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She bit the corner of her lip. It was still light enough out that she could see clearly into the lobby. A ladder and drop cloth stood near the old refreshment counter, along with tools, plywood and paint cans. Someone had obviously been working.
“Curiosity killed the Kate,” she muttered out loud.
Then she walked inside.
JACK WASTED A GOOD BIT of the afternoon walking around downtown Pleasantville, looking for pleasant memories. There weren’t many. For a town where the Winfield family was considered royalty, he had to say he had few fond remembrances of his childhood. His father had been mostly busy. His mother had been mostly teary-eyed. His sister…hell, he barely recognized the smiling, sweet-faced toddler in the surly blond woman.
The only real ray of sunshine from his childhood, their maid, had recently left Pleasantville and moved away. He wished he’d had a chance to say goodbye to Edie. Maybe he’d ask his mother if she had her new address. Then again, his mother seemed awfully skittish whenever Edie’s name came up. He hoped she didn’t owe the hardworking woman back wages. His mother had no conception of careful spending and was usually in debt, part of the reason his parents’ marriage had been so rocky.
While he walked, he kept his eyes open for a brand-spanking-new SUV. He really didn’t expect to see her. Since he knew he’d been looking Kate up when he got back to Chicago, he didn’t feel it imperative to find her today. Then he glanced down a side street and saw it. Her silver car. Parked right in the open in front of the old movie theater.
Another opportunity—one too good to pass up. He headed for the theater entrance. When he saw one door was slightly ajar, he figured she’d gone inside, so he walked in, also.
Hearing some loud, off-key singing, he followed the sound through the lobby area. His steps echoed on the cracked-tile floor, the only sound other than the top-of-the-lungs belting coming from the theater. He barely spared a glance at the lobby, beyond noting that someone had been painting and cleaning up.
When he pushed open the door to enter the auditorium, he paused, figuring it would be dark and his eyes would need to adjust. Somehow, though, probably because there was repair work going on, the electricity worked. The theater wasn’t dark at all down in front where work lights washed the stage with light. In the audience area, a few side fixtures made things visible.
He could see the rows upon rows of burgundy crushed-velvet seats. The thin, worn carpeting in the aisle hadn’t changed, its pattern remained virtually indistinguishable after decades of wear. A pair of vast chandeliers still hung suspended over the audience—not lit, obviously. Even fifteen years ago when he’d come to see movies in this place, the chandeliers had been strictly decorative. The town was too cheap to electrify them, so they remained a sparklingly dark reminder of another era.
Finally he turned toward the stage, at the bottom of the theater, where the organist had played in the silent picture days. And he saw her. Kate. Singing as though there was no tomorrow.
Jack began to smile. Then to chuckle. He approached the stage, remaining quiet. She still hadn’t seen him, so he took a seat a few rows from the front, watching her performance.
Lordy, the woman could not hold a tune. But what she lacked in pitch, she made up for in volume. The rafters nearly shook and he finally recognized the song. Vintage Pat Benatar. She even had the rocker’s strut.
No, she couldn’t sing, but damn, the woman had some moves.
“I would definitely like to hit you with my best shot,” he murmured, knowing she couldn’t hear over her own voice.
Her legs looked impossibly long beneath her short ivory skirt as she gyrated. She was bent at the waist, holding an imaginary microphone and singing into her fist. Her thick, dark hair fell forward, curtaining her face. From here, he had a magnificent view of the curve of her ass and hips as she bent lower, with parted legs, rocking on her high white heels. Then even lower, until the hem of her skirt rose higher, revealing the top of one thigh-high stocking.
Jack swallowed hard, knowing another inch or two and he’d be seeing whether Kate favored bikinis or thongs. Deciding to alert her to his presence, he prepared to stand. Before he could, however, she tossed her head back, and stood upright to finish the song. She thrust her chest forward. He shifted in his seat, watching the silkiness of her sleeveless blouse brush against the pronounced curves beneath.
