Chapter 22 - The Stage They Took Away
The platform had never belonged to us.
That was the first fact Marisol established.
A sponsor had offered to coordinate equipment.
The arrangement had sounded convenient.
We had accepted before the dispute with Vivienne became clear.
Now the sponsor had withdrawn the order.
No dramatic theft.
No masked men.
A contract we should have read more carefully.
I sat at the desk while Marisol spread the paperwork in front of me.
“I should have checked it,” she said.
“So should I.”
“We were busy.”
“That’s an explanation.”
“Not an excuse.”
We looked at one another.
Then we got to work.
The presentation was eleven days away.
Families had arranged shifts.
Children had rehearsed.
Some had never performed for anyone outside class.
Canceling would be possible.
It would also mean letting a logistical problem become a verdict on their work.
Alexander offered to rent another venue.
I asked him the price.
He named it.
I laughed.
“That is not a reasonable answer to missing platforms.”
“It would solve the immediate problem.”
“It would create a gala we don’t need.”
He considered that.
Then he nodded.
“What do you need?”
“A safe place for the children to perform. Chairs. A sound plan. Something we can afford without pretending the budget has no edges.”
He smiled faintly.
“That’s a more interesting problem.”
We found a neighborhood cultural hall.
Not grand.
Not glamorous.
It had a decent floor, accessible entrances, clear capacity limits, and a manager who asked sensible questions.
There was no need for platforms.
The audience could sit level with the dancers.
Rossi visited and clapped once near the back wall.
He listened to the echo.
Then he nodded.
“We can work with this.”
I nearly hugged him.
He pretended not to notice.
The students were less troubled by the move than the adults.
Ruby wanted to know whether her mother would still see her.
“Yes.”
“Then okay.”
It was an excellent production philosophy.
Meanwhile, Vivienne’s attorney sent another proposal.
A comprehensive settlement.
Certain archive access.
Selected performance permissions.
A public acknowledgment of her contribution to Elena’s career.
A long-term management relationship with me.
I read the proposal in Camille’s office.
The helpful parts were real.
So were the costs.
“She wants the next fourteen years,” I said.
Camille nodded.
“What do you want?”
“To stop being offered my mother in exchange for myself.”
We sent a narrower response.
Documents.
Defined rights.
An accounting where appropriate.
No personal management agreement.
Vivienne did not answer immediately.
For once, I let silence belong to the person choosing it.
That night, Alexander invited me to dinner at the penthouse.
I had been returning some evenings.
Not all.
There was no schedule measuring forgiveness.
He cooked badly.
I helped.
We ate something that had once intended to be pasta.
Halfway through, he said, “I apologized to Victoria.”
I looked up.
“Privately?”
“Yes.”
“How did it go?”
“She said I should practice being decent before inviting an audience.”
I laughed.
“That sounds like her.”
“She wasn’t wrong.”
“No.”
He smiled.
Then he reached across the table.
“Are we still getting married?”
The question was so direct that my chest hurt.
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
He nodded.
“That’s fair.”
I studied him.
“You really mean that?”
“I’m learning a date is not the same thing as certainty.”
I turned the band on my finger.
“Neither is a contract.”
“No.”
For a while, we sat with that.
Later, Thomas called.
A reporter had obtained another excerpt from the original agreement.
The story would run the next morning.
It suggested the studio’s children were being used to improve Alexander’s public image.
I looked toward the windows.
The city glittered below us.
For one exhausted moment, I wanted to abandon the presentation.
Then I thought of Ruby’s question.
Would her mother still see her?
I picked up the telephone and called Marisol.
May you like
“We keep the doors open,” I said.
“But we tell the truth before anyone else explains it for us.”
