Chapter 29
MISSY
My Lucky Louis glisten with each step across the red-and-brown brick pavers that line Pine Lakes’s main street.
Compared to my simple pale-pink dress, the Louis stand out in all their glory, having no qualms about stealing the limelight after being hidden in my closet for so many weeks.
With every step, I push every negative thought down to my toes and out of my shiny footwear, until I feel like the luckiest person on the planet.
I wave to passersby on the street as they pay at parking meters and walk their small dogs in strollers and their big dogs on their own four paws.
I beam, remembering Mama’s hug of encouragement before I drove downtown to finally purchase the home for Something to Glow About.
I feel as if I’m in one of those dryer-sheet commercials, where it’s springtime and everything smells like lavender and sunshine.
I’ve taken a shower, my hair has been combed with a brush, and I even put on deodorant without worrying if it would be stolen.
I relish the way my sundress brushes my calves as I walk, and I’m grateful I don’t have to adjust a swimsuit wedgie all the livelong day.
Filled with a burst of excitement, I do a giddy spin on the balls of my feet, not caring that the whole of Grandma’s Feather Bed quilting store can see me clearly through their shop windows.
Let them watch as today my dreams come true.
I hear my phone ring in my purse for the third time in fifteen minutes. It’s probably the same unknown number that’s been plaguing me about my car’s extended warranty. Now is not the time for solicitors. Reaching into my purse, I silence my phone. If it’s important, they’ll leave a message.
Soon after, I arrive at the old brick building that’s been my home away from home for years.
Gold-framed glass doors stand at the entrance with two ornate filigree doorknobs, a testament to its history and the many years it’s welcomed community members through its doors.
With a deep breath, I swing open one of the two glass doors and am greeted by the scent of well-loved curtains, old wood, and drying paint, probably coming from one of the many rooms down the hallway to the theatre’s left—Mr. Whitaker, The Red Curtain’s owner, said he’d fix a few things up while I was gone.
It’s ghostly inside, not a soul to be seen, but it’s in moments like this that I love The Red Curtain the most. It gives me the chance to think about my days, to work through my struggles, and to build my dreams. But despite its ghost town feel, I know one person will be here just as he said he would when I talked to him before I left for Sunsets and Sabotage.
I click over the wood floors in the entryway and stride toward the theatre side of the building with its red carpet, patterned with golden vines that crisscross over each other.
Walking across the carpet, I face Mr. Whitaker’s office door, soon to be my office door.
A door that will remain open to kids looking for a place to feel seen and heard.
It feels so surreal, I doubt pinching myself would have any effect at this point.
I raise my hand to knock on Mr. Whitaker’s office door with its crooked nameplate, but before I can, Mr. Whitaker shuffles out, surprise lighting his features. I immediately step back, giving him more room than his slight frame needs.
I prepare myself for his signature smile where his ears and bushy eyebrows rise until they can’t go any higher. But instead, his lips pull tight, and his eyebrows hang over his darkly circled eyes like an awning awaiting a storm.
“Mr. Whitaker?”
“Hi, Missy.” Mr. Whitaker glances nervously into his office, then he grabs the doorknob and shuts the office door tightly behind him before I can even glimpse inside. He clears his throat. “I heard you won your competition show. Congratulations.”
My brows lower. Congratulations is usually something that’s said with a hint of happiness, but his demeanor is anything but happy. It’s about a million miles away from how I’d parted with him last. His words had been full of well-wishes and hopes for my success.
His hands fidget with the jingling set of building keys he always carries on one of his belt loops.
“Thank you. I was pleasantly surprised with the results. And how have you been? How’s your grandson?
Does he have a name yet?” I smile lightheartedly, remembering how Mr. Whitaker’s daughter gave birth to a baby boy right before I left for the show.
Mr. Whitaker had been amazed that he’d had a grandson for thirty-five hours and he still hadn’t been named.
“Yes, his name is Whit. Short for Whitaker.”
“Oh, I love that.” I tuck a wisp of neatly curled hair behind my ear.
“Thanks, Missy.”
The keys jingle again, followed by a long silence. Figuring now is as good a time as any, I bypass the small talk and get right to the point. “Well, I came here to tell you that I officially have the funds I need.”
Nothing. Just the sound of his keys. I curl my toes inside my Lucky Louis, shoving the doubts down and pulling my confidence in. I straighten, ready to put all my cards on the table.
