He drags his hand along his chin. “I don’t know who any of those people are, but that sounds fascinating.”
“Psh.” I elbow his side. “You don’t know them yet … but stick with me long enough and you will.”
Most people who arrange private tours of the Elmhurst usually geek out over the Fairbanks-Pickford display—and it’s usually our piece de la resistance, best saved for last.
“Okay, so now we’ve got the balcony, backstage …” I ramble aloud. “Dressing rooms …”
“I thought this was a movie theatre?”
“It functions as both. We have a stage and we also have a screen that comes down. Though I don’t think they’ve shown a movie here in twenty years. They weren’t able to update the projection equipment. Not enough funds. So now the place mostly rents out for speaking engagements, wedding receptions, private events. It’s sad, but I guess it’s better than letting it sit around and crumble.”
“I suppose.”
“If I had all the money in the world, I’d restore this place to its full former glory, and then I’d host weekly screenings of the classics. Can you imagine watching Citizen Kane or Key Largo in a place like this? Exactly the way it was enjoyed a lifetime ago? A true theatre experience …” I lead him to the dressing rooms next. They’re dark and crowded, not as glamorous as most people expect when they come here, but still an essential part of this establishment.
We finish the tour on the balcony, overlooking the stage with its rich, velvet curtains and their silky gold fringe.
“So much history here,” I say, slipping my arm around his back and leaning against his arm. “So much beauty. I swear I find something new to appreciate every time I come here.”
“How often do you come here?” He glances down.
“They’ve got about ten or fifteen volunteers at any given moment. We usually help out with cleaning and maintenance. They send out emails when they need us to come in. Sometimes it’s once a week, sometimes less.” I sigh. “The owners are talking about selling the place. I just hope it goes into the right hands. Seems like they’re tearing down landmarks and replacing them with apartment buildings. I get that the area’s growing like crazy and people need housing, but I can’t imagine driving down Worth Avenue and not seeing the iconic Elmhurst marquee lighting up the sidewalks at night. Anyway … am I boring you?”
“Not at all.” He presses a kiss into my forehead.
My stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten since eleven today. Came straight here after work. “You hungry?”
Bennett turns to me, his cool blue eyes narrowed into an apologetic wince. “I’m so sorry, Astaire. Something came up this afternoon. I’m afraid I have to cut this short.”
That explains his distraction tonight.
I wield a small smile to mask my disappointment. “No worries.”
We head down the narrow staircase, making our way to the lobby. I ready my keys to lock up behind us. A quick peer out the window shows George idling out front, hazard lights flashing, like he never left in the first place.
Bennett had every intention of making this a quick stop.
“Everything okay?” I ask as I work the lock and double-check the handle.
A hint of a grimace cases his handsome face. “It’s complicated.”
“Anything I can help with?”
He hardly looks at me. I can’t help but wonder if I should be taking any of this personally …
Maybe an ex came back into the picture?
Maybe he’s having second thoughts?
Maybe my theatre tour bored him to tears and demonstrated how polar our interests are?
“You want to talk about this?” I try to keep my question light, avoiding tones that would suggest I’m feeling confused by all of this.
“There’s nothing to talk about. It’s just something I need to handle, and the sooner I handle it, the better.”
I quiet my thoughts.
It doesn’t seem like this is about me …
Only it doesn’t sting any less knowing he doesn’t feel comfortable opening up to me about it after everything.
“I’m parked in the back,” I tell him as he eyes his SUV. “I guess … call me?”
“Of course.” He cups my face with his hand, gives me a slow kiss, this one marginally less rushed than the last two. “I’ll make this up to you, Astaire. I promise.”
With that, he’s gone.
Thirty-Six
Bennett
* * *
“Bennett, just wanted to confirm that Ms. Carraro signed off on the guardianship papers,” my attorney, James Paulson, says over the phone.
I hate leaving Astaire like I did, but with those text messages stewing in my inbox and the threat of my brother meddling with Honor’s situation, I need to get ahead of the game here, which means knowing potential setbacks before they happen.
“Question for you,” I say. “What would happen if Honor’s biological father suddenly appeared in the picture and wanted custody?”
James clears his throat. “Did he waive his parental rights before?”
“For the purposes of this scenario, let’s say he didn’t know she existed …”
“If he truly was unaware of her existence and wants to be a custodial parent, he would have an opportunity to push for that, yes. It would involve petitioning the courts, suing for custody, the works. Why? Do you foresee this as becoming an issue?” he asks.
“Hopefully not.”
“I can give you the name of a guy … handles family law, and he’s much more practiced in this area than I am. But I will say, cases like these can get expensive and ugly, and if you’re not the biological father, you could be looking at an uphill losing battle. In most circumstances, blood almost always wins in family court barring abuse, drug addiction, and the like.”
I linger in the doorway of Honor’s soon-to-be bedroom, taking in the abundance of pink and white and fluffiness.
So much is changing, so fast.
“You want me to email you the name of the guy?” James asks.
“Sure.” I end the call and take one last look around Honor’s room before closing the door.
Astaire’s talk of redefining what it means to be a family, having traditions of our own, and being a tight-knit threesome was beginning to sound too good to be true, even if I never let on.
I suppose it’s human nature to want to belong to something … to someone. To know your place in the world. To have that one person or few people who will be there for you unconditionally, no matter what.
We’re so close …
And now there’s a good chance my brother could ruin all of it.
For me. For Astaire. For Honor.
I close her door, head to my study, and print off the text messages—hundreds of warm, ink-scented pages spitting out one after another. When I’m finished, I secure them with a binder clip and place them on the corner of my desk.
I’m not above blackmailing the bastard—not if it means keeping the three of us together.
Thirty-Seven