Her Best Friend

“You watch yourself, Quinn Whitfield. Your mother and I still e-mail regularly. I can get you into big trouble if I want to.”

“My humble apologies, Mrs. P. I stand corrected.”

Amy fumbled in her bag for her notepad.

“That reminds me. I promised Louise I’d let her know what happened tonight,” Amy said. She added a note to e-mail Quinn’s mom with her news to her To Do list. Quinn’s parents had been on the road in their RV since his father retired last year, their house empty and silent next door, but like her mother, Amy kept up contact via e-mail.

When she glanced up from writing her note, Quinn was watching her with amused eyes.

“What’s with the notepad?” he asked.

“It helps me stay organized.”

He raised an eyebrow.

“It does!” she insisted.

“It’s true, Quinn. Amy is the best paint department manager we’ve ever had at the store, thanks to that little pad,” her mother said.

“Guess we’re going to lose her now, though, huh?” her father said.

Amy smiled fondly at her parents. They had never ceased to support her, even though she knew there were probably times when they’d been convinced she’d never achieve her dream. She put her arm around her father’s waist and gave him a little squeeze. He dropped a kiss onto the top of her head, his eyes suspiciously shiny. After a few seconds, he cleared his throat.

“Well, I guess we’ll leave you kids to it.”

Her parents headed home and Quinn took her elbow and started steering her toward a nondescript sedan parked at the far corner of the parking lot.

“Hey. I need my car,” she said.

“Not tonight. Tonight you’re going to drink champagne and kick up your heels and get messy drunk,” Quinn said.

She glanced at his profile as they walked, his features barely visible in the dark. Despite all the reasons why it should be wrong, it felt right that Quinn was here to celebrate with her.

She smirked as Quinn cut in front of her to open her car door for her.

“So courtly, Mr. Whitfield,” she said. “So sophisticated.”

He gave her a dry look. “I know you’re probably used to being thrown into the back of a truck or over a shoulder, but up in the big smoke we’re a little smoother.”

“Do tell,” she said, fluttering her eyelashes at him as she slid into the car.

He pushed the door closed and circled to the driver’s side.

“You know what we should do? Bribe Phil into selling us a bottle of champagne and take it to the Grand,” Amy said as Quinn got behind the wheel.

Phil ran the local pub and could generally be relied upon to supply a bottle of wine to desperate locals when the liquor shop was closed for the night.

Quinn pulled onto the road.

“As a member of the New South Wales Bar Association, it behooves me to inform you that purchasing alcohol from a licensed facility for consumption off premises is a crime,” Quinn said in the same tone he’d used to destroy Reg Hanover and Barry Ulrich earlier in the evening.

“So you want me to run in and get it, then?”

“Nah. It’ll be good to catch up with Phil,” Quinn said with a quick grin.

A rush of warm emotion washed over her. It was only now that Quinn was sitting beside her, so familiar and dear, that she was able to acknowledge how much she’d missed him. How painful her self-imposed isolation had been. His laugh, his dry sense of humor, his honesty, his patience and kindness—she’d missed him like crazy for every second of the eighteen months she’d tried to cut him out of her life.

Which went to show how effective her cold-turkey regime had been.

“Lisa must have been pretty pissed with you for canceling Hamilton Island,” she said.

Good to remind herself of Lisa. Quinn’s wife. Her friend. Good to always keep those two very important facts top of mind, before she got too caught up in the feelings swamping her.

There was a short silence as Quinn pulled into a parking spot outside the pub.

“The old oak’s gone,” he said.

She glanced at him, aware that he hadn’t responded to her comment. Did that mean he was in the dog house over helping her out? She hoped not.

“It fell over in a storm last year.”

“Must have been some storm.”

They got out of the car and Quinn took a moment to scan the town’s main thoroughfare.

She looked, too, and wondered what he saw. The heritage shopfronts, or the fact that there was only one butcher? The well-tended flower beds and handmade park benches, or the fact that the post office doubled as a news agency as well as a lottery outlet?

“I suppose it must all seem pretty tin-pot compared to the bright lights of Sydney,” she said.

He met her eyes across the car.

“It’s home, Ames. That’s what it seems like.”

His mouth tilted upward at the corner, but he looked sad. Or maybe lost. Amy frowned, suddenly remembering the long silences during their recent phone conversation.

It was on the tip of her tongue to ask if anything was wrong but Quinn turned away and started walking toward the pub.

“Phil still trying to give up smoking?” he asked.

“Every year. Last time he held out a whole month.”

“Wow. That’s got to be a new record, right?”

“No way. I think you’re forgetting the great abstinence of ‘95 when he went a full three months without touching the demon nicotine.”

“Right. My mistake.”

