The box cutter sliced through the packing tape with a sound like a final, ragged sigh. Appropriate, really. My return to Oakhaven, the town I’d fled faster than a sprayed cat eighteen years ago, felt less like a homecoming and more like a strategic retreat ordered by a general who’d already lost the war.
The war, in this case, being my marriage to Richard “I Swear She’s Just a Friend Who Needs Constant Late-Night Emotional Support and Also My Tongue in Her Mouth” Sterling, and my subsequent burnout from a Chicago architectural preservation career that had started feeling less like saving history and more like negotiating hostage situations with developers whose souls were apparently constructed entirely of polished chrome and empty stock options.
So here I was, Elara Vance, forty-two years young (a phrase I used with the same forced cheerfulness one might employ while describing a root canal as ‘character-building’), surrounded by the ghosts of my former life packed neatly into cardboard sarcophagi.
My new/old life awaited assembly in this rented Craftsman bungalow on Elm Street, a house I vaguely remembered from childhood Halloweens as belonging to a woman who owned seventeen cats and was rumored to communicate with squirrels.
Now, it was mine – all creaky floorboards, dusty built-ins crying out for books they hadn’t seen in decades, and a faint, lingering aroma that might generously be called ‘vintage potpourri’ but probably leaned closer to ‘mouse graveyard.’
Stability. That was the goal. Find purpose. Lick my wounds. Maybe finally learn how to properly propagate a succulent without it staging a dramatic, slow-motion suicide. Small town life, redux. Oakhaven hadn’t changed much, visually at least. The same slightly listing Victorians lined Maple Avenue, the same town square boasted a gazebo desperately needing a paint job, the same river ambled along the edge of town like it had all the time in the world.
It was picturesque in that way that could either feel charmingly timeless or suffocatingly stagnant, depending on your blood caffeine level and recent life implosions. Mine were currently high and catastrophic, respectively, so the jury was still out.
I wrestled a particularly heavy box labeled ‘BOOKS – HIST. ARCH. – FRAGILE EGO’ onto the floor, the effort sending a puff of dust motes dancing in the afternoon sun slicing through the wavy, antique glass of the bay window. Fragile Ego was right. Richard had done a number on it, bless his mendacious heart. And the last project in Chicago…
God. Fighting tooth and nail to save the intricate terracotta facade of the old Marlowe building, only to have the developer find a loophole the size of Texas, slap up a glass monstrosity, and call the single preserved gargoyle above the entrance a ‘heritage feature.’ It had hollowed me out. Made me question if fighting for beauty and history was just tilting at windmills made of reinforced concrete and greed.
Hence, Oakhaven. A place where the windmills were, theoretically, smaller. A place where I could maybe make a difference on a scale that didn’t require Prozac as a chaser. A place where my best friend since kindergarten, Maya trussed, still lived and breathed and ran the most gloriously chaotic bookstore-slash-cafe imaginable, ‘The Daily Grind & Bind.’
My phone buzzed from its precarious perch on a stack of bubble wrap. Maya.
‘Caffeine + Gossip transfusion stat? Heard the prodigal daughter hath returned. Need visual confirmation you haven’t spontaneously combusted from Oakhaven quaintness overload yet.’
A smile tugged at my lips, the first genuine one all day. Maya was my anchor, the one constant besides my crippling addiction to dark chocolate and my ability to identify original crown molding from fifty paces.
‘On my way. Currently battling dust bunnies the size of small rodents. Might need hazard pay.’
‘Consider a triple-shot latte your danger money. See ya in 10.’
Abandoning the box battlefield felt like desertion, but caffeine and Maya called. I grabbed my worn leather satchel, automatically checking for my tape measure and notebook – old habits – and stepped out into the Oakhaven afternoon. The air smelled different here than in Chicago. Greener. Less exhaust fumes, more damp earth and blooming hydrangeas spilling over white picket fences. It was… nice. Annoyingly nice. Like it was trying too hard to soothe my jangled city nerves.
The Daily Grind & Bind was exactly as I remembered and exactly as it should be: a cozy explosion of mismatched armchairs, towering stacks of books that threatened imminent collapse, the scent of roasting coffee beans mingling with old paper, and Maya herself, a whirlwind of bright scarves and kinetic energy, holding court behind a counter laden with pastries that looked both delicious and potentially lethal in their sugar content.
“There she is!” Maya shrieked the moment I walked in, abandoning a customer mid-sentence about organic chamomile. She flung herself around the counter and enveloped me in a hug that smelled like espresso and lavender hand soap. “Ellie! You’re real! You’re back!”
