Nicholas began playing the piano again.
At first, he played only when Maggie visited his apartment.
He was rusty.
He complained about his technique.
She informed him that she knew absolutely nothing about piano technique and therefore considered his playing magnificent.
He laughed.
Then played another piece.
Eventually, he began practicing on evenings when she was not there.
One afternoon, Walter Sterling arrived unexpectedly and heard music drifting from his son's apartment.
He stopped at the doorway.
Nicholas turned.
“Dad.”
Walter stood motionless.
For a moment, he looked toward the keyboard.
Then said quietly, “Your mother loved that melody.”
Nicholas smiled.
“I know.”
Walter remained in the doorway.
After a while, he moved toward the sofa.
“Would you mind playing it again?”
Nicholas looked at him.
Then nodded.
“Of course.”
He turned back to the piano.
And for the first time in many years, father and son sat together without needing to discuss business.
In early September 1989, nearly a year after Maggie's disastrous elevator encounter, the Starlight Theatre reopened.
The restoration had consumed hundreds of hours, countless meetings, and more arguments than Maggie cared to remember.
There had been unexpected plaster damage, delivery delays, and a dispute over the correct shade of red for the auditorium curtains.
But the work was finished.
The rose-colored terra-cotta facade had been carefully cleaned.
The marquee glowed beneath a canopy of lights.
The grand staircase shone.
The gold plasterwork had been restored, the seating renewed, and the painted stars above the auditorium revealed in all their original brilliance.
The former service rooms now contained classrooms, a small design workshop, and spaces for community arts programs.
A café occupied one corner of the entrance frontage.
A record shop and bookstore had opened beside the theater.
And the newly refurbished projection booth contained both modern equipment and the original machines Louis Bennett had operated for decades.
The project had attracted attention throughout the city.
Maggie received inquiries from other property owners.
A preservation journal published photographs of her work.
For the first time, clients asked specifically for her rather than for the firm she had once worked for.
Bennett Restoration Studio hired its first full-time employee.
Tessa celebrated by buying a bottle of champagne that cost more than either woman ordinarily spent on groceries.
“This,” she announced, “is for the woman who built her own door.”
Maggie laughed.
Then cried.
Then laughed again.
And when the invitations to the Starlight reopening were delivered, she discovered that her name appeared prominently on the program.
Restoration Design — Margaret Bennett, Bennett Restoration Studio.
For a long moment, she simply stared at it.
Then she placed the program in her handbag.
There was someone she wanted to show.
On the evening of the reopening, Maggie stood in a dressing room behind the Starlight's grand staircase.
She wore the same cherry-red silk dress she had borrowed from Tessa a year earlier.
Tessa had altered it.
The neckline was slightly more elegant, the waist more carefully fitted, and the back had been reinforced with a new zipper that her friend insisted was practically indestructible.
Maggie's thick chestnut hair fell over her shoulders in soft waves.
Her makeup was classic and understated: warm blush, rose-colored lipstick, softly defined eyes.
She looked beautiful.
But her hands were trembling.
Outside, hundreds of guests were arriving.
The restored lobby was filled with flowers.
Music drifted through the corridors.
The theater was alive again.
Maggie looked at herself in the mirror.
Then laughed nervously.
“Get a grip, Bennett.”
A knock sounded.
“Come in.”
Nicholas opened the door.
He wore a perfectly tailored black dinner jacket, a white shirt, and a black bow tie. His dark hair was neatly styled, and his blue-gray eyes softened the instant he saw her.
For a moment, he stood motionless.