Her Best Friend. Sarah Mayberry

what to think.

      For more than ten years she’d lived and breathed the dream of buying the old theatre that her great-grandfather had built. She’d lain awake on more nights than she could count regilding the decorative moldings in her mind, reupholstering the sectional seating, polishing the floors, imagining how glorious it could all be if she could only scrape together the money to purchase the theatre from the local council.

      She’d invested the small legacy her grandparents had left her and saved her wages from working in her parents’ hardware store and taken any extra work that had come her way, planning for the day when she’d have enough for a deposit.

      And finally she’d made it. At least she’d thought she had.

      The shock was beginning to wear off. She didn’t understand how another offer could come out of the blue. The Grand had been an eyesore on the main street of the small Victoria, Australia town of Daylesford for years. It had ceased operating as a cinema in the eighties and had been empty for a long time, ever since the antiques dealer who’d been renting the space had found better premises. No one except Amy had seemed to give a toss about the old place. And yet suddenly the Grand was a hot ticket?

      She needed to know more. She pulled out her cell phone and dialed her friend Denise, who worked at the municipal office. If anyone knew the details of this other offer, it would be her.

      “‘Nise, it’s me. I need some inside info. But only if it won’t get you in trouble.”

      “Fire away. I’m all yours, babe,” Denise said.

      “Ulrich Construction has put in a last-minute bid on the Grand. I need to know what their prop says.”

      “But the Grand is yours! I typed up your contract myself.”

      “It’s not signed yet, ‘Nise.”

      “Oh. Crap. The meeting’s this week, isn’t it? Give me five minutes, I’ll call you back.”

      Amy paced in front of the Grand while she waited, arms crossed over her chest. It was late April and it was getting darker and colder by the minute, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t leaving this spot until she knew for sure what was going on. That her dream really was over.

      Seven minutes later, her phone rang. It was Denise, and when she told Amy what she’d discovered, Amy literally felt dizzy with shock.

      Ulrich Construction wanted to buy the Grand and knock down everything but the facade, replacing it with a four-story apartment block. They wanted to destroy the intricate plasterwork on the domed ceiling inside the theatre, smash the marble stairway to the balcony section, scrap the Murano glass wall sconces. They would pay lip service to preserving the Grand while wiping out everything that made the theatre so unique.

      “You want me to come pick you up and pour some wine into you?” Denise offered when Amy was silent for too long.

      “No. Thanks for this, ‘Nise. I have to go.”

      Amy ended the call and pressed her palm against her forehead.

      She needed to think. She needed to get past the panic that was making her heart race and her stomach churn.

      She needed a lawyer.

      Yes. Absolutely. That was definitely the first step. She needed a smart, sharp mouthpiece in a suit. Someone formidable who could arm her with the necessary information.

      She started searching her phone contacts for a number she hadn’t dialed in months.

      There had been good reasons for that, of course. Sensible, sanity preserving reasons. But this was an emergency. All bets were off. Her old school friend Lisa dealt with property law all the time in Sydney. She’d know how to handle this. She’d tell Amy if there was any way she could stop this disaster from happening.

      Amy found the number as an unwelcome thought slunk into her mind: What if Quinn answers instead of Lisa?

      Amy froze, staring at the number on the screen.

      After all these years, she still couldn’t think of Quinn Whitfield without feeling a skip of excitement, closely followed by a thump of dread.

      Dumb. And dangerous. He was married. They were married. Her two best friends.

      Which was why she’d been deliberately trying to distance herself recently. Not returning phone calls. Being lazy with e-mails. Freezing them out.

      But it wasn’t as though she’d gone to school with a million lawyers. It was either Lisa or a lawyer chosen at random from the phone book—an arrangement that would come complete with a hefty bill her tight restoration budget could not afford.

      Hopefully Lisa would pick up and not Quinn. And if it was him … well, Amy would deal with it. She pressed the button and listened as the phone rang.

      Come on, Lisa, pick up. Pick up, pick up, pick up.

      A click sounded and suddenly Quinn’s voice was in her ear. Her stomach tensed—then she realized it was only a recording.

      “Hi, there. You’ve called the Whitfields. We can’t get to the phone right now. Leave a message and your contact details and we’ll do our best to get back to you as soon as we can. Unless you’re selling life insurance, then you know what you can do.”

      It had been nearly eighteen months since she’d spoken to Quinn, but he sounded exactly the same. She could even imagine the slight smile he would have been wearing when he recorded the message. Self-aware, wry. Charming as all hell.

      The answering machine beeped and she took a quick breath.

      “Lisa and, um, Quinn. Long time no speak, huh? Lis, I was actually calling to talk to you. I need some legal advice and it’s kind of urgent—”

      “Amy. Hey. How the hell are you?”

      Amy’s heart banged against her rib cage as Quinn’s deep voice sounded down the line. Not a recording this time. The real thing.

      “Quinn. Hi.”

      She closed her eyes. He sounded so good. And so pleased to hear from her.

      And why not? She’d been the “best person” at his wedding. They’d grown up next door to each other. He’d taught her how to fish, and she’d taught him the best way to climb the apple tree at the bottom of her parents’ yard. They’d learned to ride their bikes together, and they’d been punished together any number of times for too many pranks to count. Rotten eggs in the air-conditioning vent at school. Releasing Quinn’s pet ferret in class. Filling the neighbor’s exhaust pipe with water from the garden hose.

      Their exploits had been legendary. Then Lisa moved to town the year of Amy’s fourteenth birthday, and everything changed.

      “I’m good, thanks. How about you?” she said.

      “Keeping body and soul together. Man, it’s been a long time since I heard your voice.”

      “Yeah.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. Wondered if he guessed she’d been deliberately pushing him away, or if he thought it was just time and distance that had come between them.

      “I was thinking about you the other day, actually,” he said.

      She’d been about to ask if Lisa was home, but his words caught her by surprise. “Really?”

      “Yeah. I was thinking about the wedding. The night before, actually. How you and I went down to the lake and drank all that beer. Remember?”

      “I remember.”

      How could she forget? She’d matched him beer for beer, desperate to prolong every last second with him before he stopped being her best friend and became one half of Mr. and Mrs. Quinn and Lisa Whitfield.

      Would it have been easier if Lisa hadn’t been her close friend, the third musketeer? Would it have hurt as much if Quinn had fallen for a stranger from out of town?

      Amy