“Still real,” I confirmed, hugging her back tightly. “Slightly dustier, significantly more cynical, but real.”
“Cynicism looks good on you,” she declared, holding me at arm’s length, her eyes scanning me critically but kindly. “Very ‘woman of mystery returning to her small-town roots to brood sexily’.”
“Pretty sure the ‘brooding sexily’ market is cornered by vampires and men who own motorcycles,” I retorted, sliding onto a stool at the counter. “I’m aiming more for ‘woman who occasionally remembers to water her plants and wears matching socks’.”
“Baby steps,” she grinned, already pulling espresso shots. “Triple latte, extra hot, coming right up. So? Spill. How does it feel to be back in the bosom of Oakhaven?”
“Like stepping into a time warp where my teenage angst might still be lurking behind the lockers at the high school,” I admitted. “It’s… quiet.”
“Quiet is good! Quiet means you can hear yourself think.”
“Or hear the existential dread echoing louder,” I muttered, accepting the steaming mug gratefully. The familiar bitterness and warmth spread through me. “Mostly, I’m just trying to figure out what comes next. Trying to find work here, actual preservation work, feels like searching for a unicorn.”
“Oh, ye of little faith!” Maya wagged a finger. “Things are stirring, Ellie. There’s talk. Whispers on the wind.”
Whispers about what? Mrs. Gable getting another Pomeranian?”
“Whispers about development,” Maya lowered her voice conspiratorially, leaning over the counter. “Big city money sniffing around.”
My stomach tightened instinctively. That was preservationist code for ‘incoming headache.’ “Where? What?”
“Nothing concrete yet,” Maya said, wiping down the counter with unnecessary vigor. “Just… rumblings.
You know how Oakhaven gets when an outsider buys property. Especially downtown.”
Which property?” I pressed, my historian senses tingling with preemptive dread. Oakhaven’s downtown core was a fragile ecosystem of late 19th and early 20th-century gems, some beautifully maintained, others crumbling gracefully, all vulnerable.
Before Maya could answer, a collective gasp seemed to ripple through the cafe. Mrs. Henderson, the town’s unofficial gossip columnist who usually held court in the corner armchair, gasped audibly. Young Ben from the hardware store stared, slack-jawed, at his phone. Even Maya’s perpetually calm barista, Leo, raised an eyebrow. Maya frowned, pulling out her own phone. Her eyes widened.
“No,” she whispered, scrolling rapidly. “No, they can’t be serious.”
“What?” I demanded, leaning closer, the caffeine buzz suddenly replaced by a cold wave of apprehension.
“Maya, what is it?”
She turned her phone screen towards me. The headline from the Oakhaven Gazette’s online edition screamed in stark black pixels: ‘Iconic Oakhaven Theatre Sold to Cole Development; Mixed-Use Project Planned.’
Below the headline was a picture. A rendering, slick and soulless, showing the familiar, beloved facade of the Oakhaven Theatre, but with its heart ripped out. The grand auditorium, the space where I’d seen my first movie (E.T., sobbing uncontrollably), where I’d held hands awkwardly with Tommy Miller during a high school screening of Romeo + Juliet, where generations of Oakhaven residents had gathered – it was gone.
Replaced by sterile glass boxes labeled ‘Luxury Condos’ and ‘Retail Opportunities.’ They were keeping the facade, the article clarified breathlessly, and the ornate lobby. A pathetic fig leaf on a desecration.
And then there was the other picture. A corporate headshot of the man responsible. Damon Cole. CEO of Cole Development. He looked to be mid-forties, sharp jawline, dark hair meticulously styled, eyes that seemed to bore through the screen with unnerving intensity. He wore an expensive suit like a second skin, exuding an aura of ruthless competence and infuriating, undeniable attractiveness. The kind of man who probably negotiated multi-million dollar deals before breakfast and considered charm a tool, like a spreadsheet or a wrecking ball.
A wave of heat washed over me, a disgusting, traitorous combination of fury and… something else. Something I refused to name. It was the Marlowe building all over again, only this time it wasn’t just terracotta trim; it was the soul of a place I hadn’t realized I still cared so much about.
“Cole Development?” I choked out, the name feeling like ash in my mouth. “The Damon Cole? The guy who turned half of Chicago’s historic warehouse district into minimalist lofts that cost more than a vital organ?”