Quinn was smiling again as they pushed through the double doors into the bar. She told herself she’d imagined the small moment by the car, that it had simply been a trick of the light.

And even if she hadn’t imagined it, she had no right to pry into Quinn’s private thoughts and feelings. Not when she’d been trying to cut him out of her life for the past year and a half.

The news of her successful purchase of the Grand had spread through town and it was twenty minutes before she’d finished accepting congratulations from her friends and acquaintances. Phil handed over a bottle of his best

French champagne but refused to accept any money for it.

“Against the liquor laws, Amy,” he said with a wink at Quinn. “Plus I figure I’ll hit you up for some free movie tickets when you’ve got the old girl up and running again.”

“You’re on,” Amy said.

He loaned them a couple of champagne flutes and she and Quinn left the pub and began walking up Vincent Street to where the roofline of the Grand soared over its neighbors.

By mutual unspoken consent, their steps slowed as they approached and they craned their necks to take in the faded grandeur of the facade.

“I’d forgotten how imposing it is. It really is grand, isn’t it?” Quinn said.

“Yep,” she said around the lump in her throat.

She sniffed as quietly as she could and blinked rapidly.

She could feel Quinn looking at her and she turned her head away slightly, trying to mask her tears.

“You crying, Ames?”

“Yep.”

Quinn’s laughter sounded low and deep. “I think we need to get some champagne into you.”

“Let’s go inside first.”

“You’ve got a key already?” He sounded surprised.

“Don’t need one. The back door hasn’t shut properly since the last tenant moved out.”

“Our second crime for the evening—breaking and entering. I’m starting to feel like Bonnie and Clyde. We’re on a rampage.”

She started up the alley that led to the parking lot at the rear of the cinema.

“Technically, it’s only entering, since the door is already screwed,” she said.

“Those are the little details that make all the difference in court.”

“If you’re afraid, Whitfield, you can wait outside.”

“Nice try, Parker, but I’m not letting you swill all the champagne on your own. I’ve developed a taste for the finer things in life over the past few years, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

“City slicker.”

“Yokel.”

They’d reached the back of the theatre and she dropped her shoulder against the decrepit door, trying to shove it open.

“For Pete’s sake. You weight less than a gnat. Let me do it,” Quinn said. He stepped forward.

“I’ve got it,” she said.

“Amy …”

She took a step back and threw her entire body weight at the door. It gave instantly and she stumbled over the threshold.

“Break anything?” he asked as she rubbed her shoulder with her free hand.

“No. You? Your precious male ego permanently dented because you didn’t get a chance to show off how much stronger you are than me?”

It was very dark in the corridor. Quinn’s laugh sounded loud in the small space.

“Small of stature, big of attitude. Same old, same old.”

She jumped when his hand landed on her shoulder.

“Lead the way, bossy pants,” he said. “I’m at your mercy.”

“I’ve got a flashlight in my bag …” she said, very aware of the weight and warmth of his hand on her shoulder.

She inhaled his aftershave again as she fumbled in her handbag. He’d felt so big and solid when he’d lifted her earlier. Bigger than she remembered.

Her fumbling hand closed around the flashlight and she pulled it from her handbag and flicked it on.

“See? All good.”

She felt shaky inside, as though all her internal organs were trembling. This was why she’d tried to cut him out of her life. One look, one touch and she was thinking about all the things that she’d never have. It was too hard. Too cruel. Too crazy-making.

And way, way too frustrating.

As she’d hoped, Quinn’s hand fell to his side. She turned and started picking her way up the corridor. The flashlight beam bounced along the floor in front of her. A door loomed ahead and she twisted the handle and pushed it open. They emerged into a large, open space. In the old days, the screen would have filled the wall to the right of the door and the main seating would be in front of them. Now there was just a blank wall and lots of space where the seats used to be. She swung the flashlight in a wide arc, the beam glancing off scarred floors, scratched wood paneling, crumbling plaster walls.

“Whoa. It smells in here,” Quinn said.

“The roof leaked a while back. It took council a while to approve the expenditure to get it fixed and the carpet in the balcony section rotted.”

Quinn gestured for her to hand over the champagne bottle and she held the beam steady while he removed the cage and popped the cork. He drew a champagne flute from his coat pocket and poured a glass, handing it over to her before repeating the process for himself.

“To the Grand,” Quinn said.

She lifted her glass to his. The small clink of glass on glass was swallowed by the vastness of the space.

“Thank you for being here when I needed you,” she said. “You’re a good friend, Quinn.”

Suddenly they were both very serious. They stared into each other’s eyes for a long moment. She knew what he was thinking about—those eighteen months of unreturned phone calls and e-mails. Guilt and longing twisted inside her. She turned away and took a big gulp of champagne. Bubbles tickled the back of her throat and she coughed.

“Careful there, tiger,” he said.

