“Well, at least you're honest.”
She turned toward Maggie.
“Show him the ceiling before he changes his mind.”
For the next two hours, Maggie guided Nicholas through every part of the Starlight.
She showed him the auditorium, where rows of faded red seats faced a stage framed by gold plasterwork.
She explained the original ventilation system, the damaged roof, the deteriorating wiring, and the structural repairs required before the building could operate safely for large audiences.
She did not conceal the difficulties.
There were many.
The plaster ceiling needed stabilization.
Several emergency exits failed to meet current requirements.
The heating system was ancient, the backstage dressing rooms were cramped, and years of deferred maintenance had left the roof vulnerable to heavy rain.
Nicholas listened carefully.
He asked questions.
Some were difficult.
Maggie answered them whenever she could.
When she could not, she admitted it.
He found that more reassuring than the confident predictions of half the consultants employed by Sterling Properties.
Eventually, they reached the projection booth.
It was a narrow room above the auditorium, filled with enormous metal equipment and the distinctive smell of old film.
Maggie stepped inside.
Her expression softened.
“My father's kingdom.”
Nicholas examined the projectors.
“Does he still come here?”
“Sometimes.”
“Does he miss it?”
“Terribly.”
She touched the edge of a steel cabinet.
“He used to bring me here after school. I'd sit on that little stool and do my homework while he prepared the reels.”
Nicholas glanced toward a battered wooden stool.
Its legs were uneven.
Someone had painted a small yellow flower on the seat.
“You used that?”
“Yes.”
“It's rather small.”
“I was rather small.”
He smiled.
Maggie moved toward the window overlooking the auditorium.
“When I was ten, I thought the light from the projector was the most magical thing in the world.”
Nicholas stood beside her.
Below them, empty seats curved around the stage.
“Do you still?”
“In a way.”
She turned toward him.
“I know this building needs money. I know some of the repairs are expensive. I'm not pretending the theater can survive on nostalgia.”
“I never thought you were.”
“Some people do.”
Nicholas looked at her.
“Your employer?”
She laughed without humor.
“Among others.”
He waited.
Maggie rested her hands on the windowsill.
“I've spent years drawing buildings designed by other people. Usually men who are very good at explaining why my ideas are impractical.”
“And are they?”
“Sometimes.”
Nicholas smiled.
She continued.
“But not always. And I'd rather have someone tell me exactly where an idea fails than dismiss it because it came from me.”
Nicholas studied her.
“I can respect that.”
“Good.”
“Although I intend to ask some extremely unpleasant questions about your budget.”
“I'd be disappointed if you didn't.”
He smiled.
Then looked toward the auditorium.
“Your father must have loved working here.”
“He did.”
There was a pause.
“He always said the theater made ordinary people feel extraordinary for a couple of hours.”
Nicholas looked down at the rows of empty seats.
He remembered his mother taking him to old movie palaces.
Her hand slipping into his as the lights dimmed.
The rustle of programs.