“Of course he does.”
Walter Sterling lived in a vast limestone townhouse on the Upper East Side.
The drawing room contained expensive antiques, enormous oil paintings, and a grand piano nobody had touched since Helen Sterling died.
Nicholas found his father seated beside the fireplace, reading financial reports beneath a brass lamp.
Walter was tall even in old age, with a full head of silver hair and the commanding presence of a man who had spent forty years expecting to be obeyed.
He looked up.
“Nicholas.”
“Dad.”
“Sit down.”
Nicholas sat.
Walter removed his spectacles.
“I understand you've been spending an extraordinary amount of time at that old theater.”
Nicholas sighed.
“Graham called you.”
“He didn't have to. I read the reports.”
“The restoration proposal is improving.”
“It's still a terrible investment.”
“We haven't completed the review.”
Walter studied him.
“Your mother loved old theaters.”
Nicholas looked up.
“Yes.”
“And you loved taking her to them.”
“Yes.”
Walter set aside the papers.
“I understand nostalgia, son.”
Nicholas gave a faint smile.
“Do you?”
His father's expression tightened.
“More than you imagine.”
There was a pause.
Then Walter gestured toward the grand piano.
“After your mother died, I couldn't bear to hear that thing played. I nearly had it removed.”
Nicholas looked toward the instrument.
“I didn't know.”
“I couldn't stand the sound of it.”
Walter looked down.
“For years, I thought getting rid of it would make the house easier to live in.”
“Why didn't you?”
His father hesitated.
“Because she loved it.”
Nicholas was silent.
Walter continued.
“But keeping a piano in my drawing room is not the same as investing millions in a failing commercial property.”
“I know.”
“Do you?”
“Yes.”
Walter leaned forward.
“Then understand this. There are employees who depend upon this company. Construction workers. Office staff. Families. We have obligations to them.”
Nicholas nodded.
“I understand.”
“I've watched men bankrupt entire businesses chasing projects that made them feel noble.”
“I'm not interested in nobility.”
“What are you interested in?”
Nicholas thought of Maggie.
The Starlight.
The painted ceiling.
The way her face changed when she spoke about her father.
Then he looked at his own father.
“Making sure we're not throwing away something valuable simply because it doesn't appear on a balance sheet.”
Walter studied him.
For a long time, he said nothing.
Then he sighed.
“You sound like your mother.”
Nicholas smiled faintly.
“I'll take that as a compliment.”
“It wasn't entirely intended as one.”
“I know.”
Walter leaned back.
“Present the numbers.”
“We will.”
“And if they don't work?”
Nicholas drew a breath.