The ballroom glittered beneath enormous chandeliers.
Waiters circulated with trays of champagne.
A jazz quartet played near the windows, and the air smelled of expensive perfume, fresh flowers, and the faint sweetness of polished wood.
The women wore silk, satin, pearls, and dramatic earrings.
The men wore dark suits and expressions of effortless financial importance.
Maggie felt as though she had wandered onto the set of a movie about people who had never worried about an overdue electricity bill.
She accepted a glass of champagne.
Then immediately wished she had asked for water.
“Margaret Bennett?”
She turned.
A woman of perhaps fifty stood beside her, wearing a midnight-blue suit with sharp shoulders and a narrow gold brooch.
Her short dark hair was streaked with silver. She had intelligent eyes and an expression suggesting she had been managing impossible people for decades.
“Yes?”
“I'm Frances Caldwell. Mr. Sterling's executive assistant.”
Maggie's stomach dropped.
“Oh.”
Frances examined her.
“So you're the young woman from the elevator.”
Maggie closed her eyes.
“Everybody knows?”
“Only the people who matter.”
“That's somehow worse.”
Frances smiled.
“Mr. Sterling asked me to see that you were properly introduced to the committee.”
Maggie blinked.
“He did?”
“Yes.”
“After I insulted him?”
“I believe he rather enjoyed it.”
Maggie looked toward the opposite side of the ballroom.
Nicholas stood among a group of businessmen beneath a large arrangement of white orchids.
He had put on a tie.
His hair was now neatly combed, though one stubborn lock still fell toward his forehead.
He was speaking to a silver-haired gentleman who appeared deeply concerned about something.
As Maggie watched, Nicholas looked up.
Their eyes met across the room.
He smiled.
She looked away so quickly that Frances laughed.
“Miss Bennett, may I offer some advice?”
“Please.”
“Never be intimidated by a man simply because he owns the building.”
Maggie glanced at her.
“That sounds like something you learned the hard way.”
“I've worked for three generations of Sterlings.”
“And survived?”
“Barely.”
They shared a smile.
Frances led her toward a group of architects, financial advisers, and foundation trustees gathered beside the terrace windows.
For twenty minutes, Maggie answered questions about restoration costs, structural integrity, community funding, and proposed uses for the Starlight.
At first, several gentlemen seemed mildly amused that she had prepared such detailed estimates.
Then one of them, a portly banker named Harold Price, challenged the projected cost of restoring the auditorium ceiling.
Maggie opened her portfolio.
She produced a structural assessment and three estimates from specialist contractors.
Mr. Price's expression changed.
Another executive questioned the potential revenue from a restored theater.
She showed him a schedule of film screenings, live performances, educational workshops, and rentable event space.
The proposal was ambitious.
But it was not sentimental fantasy.
It was a business plan.
By the time Nicholas approached, Maggie had gathered a small audience.
She was explaining how the old balcony could be restored without sacrificing the acoustic qualities that made the auditorium exceptional.
“And the original projection room?” a man asked.
“Preserved,” Maggie replied.
“Even though modern equipment could be installed somewhere smaller?”
“Certainly. It's part of the theater's history.”
“History doesn't produce income, Miss Bennett.”
Maggie smiled.
“No. But a building with character attracts people, and people buy tickets.”
Nicholas stopped beside the group.
“An interesting distinction.”
The banker turned.
“Ah, Nicholas.”
Maggie looked up.
There he was again.
The man who had touched the back of her dress with such careful hands.