Page 21 of Ardently Yours

She scowls. “I wouldn’t, and neither would they. I don’t need you to preach to me, and they’re not criminals. This is a unique situation. I’d call it a . . . premeditated crime of passion.”

My lips quirk before I manage to suppress my smile.

She bites her lip. “I know that’s not how crimes of passion work, but you know what I mean. It’s based on desperation.”

I nod. “I do, but desperation isn’t a valid excuse. You’ll still get the book thrown at you.”

She hesitates. “Can you keep us out of trouble?”

“You haven’t killed anyone. Destruction of property at this level is a third-degree felony. It could get you fifteen years in prison, Charlotte. But it hasn’t happened yet. We have to make sure it never does.” I can’t resist the urge to tease her. “If I have to, I’llfile an injunction.”

Her face darkens with a blush again and beads of sweat break out on her forehead. “I used that word wrong too?” she asks with a weak laugh.

Now, I feel like a dick. “Let’s say, you used it creatively.”

“Incorrectly.”

“Abysmally so,” I admit. “But I’m serious that you don’t need to worry. I’ll figure something out.”

We step behind the enormous RealFreedom Development sign. From here, it feels like we’re in our own private world, hidden from view of any passersby and sheltered from the wind. We’re twenty yards from the main entrance to the theater, and I tip my head back to take in the view.

“Charlotte Miller,” I tease, “you told your legal counsel that this building was beautiful.”

I assess the faded and peeling mauve paint. The missing shingles on the gambrel roof. The rotting wood surrounding the doorframe. If I look harder, I’ll find more damage. According to my managers, there’s nothing architecturally significant about it. It doesn’t meet the requirements for the Historical Preservation Society.

“It is beautiful,” she insists.

I lift an eyebrow. “Are you kidding, or do you need glasses?”

“You have to look with your heart,” she says sheepishly.

I turn my attention back to the building, then shake my head. “I’m an attorney. I appear to lack the anatomy forheart eyes.”

As it stands, this place is a money pit. There’s no logical argument for it to remain. “I spoke with someone at RealFreedom before I came out here. They tell me the location guarantees a return on investment. The theater itself is a financial drain. That’s not even taking into consideration that the cost to update it is more than the entire value of the property, and those costs will never be recouped.”

“I don’t know much about tax laws, but couldn’t the loss be a write-off or a charitable contribution? Not everything of value can be measured by its cost,” she says.

“They tell me Blackwater doesn’t need its own theater because the university has a prolific drama department.” The words, themselves, are matter-of-fact, but my tone saysConvince me.

I don’t want to be the bad guy here, but I don’t understand her obsession with this rotting building.

“That leaves the townies on the outside looking in. They can pay for a ticket and watch, yes. But they don’t get to be part of it,” she says.

“That’s an important distinction?” It’s not something I’ve given any thought to. I visited my aunt’s estate in Blackwater a grand total of two times in my life, prior to attending Steve’s funeral.

Though, I’ll admit when Steve mentioned his hometown, a sense of familiarity had intrigued me enough to let him get his foot in the door. This is a small town. For me to meet him randomly felt like . . . I don’t know . . . a hint from the universe to pay attention.

The properties I purchased since the funeral were something else. I told my people it was because of the potential for growth here. The truth is more complicated.

I wanted an irrefutable connection to Charlotte. I needed to make good things happen for her. I can’t explain why or justify it.

She shakes her head. “The townies and the college usually don’t mix. Them having a drama department doesn’t help us.”

Stepping away, she points to the terraced area next to the building. “That’s where we do Shakespeare Under the Stars. Every summer, this little town does a different play, all with local actors. Some of the acting is terrible, but it’swonderful. The high school’s theater department is run by the music director, and all they do are musicals. This is the only opportunity most of these kids get to be part of something like this. And it’s not justabout the plays. They learn so much about history and teamwork and a hundred other skills. They become part of something.”

In her enthusiasm, she seems to forget her nervousness and gives my forearm a squeeze. “There are people in Blackwater who spend their whole year waiting for these productions. Shakespeare Under the Stars is the only time people come to this town forus, not BSU. Greg Wilson has acted in every Shakespeare performance for the last twenty-seven years. This town is nasty with their prejudices. It’s the nineties. It shouldn’t be like that, but it is. People here act like being an unwed mother is a crime against humanity. For someone openly gay, it’s a million times worse. But this theater community doesn’t just welcome everyone, they genuinely love and appreciate each other. For some people in Blackwater, this is the only place that feels like home.”

“Does it feel like that for you?” I ask.

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