“The very same,” Maya said grimly, her earlier cheerfulness gone. “Apparently, he bought it quietly weeks ago. This is the official announcement. They’re fast-tracking the plans. ‘Revitalization,’ he calls it.
‘Economic boost for Oakhaven.’”
“Economic boost,” I spat, my voice trembling with anger. “By tearing down a landmark? The Oakhaven isn’t just bricks and mortar, Maya. It’s… it’s the Oakhaven! It’s got one of the best-preserved Art Deco interiors in the state! The acoustics are phenomenal! The plasterwork alone…” I trailed off, picturing the intricate, gilded details, the sweeping curves, the sheer theatricality of the space. All reduced to rubble for condos nobody earning Oakhaven wages could afford.
I know, Ellie, I know,” Maya soothed, placing a hand on my arm. “Everyone’s stunned. Look around.”
The cafe buzzed with hushed, angry conversations. People were showing each other their phones, shaking their heads. The initial shock was morphing into outrage. This wasn’t some anonymous corporate entity; this was Damon Cole, a name synonymous with aggressive, often controversial, urban transformation. And he’d set his sights on our theatre.
y own connection felt suddenly, fiercely personal. It wasn’t just the architectural historian in me screaming sacrilege. It was the awkward twelve-year-old Elara, mesmerized by the flickering screen in the velvet darkness. It was the sixteen-year-old Elara, stealing a kiss in the back row. It was the forty-two-year-old Elara, adrift and searching for something solid, finding instead that even the bedrock of memory was being targeted for demolition by a man with eyes like polished obsidian and, apparently, zero appreciation for anything that didn’t yield a hefty ROI.
“He can’t do this,” I said, the words quiet but vibrating with a newfound, unexpected resolve.
Maya looked at me, her expression shifting from dismay to something akin to anticipation. “What are you thinking, Ellie?”
I’m thinking,” I said, my gaze drifting back to Damon Cole’s infuriatingly handsome face on Maya’s phone screen, “that Mr. Cole has underestimated Oakhaven. And he’s definitely underestimated me.”
The anger wasn’t just about the building anymore. It felt… deeper. Tied up with the helplessness I’d felt watching my marriage crumble, the professional compromises I’d been forced to make, the gnawing sense that powerful men in expensive suits always seemed to get their way, leaving collateral damage – broken hearts, broken buildings – in their wake. Richard, my old boss, the Marlowe developer… Damon Cole felt like the latest iteration in a long, exhausting line.
This time, though. This time felt different. Maybe it was being back on home turf. Maybe it was having nothing left to lose except a slightly haunted bungalow and a precarious grip on my sanity. Maybe it was the sheer, galling arrogance of that rendering, that smug corporate headshot.
Payback. Justice. Serving it cold on a vintage Art Deco platter. The thought sent a thrill through me, sharp and dangerous. He thought he could just waltz in here and take a piece of our history? Our shared memory? Reduce it to luxury retail space?
Not on my watch.
“He thinks he’s bringing progress,” I continued, my voice gaining strength. “He thinks he’s doing us a favor. We need to show him what Oakhaven really values. We need to fight him.”
Maya’s eyes lit up. “Fight him how? Picket signs? Strongly worded letters to the editor?”
“All of the above,” I said, my mind already racing, clicking into professional gear. “But more. We need research. Zoning laws. Historical landmark designations – is the theatre officially listed, or just locally beloved? We need to find leverage. We need to organize.” The familiar adrenaline of a preservation battle surged, pushing back the personal hurt, the weariness. This was something I knew how to do.
“Okay,” Maya said, already grabbing a notepad from under the counter. “Operation Save the Soul Cinema is a go. Where do we start?”
“We start,” I said, pushing Damon Cole’s face away on her phone screen, though the image seemed annoyingly burned onto my retinas, “by finding out everything we can about Damon Cole and his plans. And then we figure out how to stop him.”
The rest of the afternoon blurred into a flurry of activity fueled by righteous indignation and Maya’s seemingly endless supply of coffee. We huddled in a corner booth, Maya tapping into the Oakhaven gossip network via text while I devoured the Gazette article and started preliminary online searches on my laptop.
Cole Development’s website was exactly what I’d expected: sleek, minimalist, full of corporate jargon about ‘synergy’ and ‘optimized urban landscapes’ and ‘legacy projects.’ It showcased gleaming skyscrapers, sprawling resorts, luxury communities – all impressive in scale, all utterly devoid of warmth or character. It was the architecture of money, antiseptic and aloof.
