‘I just thought you might appreciate some honest work.’
Brooke approached in an emerald gown, her diamond earrings swinging as she examined my clothing.
‘Did you really wear work boots to a formal event?’
‘I came straight from the studio.’
‘You should try a job with normal hours,’ she said.
‘And normal clothes.’
My mother was standing beside the staircase in a champagne-colored dress.
When I greeted her, she looked at my hands before she looked at my face.
‘Mara, I thought you’d dress up tonight.’
‘I did, Mom.’
‘Well, perhaps you can stand toward the back when we take the family photographs.’
It wasn’t a terrible sentence by itself.
That was what made it hurt.
After years of hearing variations of the same message, I knew exactly what she meant.
I didn’t belong in the picture she wanted people to see.
My father joined us, wearing a black dinner jacket.
‘Your brother’s worked hard on this sale,’ he told me quietly.
‘Please don’t start a fight tonight.’
‘I haven’t started anything.’
‘Mara, you know what I mean.’
I looked toward the stage, where a large scale model of the proposed apartment development sat beneath a black cloth.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘I think I finally do.’
At nine o’clock, Grant climbed the stage and tapped the microphone.
He spoke about economic opportunity, modern living, and the importance of making difficult financial decisions.
He never mentioned Grandma Ruth.
He never mentioned the theater’s historic glasswork.
And he never mentioned that an ownership dispute had already halted his proposed closing.
Instead, he lifted his champagne glass and announced that the sale was fully approved.
Then he looked toward the back of the room and found me.
‘My sister Mara is here tonight.
She still fixes old windows for a living, if anyone needs one repaired.’
A few guests chuckled.
Grant grinned.
‘I keep telling her she’s thirty-three and should finally find a real job.
But I suppose every family needs an artist.’
My father offered a small, uncomfortable smile.
Brooke laughed openly.
I felt the old instinct to disappear.
But this time, disappearing would mean allowing my brother to present a false statement as fact.
I stepped closer to the stage.
‘Grant, did you say every owner approved the sale?’
He blinked.
‘Yes.’
‘Every single one?’
His smile faltered.
‘Are you seriously going to do this here?’
‘I’m asking a simple question.’
He leaned toward the microphone.
‘Mara, please don’t embarrass yourself.’
Dr.
Moore rose from her seat.
‘Actually, Mr.
Ellison, I believe Ms.
Ellison has raised an important issue.’
She approached the podium carrying a sealed portfolio.
Grant tried to recover his composure.
‘Dr.
Moore, wonderful.
Perhaps you’d like to say something about the theater’s future.’
‘I would,’ she replied.
She opened the portfolio, glanced at the prepared records, and looked toward the audience.
‘Before anyone celebrates the sale, it is important to understand that Alder House Holdings requires the consent of both owners for a transaction of this kind.
And the controlling owner has not provided that consent.’
Grant frowned.
‘My father approved it.’
‘Your father holds forty-nine percent of the voting interest.’
A hush fell over the auditorium.
Dr.
Moore continued.
‘Ruth Ellison left the remaining fifty-one percent to her granddaughter.’
Then she turned toward me.
‘Mara, would you
