less enthusiastically, “thankfully we don’t have to do a lot of things we had to during the Great Depression anymore. I for one can’t remember the last time we boarded a rabid dog or criminal beneath the stage.”
The group laughed politely, everyone well aware of the Barter’s fascinating history. The area beneath the stage at one time had served as a jailhouse, and at another, a pen for suspected rabid dogs. The theatre itself had garnered its name from the fact that actors worked for vegetables, dairy, livestock—even snakes and underwear—during the Depression years.
When Bree heard all the bizarre facts of the Barter’s past, she didn’t take Evie’s word for it. One quick internet search verified it was true—everything down to the fact the actors had to shout to make themselves heard over the pigs and chickens during the plays.
Now that would’ve been a heck of a time to be an actress.
“No, I’m afraid a few buckets of paint would not solve this theatre’s problems,” Richardson said. “The Barter needs more than a freshening up. It’s time to take it down to the studs and give it something that will last another hundred years. The Barter needs a facelift.”
The women touched their foreheads and cheeks, the very word clearly reminding them of distant—and in the case of Mrs. Thieves, not so distant—procedures.
The group was silent for a moment.
“I can’t agree more,” Mrs. Richardson replied, removing her hand from her slender jawline. She picked up her glass of champagne from a side table with a smile. “To new youth!”
The huddle scurried to raise their glasses.
“To new youth!” they replied, lifting the glasses to their lips.
“When are you going to do it?” Mr. Henderson asked, drawing Mr. Richardson’s attention.
“It’ll have to be in between seasons.”
“Who’s going to do it?” Mr. Henderson inquired. “You know, Turner just completed the entire renovation of the administration offices at the hospital—”
“Maybe Turner was fine for you, Gerry, but I don’t want just anyone coming in to slap tile on the floors and ceiling and call it a day. We’re talking about the Barter here. We’re talking about art. If the man can’t brushstroke an oil painting just as well as he can build a skyscraper, I don’t want him so much as driving a nail.”
Mr. Henderson, the hospital’s top donor, tightened his smile and his grip on his glass. He held a long pause. “Yes. Well, I’m sure that’ll be difficult to find in this area. I wish you luck.”
As the conversation turned to someone’s latest trip to Sicily, Theodore and Bree slipped away.
“Well now,” Theodore said quietly as he led the way through the crowd. “Was that everything you dreamed it would be?”
Bree trailed him, blinded by his broad shoulders. “The Barter getting a renovation? Riveting. Someone alert the papers.”
“By next week they’ll all know.” He pushed open a door.
And suddenly they were standing outside, overlooking the elegant curved driveway. The parking valets stood in the distance, bouncing on toes as they shivered in the cold. Theodore slipped one hand into the pocket of his tux. “Sorry. It was getting a bit stuffy.”
“No, this is a good idea,” Bree said. She crossed her bare arms across her chest.
Theodore shifted to look over Main Street, then turned back to face her.
“It is a nice evening out. Would you”—Theodore paused—“care to . . . stroll?”
The sky was clear. The bright yellow moon hovered over the Barter just across the street, its maroon-and-yellow flags flicking in the light breeze.
Her eyes fell on the road between the Barter and the Martha, where Chip had raced across in his fancy suit, his tie flapping as he grinned like a golden retriever with a Frisbee.
The man with a girlfriend.
The man who drove like a maniac, whose bumper stickers alone had proven him to be the type of man she’d never be interested in.
The man who had thought so little of their interaction he couldn’t even remember her name.
And she had stood there like a fool and smiled at him onstage.
“A stroll would be perfect,” Bree said, her words swift and sure as she reached backward for the door. “Let me just get my coat.”
Chapter 4
Chip
Chip tried really, really hard to keep a smile from playing on his lips as Bree stomped out of the sleet and onto his concrete porch in black galoshes. She pushed her damp, dripping hair out of her eyes and swung the five-gallon paint bucket off her hip onto the ground between them.