Two nights later, Selene attended a meeting with the workers' transition committee in a rented union hall. Dante had asked whether she would come as an observer, and she agreed on the condition that she would not speak for the Harbor Street residents or for him. The workers wanted their own attorney in the room, too.
A woman named Sheila Mercer chaired the committee. She had worked twenty-nine years in freight dispatch, raised two sons, and spent the previous winter explaining to younger workers how to complete benefits forms they had never expected to need.
“It's easy to say don't sell,” Sheila told Dante. “You aren't waiting for your separation payment to replace a furnace.”
Dante didn't argue. The package projected a deficit if two anticipated property sales failed to close. Other options included refinancing at high rates, reducing transition support, or selling a different commercial lot for less than market value. None was painless.
A man in a work jacket leaned forward. “My father gave forty years to that company. Are we supposed to be the good people who go without so somebody else keeps a bingo room?”
Selene felt the words strike. She understood why a frightened man would choose the description most likely to make his own claim sound urgent.
“It's not a bingo room,” Sheila said before Selene could speak. “And your father wouldn't want us taking from old ladies to get what we've earned.”
“Then where does the money come from?”
“That's the question,” Dante said. “I'm not asking anybody to pretend the numbers disappear because the story is sad.”
He laid out three alternative sale scenarios Livia and the restructuring managers were examining. Some were expensive. One required a short extension from secured creditors and a smaller transaction involving equipment leases. Dante could contribute personal funds to a bridge arrangement, but Livia had warned that doing so must not be disguised as a loan from the disputed beneficiary trust. The committee could reject any proposal that traded away benefits without its consent.
Sheila studied the figures. “You're willing to lose another holding if it keeps both sides from being forced out?”
“I may have to. I haven't established yet what the creditors will accept.”
“Then bring us the complete terms when you have them. We've had enough brave speeches.”
Dante nodded. “You have.”
Outside the union hall, Selene waited beside a wall covered with old photographs of picket lines. Dante joined her, looking tired.
“You didn't say much,” he observed.
“I wasn't there to make your argument for you.”
“I know. I was hoping you'd tell me afterward where I went wrong.”
She smiled. “You've become very attached to criticism.”
“Only yours.”
“That is a dangerous preference.”
They walked toward the parking lot. He reached for her hand and she took it, then stopped before they reached the car.
“There's something I've been avoiding,” she said. “The redevelopment brochure.”
“Mara told me the company removed your name.”
“From its website. The copies are still out there. Three people at the institute have asked whether I've taken money from the developer.”
“Have you told them?”
“Of course. It still makes me angry that my name is something other people think they can borrow.”
“Do you want me to make a public statement?”
“No. I want you to ask me before offering. That's different.”
He rubbed his forehead. “I was offering.”
“I know. I'm telling you the answer.”
For a moment he looked hurt. The expression was so ordinary that Selene felt tenderness and irritation together. Love did not exempt a person from hearing no.
Dante glanced toward the street. “I grew up believing that if I cared about somebody, I was responsible for making the danger go away. I still want to do that.”