m going to say it, anyway. “When you’re happy, it lights you up from the inside out. You have the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen.”
“I . . .” Her focus lingers on my mouth like a physical caress. Slowly, her attention shifts back to my eyes. “Arden.”
I could no sooner ignore the invitation in Charlotte’s eyes than I could stop the earth from turning.