Throughout his career, actor John Paravati has stuck with the line he sold to the gossip rags—he’s been in like, been in lust, even been in respect once or twice, but never love. It works for him. After all, the only thing he’s ever cared about is performing, and if he’s stuck now doing commercials for cruise lines to pay his bills, at least it’s better than shilling adult diapers.
But people in Hollywood are pros at pretending, and John is the master of them all. Because once upon a time, in the world of his youth, he loved two things with all his heart—his best friend Frank and the movie palace he used as sanctuary.
Over fifty years ago, he ran away from his hometown, never to look back. Now, someone has decided to restore the theater he left behind, and they want John to be a part of its relaunch. Though the memories still sting, he swallows his pride and agrees to go, even if it means finally dealing with the heartache he’s ignored all this time. At seventy-seven, he’s too old to continue holding onto the hurt. The question is, however, is he too old to start over once it’s gone?
EXCERPT
...Dear Mr. Paravati, my name is Amanda Eaker, and recently my husband and I finished renovations on The Crown in Shakersville, Indiana, a property we purchased for the sole purpose of reviving it to its former glory. We will be celebrating its relaunch on March 20 and would love to invite you to attend as our VIP special guest…
“Tell her no,” John said, shoving both the letter and envelope into Corrine’s unsuspecting hands.
Corrine gaped. “But why? You love the old movie palaces. You say all the time how it’s a travesty they keep getting torn down.”
His legs were shaking, and his stomach had begun twisting into unbreakable knots. Shakersville. Damn. Why did Fate have such a mean sense of humor? “I’m too busy.”
“No, you’re not. I checked your schedule to make sure. I wouldn’t have bothered you with it, otherwise.”
“It’s too soon,” he tried. “That’s less than a month away. Plane tickets will cost a fortune.”
“They’re offering to pay all your expenses. Flights, food, hotel, a car, all of it.”
A growl rumbled in his chest. The one time he could’ve done with Corrine being an idiot. “I haven’t been back to Shakersville since 1956. Did you ever think, even for a single second, that maybe, just maybe, there might be a reason for that, you foolish, foolish girl?”
He didn’t wait for Corrine’s comeback. Pulling free from Marjorie, he stomped off toward his dressing room. Well, in this case, the men’s bathroom.
Marjorie’s heels clicked on the concrete behind him, spurring him to quicken his step. His attempts to flee the scene were thwarted when she grabbed his elbow right before he could get to the bathroom door, dragging him to a halt.
“Everybody’s watching your little hissy fit,” she whispered, her voice sharp. “So get back there and tell her you’re sorry before you get written off as another old queen who wouldn’t know a good manner if it slapped the botox right off his face.”
Marjorie’s words stung, but for as right as she was about his behavior, he couldn’t bring himself to move. “You don’t know what she’s asking me.” He immediately hated how pathetic he sounded.
“Neither does anybody else, so do you really want them coming up with their own versions when they get out of here and tweet to everyone about your temper tantrum?”
John glanced past her shoulder. Corrine hovered exactly where he’d left her, head bent, her hair falling forward to hide her face from view. She’d put the letter back in the envelope, but its rumpled appearance felt too much like his heart for him to look at it for long.
“Corrine!” he called out, softening his tone. “Would you come here, please?” He didn’t trust his legs to carry him back.
She obeyed, because that’s who she was, and he felt like an even bigger jerk by the time she stood in front of him. Smiling, he held out his hand, prepared to take back the letter. “Since you think it’s so important, let me give it another look. I’m obviously more tired than I thought.”
As a way to make himself look better, it wasn’t great. On his high horse or on his last leg. He was never going to get another part again.
Marjorie, bless her heart, angled inward to block out the worst of the rubberneckers, and though Corrine hesitated, telegraphing her wariness long enough for him to fear it was too little, too late, she passed the envelope over with a nod.
“I looked up the company online when I read the letter. It’s legit.” Corrine began rummaging around in her huge, quilted tote bag. “They’ve been posting pictures of their progress, so if you want to see them, I’ve got my iPad with me—”
“No, that’s not necessary. I remember perfectly well what it looked like.”
Marjorie snorted. “You’re just afraid of a little technology.”
No, he was afraid of more memories flooding back, but he kept that part to himself...
