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.”