And then there were the pictures. More pictures of him. Damon Cole shaking hands with mayors. Damon Cole accepting some philanthropic award (probably tax-deductible). Damon Cole gazing thoughtfully at a scale model of some soulless glass tower.
In every photo, he looked impeccable, controlled, powerful. And yes, damn it, distractingly attractive in that way that made you want to simultaneously throw a brick at his head and maybe, just maybe, run your fingers through that perfectly styled dark hair. I mentally slapped myself. Focus, Vance. He was the enemy. The destroyer of historic auditoriums. The apparent antichrist of Art Deco.
The Oakhaven Theatre project page was slickly produced but vague on crucial details. Lots of talk about ‘honoring the facade’ and ‘integrating historical elements’ – meaningless buzzwords preservationists learn to recognize as code for ‘we’re keeping the front door and maybe a sconce.’ The renderings showed laughing, attractive people sipping cocktails on balconies overlooking the space where the proscenium arch should have been. It made my teeth ache.
There were quotes attributed to him: “Oakhaven possesses a unique charm, and we believe this project will enhance its vibrancy for generations to come.” Enhance vibrancy by gutting its historical heart? The doublespeak was nauseating.
“Find anything juicy?” Maya asked, looking up from her phone. “My sources say he’s leased the top floor of the old Miller Building downtown for a temporary corporate office. Very Bond villain lair.”
“Just the usual corporate propaganda,” I sighed, rubbing my temples. “Polished, persuasive, and utterly terrifying in its conviction that progress means erasing the past. He’s good at this, Maya. He knows how to spin it.”
“But he doesn’t know Oakhaven,” Maya countered fiercely. “He doesn’t know people here will chain themselves to the seats if they have to. He doesn’t know Mr. Henderson.”
“Mr. Henderson?” The name sparked a memory. “The old projectionist?”
The very same! He practically lives and breathes that theatre. Knows every secret passage, every ghost story, every crack in the plaster. He retired years ago, but people say he still goes down there sometimes, just to walk around. If anyone can give Cole hell, it’s Henderson.”
“We need to talk to him,” I said immediately. “He could be invaluable. Historical details, structural quirks Cole’s engineers might have missed, maybe even some old dirt.”
“Consider it done,” Maya grinned. “I know where he lives. Might require bribery in the form of prune Danish, but I can make it happen.”
As the afternoon wore on, the cafe remained a hub of anxious energy. People drifted in and out, conversations inevitably turning to the theatre. There was anger, yes, but also a current of resignation. Damon Cole was big city. Big money. What could little Oakhaven realistically do?
That flicker of doubt was dangerous. It was exactly what developers like Cole counted on – initial outrage fading into weary acceptance.
“We can’t let people give up before we even start,” I murmured, watching old Mrs. Gable sigh dramatically about the inevitability of change.
“Then we need a plan,” Maya said, tapping her pen. “A visible one. Community meeting? Petition?”
“Yes. Both. We need to channel this energy. Show Cole – and the town council, who presumably approved this nightmare – that there’s organized opposition.” My mind raced. “I need to get my hands on the actual plans filed with the town, not just these glossy renderings. I need to see the structural reports, the demolition permits…”
“Whoa there, Norma Rae,” Maya held up a hand. “One step at a time. Let’s start with the meeting. My back room? Thursday night?”
“Perfect.” I felt a flicker of the old fire, the thrill of the fight. It was exhausting, yes, but it was also clarifying. It gave shape to the nebulous anxiety that had followed me back to Oakhaven. This was concrete. This was a building I could try to save, a battle I understood. And the target was clear: Damon Cole. A man who represented everything I’d come to distrust – wealth used as a wrecking ball, charm deployed as a weapon, progress defined as erasure.
The fact that my body registered his photograph with an unwelcome jolt of electricity was just… inconvenient biology. Annoying static cling on the suit of my righteous indignation. It meant nothing. Less than nothing. It was the enemy’s camouflage, designed to distract. I wouldn’t be distracted.
We strategized until the sun began to dip below the treeline, painting the Oakhaven sky in shades of orange and bruised purple. I left Maya’s cafe with a caffeine headache, a list of action items, and a simmering resolve that felt both unfamiliar and utterly necessary.
Back in the dusty silence of the bungalow, the unpacked boxes seemed to loom accusingly. My new, quiet life had lasted approximately seven hours before erupting into a potential small-town war. So much for easing back in.
