Her Best Friend. Sarah Mayberry

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,” she said. “I’ve been collect ing them from yard sales for the past few years, storing them at my place and in the garage at Mom and Dad’s.”

      “Bet your dad loves that.”

      “He doesn’t mind.”

      He studied the far wall before aiming the beam at the once-spectacular figured plaster ceiling. In its heyday, it had been a stylized depiction of the universe, complete with sun and moon, planets and stars. She didn’t need to look up to know what he was seeing now. Mold. Crumbling plaster. Water damage.

      She had a lot of hard work ahead of her, but she’d never been afraid of hard work. In fact, she welcomed it.

      She sipped her champagne as Quinn circled his way back to her.

      “Lot to do here, Ames.”

      “I know.”

      “Going to cost a bomb.”

      She shrugged. “That’s what loans are for, right?” She had a detailed business plan. She’d done her homework. Once she was up and running, she was confident she’d attract enough tourist dollars to more than pay back her debts.

      He drank some champagne. “So, who comes in first? Painters? Carpenters? Have you had the place surveyed?”

      “It’s structurally sound. The roof needs some work. New guttering, that kind of thing. I’ve spoken to Neville Wallace about that. He’s going to fix the plumbing, too. But I’ll have to retile the bathrooms myself. And paint in here, too, I guess.”

      She arched her neck and considered the thirty-foot-high walls. She needed to make a note to call the scaffolding company.

      “You’re kidding. Right?”

      She looked at Quinn. He was frowning.

      “I wish I was, but I just spent my painting budget. Where do you think that extra twenty thousand came from at the last minute?” She’d only hesitated for a second when Reg had upped the price by twenty thousand, hoping to scare her off and buy his buddy Ulrich more time. She’d known she’d never get another chance at the Grand if she allowed Ulrich the time to regroup and find some sneaky way around the legal arguments Quinn had put forward.

      “But Amy …” Quinn shook his head, lost for speech. “This place is huge.”

      “So it’s going to take a little more time than I originally planned. I can live with that.”

      “Do you have any idea what you’re taking on?”

      “Of course I do.”

      “How are you going to tackle the ceiling? That plaster work is part of the heritage listing.”

      “Thank you, Quinn. I’m aware of that, as a matter of fact. I’m aware of every inch of this place, having spent the past ten years working toward this moment. Which is why I traveled into Melbourne two nights a week to attend a course on restoring vintage decorative plasterwork last year. And why I did an upholstery course the year before that, and why I have a file a foot thick with information on suppliers who can help me refit this place.”

      The frown didn’t leave his face. He slid his glass onto the wide lip at the top of the timber paneling.

      “Amy, it’s one thing to be passionate, but this place needs more than passion.”

      “I can handle it,” she said through gritted teeth. She put down her own glass. Since when had Quinn been such a killjoy? She couldn’t believe he was attacking her dream like this, trying to pull it apart before she’d even gotten used to the idea that the Grand was hers.

      “I think you should get an expert restorer to take a look at—”

      “Quinn, shut up.”

      “Amy—”

      “I mean it. Don’t say another word, okay, or I’m going to get really angry,” she said. “I appreciate your help tonight, but I don’t appreciate being patronized by someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.”

      “I’m simply pointing out that sometimes having a dream isn’t enough. Just because you want something badly doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. Believe me, life doesn’t work like that.”

      There was a hard, cold edge to his voice. Once, a long time ago, he’d lain in the tall grass at the end of her parents’ yard and dreamed with her. Obviously, those days were gone.

      “This is the best night of my life,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “I’ve wanted to buy this place ever since my grandfather brought me here when I was four years old and we sat up there in the balcony and he told me how his father built this place and how sad he’d been when he was forced to sell it. I am not going to stand here and listen to you tell me what I can’t do and what I don’t know.”

      She bent and grabbed the champagne bottle from the floor.

      “I’ll be at the pub if you want to celebrate.”

      “Amy.”

      She ignored him and strode toward the rear exit. He had the flashlight, he’d be able to find his own way out.