join me?’
I walked onto the stage while nearly two hundred people watched.
Grant moved toward me.
‘You don’t understand what you’re interfering with,’ he whispered.
‘Actually,’ I answered, ‘I understand exactly what I’m protecting.’
I stood at the microphone and explained that the title company had received a sale consent document bearing a signature I did not authorize.
‘I have formally disputed that document.
The proposed closing cannot proceed as though I signed it.’
Grant’s face turned red.
‘You’re accusing me of fraud?’
‘I’m saying I didn’t sign it.
The people responsible for examining the document can determine how it was created.’
He opened his mouth, but Dr.
Moore spoke first.
‘There is also a preservation proposal this audience deserves to hear.’
The enormous screen behind us lit up.
A rendering of the restored Alder Theater appeared.
In the image, the faded auditorium had been transformed into a working performance venue.
The original glass dome shone above a restored stage.
New educational studios occupied the lower level, and the former costume workshops had become spaces for artists and students.
For several seconds, nobody spoke.
Then someone in the audience began applauding.
Dr.
Moore described the conditional twenty-seven-million-dollar restoration package and introduced Lantern Works as the selected lead artistic conservation firm.
She announced the proposed six-million-four-hundred-thousand-dollar contract for the glasswork and architectural-art restoration.
Brooke stared at me.
‘Six million dollars? For windows?’
I looked at her.
‘For four years of specialized conservation, design, fabrication, engineering coordination, installation, and the work of a skilled team.
Yes.’
Grant looked as if the floor had shifted beneath him.
‘Lantern Works is yours?’
‘I founded it six years ago.’
‘You never told us.’
‘I told you when I opened the workshop.
You said it was a cute experiment.’
No one laughed at that.
For a brief moment, I thought the confrontation was finished.
Then my father rose from his chair.
‘Mara, there’s something else.’
His voice was barely audible.
Grant turned sharply.
‘Dad, sit down.’
But my father stayed standing.
‘Two years ago, the theater borrowed two million eight hundred thousand dollars.
The bank says the balance is due in ten days.’
My first thought was of the roof.
Two years earlier, I had been told there wasn’t enough money to repair it properly.
‘What happened to the loan proceeds?’ I asked.
Dad looked toward Grant.
‘I thought they were being spent on structural repairs.’
I turned to my brother.
‘Grant?’
He avoided my eyes.
‘The company’s finances are complicated.
You wouldn’t understand.’
I had heard that sentence in a hundred different forms.
This time, I refused to accept it.
‘Then explain them.’
Grant said nothing.
I thanked Dr.
Moore, asked the guests to allow us to resolve the private financial matter appropriately, and stepped away from the microphone.
The gala ended without the triumphant celebration my brother had planned.
Outside, a cold rain was falling across the theater steps.
Grant followed me beneath the entrance canopy.
‘You enjoyed that,’ he accused.
‘No.
I wanted you to tell the truth.’
‘You’ve destroyed my reputation.’
‘You announced a sale you didn’t have permission to complete.’
He moved closer.
‘You have no idea how much money is riding on this.’
‘Then perhaps you should have told the owners before you borrowed it.’
His expression changed.
For
