I jangle the keys and take him by the hand, leading him through the main doors and stopping at the mahogany ticket booth.
“That’s the original ticket booth from 1921.” I point. He nods. He’s only here to humor me, I know, but I’m going to try to keep things light and interesting. Sometimes I have to remind myself that not everyone is a theatre junkie …
“This carpet.” I point to the floor. “Not original, but it is a replica. We have it professionally steam-cleaned once a month but it’s getting to the point where it probably can’t handle more than a few more cleanings …”
Next, I take him to the bar—an Art Deco-style number straight out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.
“The bar itself is original, as you can see from all the nicks and scratches that have been filled in over the years, but the black marble top was added a few years ago for durability purposes and the stools are new as well.”
Again he nods. Feigns interest.
“I’m sorry. This must be extremely boring for you.” I wince. “We don’t have to keep going. You want to grab a bite somewhere?”
“No, no.” He squeeze my hand. “It’s not boring.”
“You’re not into this at all. I can tell. And that’s okay.”
“Astaire, please. Keep going. Continue the tour,” he gives me another kiss—an equally distracted peck, only this one lands on my lips.
Is he trying to make me feel better?
I lead him through the lobby. “The wallpaper there? Hand-painted by a local Chicago artist from the twenties—Geraldine Halliday. She was huge back then. Known for using real gold leaf and spending hours upon hours obsessively mixing the perfect ‘deco’ green. Anyway, as you can see, it’s pretty faded and it’s certainly seen better days, but owners can’t bring themselves to tear it down because it’s practically a priceless work of art. Plus, you know, it’d take away from the whole preservation thing they have going on here. They only like to replace things when absolutely necessary. If something can be restored, they restore it.”
His gaze drips down the geometric wallpaper, lingers on the patterned replica carpet, and scans the empty space.
“Oh, I have to show you the famous chairs …” I pull him down a different hallway, to a glass lit display showcasing two ordinary-looking theatre chairs. “When this theatre opened in 1921, Douglas Fairbanks and Mary Pickford happened to be in town. At the time, they were the biggest Hollywood power couple of the age. Think Brad and Angelina but in the Roaring Twenties. Anyway, they came here opening night to catch the premier of Charlie Chaplin’s The Idle Class, found a couple of seats in the back, and tried to enjoy the show unnoticed. But word got out and people definitely noticed. They didn’t get to finish the show, but the owners managed to reach out to them the next day. Invited them back for a private screening. They had the whole place to themselves. Afterwards, the owners took the chairs out of the general seating area and essentially had them enshrined. As far as anyone knows, not a soul has sat in either of those chairs since that day.”
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.