That day, for the first time, I looked.
The marquee had been restored but not lit.
MERIDIAN.
Tall gold letters stretched across the entrance.
Workers moved behind glass doors carrying ladders and paint cans.
Inside, marble floors had been cleaned until they reflected the chandeliers overhead.
The place smelled like plaster, dust, old wood, and something new beginning.
Harlan was waiting in the lobby.
No dark coat.
No army of men.
He wore rolled-up sleeves and held two paper coffee cups.
“You came.”
“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.