“I am ready to buy The Red Curtain from you, Mr. Whitaker. I can pay in full, just as we discussed. In fact, I have $350,000 ready to wire to you as soon as the paperwork is drawn up—”
“Missy,” he says, cutting me off.
“Yes?” A knot forms in my stomach with the way his features sag, humorless and pained.
“I can’t sell it to you.”
The blood drains from my face. “What? What do you mean?”
“The price has gone up.” He looks like he’s about to be sick.
My body goes rigid. “I’m sorry. Could you say that again?”
“I can’t sell it to you for $350,000, Missy.”
My breaths narrow into shallow sips of air.
“Oh, uh, okay. Well …” I bumble as I rummage through my purse, commanding my brain to think and process when all it wants to do is find the nearest rock and crawl under it.
“Well … Well, I have a little more money. Though, uh, I was planning on using that for setting up my nonprofit, and taxes and such, but I …” My words are shaky as I shuffle around a tube of lip gloss and a pack of flossers in my purse as if I’ll find a hundred grand stacked neatly inside, bound with a paper band.
“Missy. It’s being sold to someone else.” Mr. Whitaker rests his soft hand on my arm, stopping my fruitless search. “I’m sorry.”
I blink. “But. But I thought we made a deal?”
Mr. Whitaker’s eyes close, and he takes a deep breath.
When his eyes meet mine again, they are filled with regret.
“While you were gone, my wife lost her job. She’s going to have to retire early, Missy, and we’re not going to get as much from retirement as we originally planned.
We’ve been so worried about this, but then today, we got an offer on the building that was twice the asking price. ”
I nearly choke on my own saliva. “Twice? As in, $700,000?”
“I’m so sorry, Missy.”
I feel enraged. Sad. Crushed. Angry. “What sort of highfalutin moneybags offers twice the asking price?”
Prize money or not, there wasn’t even a chance I could afford that.
“I know you wanted this building, and if it weren’t for early retirement, we’d have given it to you. We’d have done it in a heartbeat.”
“Please, just give me more time … I can … Somehow, I’ll find the money. I’ll do another game show. Just give me time.”
His bushy eyebrows pull together, two deep lines appearing between his eyes. “I’ve already given you all the time I have. I truly regret how this has all unfolded.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, staving off the tears threatening to spill.
As if on their own accord, my Lucky Louis step backward, as if they too know that no amount of luck in the world is going to get me out of this.
That’s when I see the brass knob to Mr. Whitaker’s office start to jiggle.
Suddenly, the door pops open behind Mr. Whitaker, revealing a pair of ice-blue eyes and a man wearing a sleek navy-blue suit with shiny Oxfords in which one could see their reflection.
“Senator Downing,” I say.
“Hello, Missy.” The former senator looks at me with a congenial smile, stepping out of the office as if he owns the place.
Disoriented, I look from Mr. Whitaker to Senator Downing, wondering why these two people, from two very different worlds, are together at this moment in this building. Then it dawns on me exactly why Senator Downing is here.
“It was you,” I accuse, unable to hide the betrayal I feel from someone I’ve known nearly half my life. “You offered double on The Red Curtain?”
Senator Downing steps forward, buttoning the top button of his suit coat and commanding all the air in the room. “May we have a moment, Mr. Whitaker?”
Mr. Whitaker humbly nods, subservient to Senator Downing’s wishes, and slips back into his office after sending me one last look of apology.
Senator Downing stands tall and impenetrable before me—the unyielding jaw, the focused eye contact, the hands crossed loosely in front of his body—his whole person is a study of calm confidence.
The kind of confidence that lulls you into a false security up until the moment he has your vote, your money, and your building.
In general, I try my best to keep my emotions close to the vest, but the moment the office door closes behind Mr. Whitaker, I can’t stop the words that fly from my mouth. “Why—why would you do this to me?”
“It’s nothing personal against you, Missy,” he says, looking at his watch as if I’m wasting his valuable time.
“It sure feels personal. Wait, are you going to bulldoze The Red Curtain?”
“No. I’m not going to bulldoze it.” Senator Downing exhales through his nose, a movement so small but brimming with unspoken annoyance.
I feel like a bug that’s just inconveniently splattered across the windshield of his flashy sports car.
“As a father, it’s my responsibility to watch out for Colton’s future. ”