“You sound surprised.”
“I was.”
He offered me one.
I looked at it.
“Coffee?”
“Cream, no sugar.”
I stared.
He immediately looked uncomfortable.
“Mara remembered your mother drank it that way.
I guessed.”
“I drink mine black.”
“Right.”
He handed me the other cup.
I took it.
“You really are bad at this.”
“At coffee?”
“People.”
A faint smile.
“I’ve heard.”
We walked through the theater.
The auditorium took my breath away.
Deep red seats curved around a wide stage framed with carved gold leaves.
Above us, the ceiling had been painted midnight blue, scattered with tiny restored stars.
“It was almost demolished,” Harlan said.
“When?”
“Eleven years ago.”
“Why wasn’t it?”
“My mother made the building difficult to sell.”
“That sounds intentional.”
“It was.”
He looked toward the balcony.
“She believed buildings could become promises.”
I glanced at him.
“And you?”
“I believed buildings were buildings.”
“Past tense?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
Then he said, “Belle likes this place.”
That was answer enough.
We climbed stairs to a narrow hallway behind the balcony.
A woman was waiting beside an old wooden door.
Mara.
Today she wore jeans and a Detroit Lions sweatshirt.
She hugged herself when she saw me.
“I owe you an apology.”
“For what?”
“The hospital.
I acted strange when I heard your name.”
“That is accurate.”
She winced.
“I knew June.”
I stopped.
“You knew my mother?”
“I was ten when you were born.
Your mother used to sneak me chocolate-covered pretzels during foundation meetings.”
I had no idea what to say.
Mara reached into her pocket.
She handed me a photograph.
The edges were worn.
Four people stood beneath the Meridian marquee.
A much younger Eleanor Voss.
A teenage Harlan.
A little girl who was obviously Mara.
And my mother.
June.
My mother wore overalls.
Overalls.
I had never seen her wear overalls in my life.
She had paint across one cheek and was laughing at something outside the frame.
I touched the picture.
“She hated having her photograph taken.”
“She hated formal photographs,” Mara said.
“She loved bad ones.”
I laughed.
It came out wrong.
Too close to crying.
Harlan looked away.
Giving me privacy without leaving.
I appreciated that.
“What happened?”
I asked.
Mara’s expression softened.
“The Meridian ran into financial trouble.
The foundation couldn’t keep operating the way it had.
Your mother left Detroit for a while.”
“She never left Detroit.”
“For about eight months.”
I looked between them.
“Where did she go?”
“Cleveland,” Harlan said.
My heart gave a strange little jump.
I had been born in Cleveland.
That I knew.
My birth certificate said so.
Mom always said she had lived there briefly because rent was cheaper.
“She came back when you were a baby,” Mara said.
“She visited us a few times.
Then less often.
Eventually we lost touch.”
“Why?”
Neither answered.
That silence again.
I hated it.
“You both keep doing that.”
“Doing what?”
Mara asked.
“Looking at each other before deciding what I’m allowed to know.”
Harlan’s face tightened.
“You’re right.”
He unlocked the archive door.
“You should decide for yourself.”
The room beyond was small.
Metal shelves filled every wall.
Programs.
Photographs.
Ledgers.
Boxes.
Harlan crossed to a steel cabinet.
From the bottom drawer, he removed a wooden case about the size of a shoebox.
My name was not on it.
My mother’s was.
JUNE CALLAWAY.
Below that:
OR HER HEIR.
My heart started pounding.
Harlan placed the box on the table.
“I haven’t opened it.”
