Page 74 of Kingmakers, Year Two

The velvet couch isn’t the only addition. Miles has brought blankets, drinks, snacks, and a piece of machinery I don’t recognize—squat and rectangular, it sits on a pile of crates.

“I had a hell of a time finding one of these that would run on battery power,” Miles says.

“What is it?” I ask.

“Take a seat and I’ll show you,” he says, gesturing toward the green sofa.

I sit down, impressed to see that Miles has even fixed the issue of the missing sofa leg, propping the couch up on a wooden block so it no longer wobbles.

Miles hands me a bowl of popcorn. The popcorn is fresh and crisp, doused in real melted butter and sea salt.

I laugh. “Where do you get these things? How did you pop this?”

“The kitchen staff love me,” Miles says. “Nobody enjoys drugs more than line cooks.”

Miles fiddles with the little machine, twisting the dials on the side. It whirs into life, shooting a brilliant beam of light across the open space. The opposite wall illuminates, the space where the altar would have been transforming into a wide, bright movie screen.

I gasp as the Paramount Pictures mountain flashes across the screen. The opening credits announce that we are about to behold “VistaVision” for the very first time. Even before Irving Berlin’s iconic score begins, I already know the film isWhite Christmas.

“Miles!” I cry. “I can’t believe you!”

He drops down on the sofa next to me, draping his arm around my shoulders. He pulls a blanket over our laps, saying, “I’ve got Milk Duds, too. They were a bitch to find, but I wanted you to have to the full theater experience.”

The opening sequence begins with Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye in their war uniforms. The last time I watched this movie was at my Abuelita’s house. Instead of popcorn and the dusty smell of the cathedral, the old-timey music recalls the scent of Lita’s perfume, the orange blossoms in her garden, and the sugar-crustedpestiñosshe would fry in her ancient cast-iron skillet.

As Rosemary Clooney and Vera Ellen come on screen, singing their famous duet, I remember Lita putting her arms around Cat and me, pulling us close against her sides, saying, “Sisters, see, just like you two. You must always help and protect each other. Sisters first, everything else comes after.”

I’m hit with a wave of guilt, knowing that at this moment I’m not putting Cat first, not at all. I’m jeopardizing what fragile protection I’ve managed to barter for her, all so I can spend time with Miles.

Miles, ever perceptive, takes my chin between his thumb and index finger, tilting up my face so he can examine it.

“What’s wrong?” he says. “Were you hoping forRear Windowinstead?”

I shake my head, my throat too tight to speak.

No one has ever done anything like this for me, not even Cat. It’s an impossible gift, something that nobody but Miles could have pulled off. The movie is magical. This moment is perfect. And I can’t enjoy it, because I’m afraid what it will cost me later. Or what it will cost Cat.

“You’re afraid,” Miles says.

I nod my head.

I never would have admitted that before. I hate to show weakness.

I can’t lie to Miles, though. It’s pointless. He always sees the truth.

Miles kisses me, softly at first, then harder.

He pulls back to look at me, his face illuminated by the projector’s light, his eyes silver-bright.

“I’m going to get you free of him, Zoe,” he says.

I try to shake my head because that’s impossible, but Miles holds my face steady with both hands.

“I will,” he growls. “I’ll find a way and I’ll do it. Do you believe me?”

I look into his eyes.

I’ve never been so wrong about a person. I thought Miles was indolent and self-centered. I thought he didn’t care about anything but his own amusement.

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