I made myself a dinner of crackers and existential dread, pacing the creaky floors as my mind churned. Damon Cole. Cole Development. The Oakhaven Theatre. It circled relentlessly. Why this theatre? Why Oakhaven? Was it just another acquisition on a corporate checklist, or something more specific? His website mentioned legacy projects, but this felt more like opportunism, snapping up a neglected gem in a town perhaps perceived as sleepy, unlikely to put up much resistance. He was wrong. I would make sure he was wrong.
Sleep felt impossible. The image of the theatre’s gutted interior in the rendering, juxtaposed with the memory of its actual, faded grandeur, kept flashing in my mind. And beneath it, annoyingly persistent, the image of Damon Cole’s intense gaze.
I needed to see it. Now. Not the rendering, not my memories. The theatre itself. I needed to stand in front of it, assess its current state, feel the weight of its history before… before he could touch it. Before the fencing went up, before the consultants and engineers swarmed it. I needed to document, to bear witness.
It was well past eleven when I grabbed my keys, my satchel now equipped with a high-powered flashlight and my camera alongside the usual notebook and tape measure. This was probably stupid. Potentially illegal. Definitely the action of someone running on caffeine fumes and simmering rage rather than logic. But the urge was visceral, undeniable.
Elm Street was silent under a sliver of moon. Oakhaven slept, blissfully unaware of the architectural historian prowling its streets like a highly caffeinated, preservation-obsessed ninja. Downtown was deserted. The streetlights cast long, eerie shadows. And then, there it was.
The Oakhaven Theatre.
Even in the dim light, its presence was commanding. The cream-colored terracotta facade glowed softly, the intricate details – stylized floral motifs, geometric patterns, the grand arched entrance – speaking of a bygone era of glamour and artistry. It looked tired, yes. The paint around the boarded-up ticket window was peeling, a few tiles were cracked, the marquee bulbs were dark save for a single, flickering ‘O’. But the inherent beauty, the architectural integrity, was still profoundly there. It stood as a testament to craftsmanship, to civic pride, to decades of shared experiences.
And he wanted to tear half of it down for condos.
My anger solidified into cold fury. This wasn’t just a building; it was an anchor. And I felt suddenly, fiercely protective of it.
Yellow barrier tape, looking flimsy and inadequate, was stretched across the main entrance stairs and along the sidewalk flanking the building. ‘COLE DEVELOPMENT – SITE ACCESS RESTRICTED’. Like he already owned the sidewalk, the air around it.
My heart hammered against my ribs. Don’t be an idiot, Elara. Trespassing on day one of the fight was strategically unsound.
But my feet were already moving. Driven by that potent cocktail of rage and a desperate need to do something, I glanced up and down the deserted street, then ducked under the tape near the darkened alley side of the building. My boots crunched softly on the pavement behind the barrier.
I raised my camera, intending to document the current state, capture the details Cole Development would deem insignificant. The ornate carvings around the side exit, the pattern of the brickwork, the stained-glass transom window above the alley door, grime-covered but intact.
Evidence. Ammunition.
A low rumble broke the silence. Headlights swept across the facade, momentarily blinding me. My blood ran cold. Security? Police? I flattened myself against the cool brick wall, heart pounding, camera clutched tight.
A car door opened and closed with a solid, expensive-sounding thud. Footsteps crunched on the pavement, slow, deliberate, coming closer. I held my breath, peering around the edge of the alley entrance.
A sleek black sedan, the kind that probably cost more than my entire graduate education, idled silently at the curb. And stepping out of it, bathed in the spill of a nearby streetlight, was him.
Damon Cole.
In the flesh. Taller than I’d expected. Still wearing a suit, though the jacket was off, slung over one shoulder, revealing crisp white shirtsleeves rolled up to the elbows. He wasn’t looking at the theatre; he was looking directly at me, half-hidden in the shadows. His expression wasn’t angry, not yet. It was calm, assessing, and held that same unnerving intensity I’d seen in the photograph.
The streetlight carved sharp angles onto his face, highlighting that strong jaw, the dark slash of his eyebrows. Even furious and slightly terrified, a stupid, treacherous part of my brain registered: Objectively, infuriatingly, illegally handsome.
He stopped a few feet away, just outside the alley’s deeper shadows where I stood frozen. The silence stretched, thick with the chirp of distant crickets and the frantic drumming of my own pulse.
Then, his voice cut through the night air, smooth as velvet but with an underlying edge of tempered steel.
“Can I help you?”