She walked away from him, playing the flashlight over the nearest wall.

“Do you know they imported all the cherrywood for this paneling from Northern California, even though they could have used local lacewood or blackwood? My great-grandfather was so obsessed with creating a masterpiece he wanted everything in this place to be exotic and expensive,” she said.

Quinn joined her, reaching out to run a hand along one of the panels.

“It’s pretty scratched up.”

“Years of neglect and indifference will do that.”

“Can I?” he asked, indicating the flashlight.

“Sure.” She handed it over and leaned against the wall as he took a tour of the theatre. She watched him pass the light over the piles of debris covering the floor, the remnants of past tenants, then pause to inspect the dark holes in the floors where bolts once fixed the sectional seating in place.

“Most of the seats are stored in the basement, but some of them were sold off,” she said. “I’ve been collect ing them from yard sales for the past few years, storing them at my place and in the garage at Mom and Dad’s.”

“Bet your dad loves that.”

“He doesn’t mind.”

He studied the far wall before aiming the beam at the once-spectacular figured plaster ceiling. In its heyday, it had been a stylized depiction of the universe, complete with sun and moon, planets and stars. She didn’t need to look up to know what he was seeing now. Mold. Crumbling plaster. Water damage.

She had a lot of hard work ahead of her, but she’d never been afraid of hard work. In fact, she welcomed it.

She sipped her champagne as Quinn circled his way back to her.

“Lot to do here, Ames.”

“I know.”

“Going to cost a bomb.”

She shrugged. “That’s what loans are for, right?” She had a detailed business plan. She’d done her homework. Once she was up and running, she was confident she’d attract enough tourist dollars to more than pay back her debts.

He drank some champagne. “So, who comes in first? Painters? Carpenters? Have you had the place surveyed?”

“It’s structurally sound. The roof needs some work. New guttering, that kind of thing. I’ve spoken to Neville Wallace about that. He’s going to fix the plumbing, too. But I’ll have to retile the bathrooms myself. And paint in here, too, I guess.”

She arched her neck and considered the thirty-foot-high walls. She needed to make a note to call the scaffolding company.

“You’re kidding. Right?”

She looked at Quinn. He was frowning.

“I wish I was, but I just spent my painting budget. Where do you think that extra twenty thousand came from at the last minute?” She’d only hesitated for a second when Reg had upped the price by twenty thousand, hoping to scare her off and buy his buddy Ulrich more time. She’d known she’d never get another chance at the Grand if she allowed Ulrich the time to regroup and find some sneaky way around the legal arguments Quinn had put forward.

“But Amy …” Quinn shook his head, lost for speech. “This place is huge.”

“So it’s going to take a little more time than I originally planned. I can live with that.”

“Do you have any idea what you’re taking on?”

“Of course I do.”

“How are you going to tackle the ceiling? That plaster work is part of the heritage listing.”

“Thank you, Quinn. I’m aware of that, as a matter of fact. I’m aware of every inch of this place, having spent the past ten years working toward this moment. Which is why I traveled into Melbourne two nights a week to attend a course on restoring vintage decorative plasterwork last year. And why I did an upholstery course the year before that, and why I have a file a foot thick with information on suppliers who can help me refit this place.”

The frown didn’t leave his face. He slid his glass onto the wide lip at the top of the timber paneling.

“Amy, it’s one thing to be passionate, but this place needs more than passion.”

“I can handle it,” she said through gritted teeth. She put down her own glass. Since when had Quinn been such a killjoy? She couldn’t believe he was attacking her dream like this, trying to pull it apart before she’d even gotten used to the idea that the Grand was hers.

“I think you should get an expert restorer to take a look at—”

“Quinn, shut up.”

“Amy—”

“I mean it. Don’t say another word, okay, or I’m going to get really angry,” she said. “I appreciate your help tonight, but I don’t appreciate being patronized by someone who has no idea what they’re talking about.”

“I’m simply pointing out that sometimes having a dream isn’t enough. Just because you want something badly doesn’t mean you’re going to get it. Believe me, life doesn’t work like that.”

There was a hard, cold edge to his voice. Once, a long time ago, he’d lain in the tall grass at the end of her parents’ yard and dreamed with her. Obviously, those days were gone.

“This is the best night of my life,” she said, her voice low and controlled. “I’ve wanted to buy this place ever since my grandfather brought me here when I was four years old and we sat up there in the balcony and he told me how his father built this place and how sad he’d been when he was forced to sell it. I am not going to stand here and listen to you tell me what I can’t do and what I don’t know.”

She bent and grabbed the champagne bottle from the floor.

“I’ll be at the pub if you want to celebrate.”

“Amy.”

She ignored him and strode toward the rear exit. He had the flashlight, he’d be able to find his own way out.

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