face is visible against the hood I’d had to tie tightly around my head to keep in place.
He doesn’t try to be discreet about checking me out. “You look gorgeous.”
I look like a pickpocket. “Thanks. You too.”
He cracks first, a smile transforming his face. “So what’s the plan?”
“It’s top secret.” I turn away to flag down a cab. There’s not much traffic today, but a few yellow tops crawl along the curb lane, eternal optimists. It only takes a second for one to stop.
Chris tugs open the back door and I slide in first, giving the address to the driver as Chris lingers outside to close his umbrella. I push back my hood and drag out my hair from where it’s stuck in my collar. “Brr.”
He reaches over to snag my hand, rubbing my icy fingers between his warm ones. “You walked over?”
“Yeah.”
“Why?”
“Why not?”
He lets my non-answer slide. “Tell me where we’re going.”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Give me a hint.”
I scratch my chin. “How do you feel about cemeteries?”
He raises an eyebrow. “They’re... useful?”
“Then you’ll be fine.” Of course we’re not going to a cemetery, but I still give him a smile intended to be the polar opposite of comforting.
Waterfront Theater is misleadingly named, since the Holden River is about half a mile away and not visible from any angle. My brother Alex, who enjoyed the benefits of wealth as much as he railed against its creativity-killing enabling, would have hated what this place has become. When he took over the abandoned space five years ago, he’d transformed a slightly creepy old building into a whimsical and inspiring haven for local creatives. There are a couple of stages, dressing rooms, a lobby, a small canteen, art studios, and galleries. Alex called it Tiger Wing Hall after the creepy stuffed tiger toy he’d dragged along everywhere as a kid. He’d harangued my father until he agreed to “donate” the money to have the front doors custom-made in the shape of enormous wings painted with orange and black tiger stripes. He loved them until the day he slammed his hand in there and broke four fingers.
The rest of the building exterior would be more at home in a fishing village, with peeling white clapboard and windows that are perpetually fogged, no matter the weather. Still, I’d liked coming here, once upon a time. Alex poured his heart and soul into the place, acting, directing, and managing, making no money but proudly living off his trust fund and offering the world value in other, more creative ways.
I haven’t been here since the night of my dad’s arrest, though I’ve kept tabs over the years. Because my father owned the building, it was repossessed with all of his other belongings and resold to make a tiny dent in the amount he’d stolen. It was closed for a short time, then rebranded and reopened as a space for artists, but with a more money-minded focus. Alex had the brilliant idea to let people pay what they thought a show was worth; now admission is fifteen dollars.
The cab stops in front of the awning-covered entrance, the formerly tiger-print doors now painted a shimmering eggshell. The new owners redid the exterior, and it looks more like a tiny home in the Hamptons than a charming arts center. I pay the driver and start to slide across the seat, bumping Chris’s knee when he doesn’t move.
“What are we doing here?” he asks. His gaze is locked on the building, his jaw tight, fingers digging into his thigh.
“We’re going to see a show.”
“Here?”
“Yes. It’s a theater.”
His eyes narrow. I’ve lied about so many things, it’s strange the truth is what makes him suspicious.
“Really.”
Now I frown. “Yes, really. You said pick something. I picked.”
“You picked this, out of all the places in the city?”
I follow him out of the car and duck under the awning of the building, the pounding rain forcing us to shout to be heard. “You don’t like theater?”
He focuses on something over my shoulder. “It’s fine.”
Wordlessly he reaches over and pulls open the door, tipping his head to indicate I should enter. I do, shuddering as the musty warmth of the lobby envelops us. It’s brighter and cleaner than I remember it, and the handful of people milling around are well dressed, their kids wearing raincoats that cost more than mine.
My mother got her start performing here when she was a teenager, and after she passed my father used to bring Alex and me back to show us