Her Best Friend. Sarah Mayberry

      “No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ‘95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”

      “Right. My mistake.”

      Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.

      And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.

      The news of her successful purchase of the Grand had spread through town and it was twenty minutes before she’d finished accepting congratulations from her friends and acquaintances. Phil handed over a bottle of his best

      French champagne but refused to accept any money for it.

      “Against the liquor laws, Amy,” he said with a wink at Quinn. “Plus I figure I’ll hit you up for some free movie tickets when you’ve got the old girl up and running again.”

      “You’re on,” Amy said.

      He loaned them a couple of champagne flutes and she and Quinn left the pub and began walking up Vincent Street to where the roofline of the Grand soared over its neighbors.

      By mutual unspoken consent, their steps slowed as they approached and they craned their necks to take in the faded grandeur of the facade.

      “I’d forgotten how imposing it is. It really is grand, isn’t it?” Quinn said.

      “Yep,” she said around the lump in her throat.

      She sniffed as quietly as she could and blinked rapidly.

      She could feel Quinn looking at her and she turned her head away slightly, trying to mask her tears.

      “You crying, Ames?”

      “Yep.”

      Quinn’s laughter sounded low and deep. “I think we need to get some champagne into you.”

      “Let’s go inside first.”

      “You’ve got a key already?” He sounded surprised.

      “Don’t need one. The back door hasn’t shut properly since the last tenant moved out.”

      “Our second crime for the evening—breaking and entering. I’m starting to feel like Bonnie and Clyde. We’re on a rampage.”

      She started up the alley that led to the parking lot at the rear of the cinema.

      “Technically, it’s only entering, since the door is already screwed,” she said.

      “Those are the little details that make all the difference in court.”

      “If you’re afraid, Whitfield, you can wait outside.”

      “Nice try, Parker, but I’m not letting you swill all the champagne on your own. I’ve developed a taste for the finer things in life over the past few years, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

      “City slicker.”

      “Yokel.”

      They’d reached the back of the theatre and she dropped her shoulder against the decrepit door, trying to shove it open.

      “For Pete’s sake. You weight less than a gnat. Let me do it,” Quinn said. He stepped forward.

      “I’ve got it,” she said.

      “Amy …”

      She took a step back and threw her entire body weight at the door. It gave instantly and she stumbled over the threshold.

      “Break anything?” he asked as she rubbed her shoulder with her free hand.

      “No. You? Your precious male ego permanently dented because you didn’t get a chance to show off how much stronger you are than me?”

      It was very dark in the corridor. Quinn’s laugh sounded loud in the small space.

      “Small of stature, big of attitude. Same old, same old.”

      She jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder.

      “Lead the way, bossy pants,” he said. “I’m at your mercy.”

      “I’ve got a flashlight in my bag …” she said, very aware of the weight and warmth of his hand on her shoulder.

      She inhaled his aftershave again as she fumbled in her handbag. He’d felt so big and solid when he’d lifted her earlier. Bigger than she remembered.

      Her fumbling hand closed around the flashlight and she pulled it from her handbag and flicked it on.

      “See? All good.”

      She felt shaky inside, as though all her internal organs were trembling. This was why she’d tried to cut him out of her life. One look, one touch and she was thinking about all the things that she’d never have. It was too hard. Too cruel. Too crazy-making.

      And way, way too frustrating.

      As she’d hoped, Quinn’s hand fell to his side. She turned and started picking her way up the corridor. The flashlight beam bounced along the floor in front of her. A door loomed ahead and she twisted the handle and pushed it open. They emerged into a large, open space. In the old days, the screen would have filled the wall to the right of the door and the main seating would be in front of them. Now there was just a blank wall and lots of space where the seats used to be. She swung the flashlight in a wide arc, the beam glancing off scarred floors, scratched wood paneling, crumbling plaster walls.

      “Whoa. It smells in here,” Quinn said.

      “The roof leaked a while back. It took council a while to approve the expenditure to get it fixed and the carpet in the balcony section rotted.”

      Quinn gestured for her to hand over the champagne bottle and she held the beam steady while he removed the cage and popped the cork. He drew a champagne flute from his coat pocket and poured a glass, handing it over to her before repeating the process for himself.

      “To the Grand,” Quinn said.

      She lifted her glass to his. The small clink of glass on glass was swallowed by the vastness of the space.

      “Thank you for being here when I needed you,” she said. “You’re a good friend, Quinn.”

      Suddenly they were both very serious. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. She knew what he was thinking about—those eighteen months of unreturned phone calls and e-mails. Guilt and longing twisted inside her. She turned away and took a big gulp of champagne. Bubbles tickled the back of her throat and she coughed.

      “Careful there, tiger,” he said.

      She walked away from him, playing the flashlight over the nearest wall.

      “Do you know they imported all the cherrywood for this paneling from Northern California, even though they could have used local lacewood or blackwood? My great-grandfather was so obsessed with creating a masterpiece he wanted everything in this place to be exotic and expensive,” she said.

      Quinn joined her, reaching out to run a hand along one of the panels.

      “It’s pretty scratched up.”

      “Years of neglect and indifference will do that.”

      “Can I?” he asked, indicating the flashlight.

      “Sure.” She handed it over and leaned against the wall as he took a tour of the theatre. She watched him pass the light over the piles of debris covering the floor, the remnants of past tenants, then pause to inspect the dark holes in the floors where bolts once fixed the sectional seating in place.

      “Most of the seats are stored in the basement, but some of them were sold off,”