Matinees With Miriam. Vicki Essex

They were standing close, and she was still rubbing ointment on his hand in soothing little circles...

      She let go abruptly. “Let that sit and breathe. I don’t want to bandage it just yet. You need to let the heat out.”

      They left the ladies’ room. The fans were now bringing fresh, cool night air into the theater. The Crown seemed to breathe deeply for the first time in years. Mira had a sudden flashback of double feature Thursdays during the summers when people would come to watch back-to-back classics and eat popcorn. They’d always kept the doors open then so the place didn’t get too hot. Grandpa would talk with his lips pressed against the fan’s grille and pretend he was a spaceman speaking to her from a spaceship far, far away. She’d reply in kind from another fan, shouting across the lobby. He’d made her believe for a long time that the fans actually made sound waves go faster.

      “Really, this was my fault,” Shane said, bringing her back to the present. “I distracted you from your cooking.”

      “I shouldn’t have left that thing on. I’m usually more careful.” But then she didn’t usually have men badgering her on her doorstep, though she wasn’t about to provoke him. They’d reached an uneasy truce for now. “I guess you spoiled me with all that meat and stuff. I didn’t have to cook for days.”

      “I’m glad you liked it. Is there anything I can bring you back from New York? Pizza? Pastrami and bagels from Katz’s Deli? A hot dog from Yankee Stadium?”

      “I don’t need anything.”

      “It’s not about need. I like bringing you things.” His grin sent another wave of unwanted pleasure through her, and she stuffed down the urge to return his smile. She wouldn’t be won over, dammit, not even after he’d supposedly “saved” her. “There must be something you want. Something you can’t get here in Everville.”

      She set her jaw, grasping for the coolness she’d first met him with. It was harder now, though, after everything she’d put him through and his incessant need to be kind to her. There was only one thing he wanted, she reminded herself. She took a deep breath.

      “All I want is to be left alone, Mr. Patel.”

      His smile flickered briefly. She could see the first tiny spark of doubt, the barest hint of defeat edging into his confidence. She almost felt bad snuffing out his hopes, but it had to be done.

      “Well, if you change your mind—” he took out a business card and scribbled on the back “—that’s my personal cell phone number. Call me. Anytime. I’ll answer.”

      A rebellious part of her wanted to toss the card back in his face. She didn’t, though. That card felt like a talisman, somehow, and even if he were being nice just to get his hands on her property, she had the strangest sense he didn’t often write his personal phone number on his cards.

      No. She would not let him manipulate her. She frowned and said, “There’s very little I want from you.” Then she walked away, leaving him alone in the lobby.

      And she kind of hated herself for needing to do that.

      * * *

      “WHAT’S WITH THE angry eyebrows, Shekhar?” Shane’s mother, Nisha, chided him. “Your sister will worry you’re mad at her on her birthday.”

      Shane hadn’t realized he’d been scowling. He was still thinking about Miriam Bateman and how stubbornly unfriendly she’d been, even after he’d helped save the Crown from burning to the ground. He could’ve done nothing and had all his problems solved for him. Two days later and it was still bothering him. “Just thinking about work, Amma.”

      “Well, stop. You work too hard. Never have time for your family and your poor old amma.” She patted his cheek. “Now go be social. Your sister doesn’t turn thirty every day.”

      The banquet hall they’d rented for his sister’s birthday was packed with friends and family and his parents’ business associates. There were probably a hundred people there—a fairly small gathering. His cousin Poonam’s wedding had hosted close to five hundred guests. His sister, Priti, hadn’t wanted a big affair, but his parents loved parties—they’d make an event out of anything. Shane had a feeling that they were hoping their terminally single children would finally meet someone at one of these shindigs and get married so they could throw a “real” party.

      He spotted Priti surrounded by a group of her old high school friends, sipping machine-made margaritas and dancing. She looked happy, maybe a little drunk. She waved him over.

      “You guys,” she addressed her friends loudly, “you remember my brother, Shekhar, right?”

      “Shane,” he corrected automatically.

      “You changed your name?” One of the women peered at him speculatively, eyes gliding up and down his body. Her name was Chloe, he remembered—the sporty one who’d been Priti’s friend since forever.

      “He changed it in college. He’s a bad Indian son. No pride in his family-given name.” Priti batted her lashes and laughed.

      He shrugged. Anglicizing his name had simply been easier for everyone. It was awkward having to repeat his name several times to people as he shook hands with them. That, and he’d hated the nicknames people came up with.

      “So what do you do, Shane?” another of his sister’s friends asked politely.

      “Real estate development. I work at a company called Sagmar.”

      “My apartment’s a Sagmar building!” Chloe exclaimed. “What do you do there?”

      He explained his role in the company, how he negotiated and acquired property and scouted out sites. He loved his job and was happy to chat about it. Soon, he was talking about the condo project in Everville and all the problems he’d been having acquiring the Crown Theater. Some of the girls’ eyes glazed over, and a few of Priti’s friends drifted away or excused themselves to get a drink. But his sister remained rapt. She had fond memories of Everville, too.

      She tapped a finger to her lips. “So...this woman won’t sell her building because...?”

      “Honestly, I’m not sure. I mean, it has sentimental value to her, but from what I’ve seen, the place is falling apart. I don’t know how she even affords the taxes on the place. It seems like she can barely keep the lights on. It’s actually a bit depressing.”

      “Just because she doesn’t have an apartment in Brooklyn and earn six figures doesn’t mean she’s not happy.”

      “I think she might be a bit of a shut-in.”

      “Why? Is she some kind of crone, wearing tissue box shoes and collecting her urine?”

      “She’s only twenty-eight.” He swirled the ice cubes around his glass. “It’s just that she’s always at the theater. God knows what she’s doing there. And the one public event I saw her at didn’t go well—she kinda freaked out. Like some kind of panic attack.”

      “You can’t just assume she’s a shut-in. You hardly know her.”

      “That’s the problem. I can’t find out anything about her. She isn’t on Facebook or Twitter or anything. Not under her real name, anyhow. Her best friend in town is the old man who runs the grocery store, and he couldn’t even tell me what she was into.”

      Priti regarded him, chin tilted, then smiled slowly. “You like her.”

      “What?”

      “You like her,” she teased. “And you’re frustrated you can’t do your usual wine and dine to get her to like you back.”

      “That’s ridiculous. She shot me in the nuts with a paintball gun. She barely said thank you for all the gifts I brought—”

      “See, that’s your problem right there. You think a woman owes you something just because you pay attention to her.”

      He