A former associate named Malcolm Redd, who still advised some of the company's investors, called Dante during the recess.
“You know how this used to work,” Malcolm said. “A couple of conversations. A few tenants persuaded to take checks. We can get the site clear. No need for all these lawyers.”
Dante looked through the glass at Sheila speaking with a restructuring manager. He thought of Luca, and of all the years he'd confused silence with loyalty.
“Don't contact the residents on my behalf,” he said. “If you have a proposal, send it to counsel with your name on it.”
“You're getting soft.”
“I'm getting tired of men who think their names are better kept off a document.”
He ended the call and made a dated note for Livia. It might prove to be nothing more than an improper suggestion. That was for the appropriate people to assess.
At the end of the session the board declined to authorize a transfer pending the court hearing and a more complete review of alternatives. It also made no promise that the nonprofit plan would succeed. The creditors wanted assurances by Monday. Sheila's committee wanted dates. Talbot wanted to know whether it should withdraw its offer.
Dante left the meeting without a victory speech. In the hallway, a younger worker stopped him.
“My wife says you're doing the right thing,” the man said. “I just want to know if the money will be there when my daughter's tuition is due.”
Dante looked him in the eye. “You deserve an answer in writing. I'm working to get you one. I'm sorry I can't honestly give it today.”
The man nodded, dissatisfied. That was his right.
Later, Livia called with news of the neighborhood lending coalition. It could make a credible offer only if the workers' reserve was established, if the community-use rights were formally addressed, and if temporary relocation costs could be financed. All of those conditions were achievable. None was guaranteed.
Selene stood at her window while Dante repeated them to her. The lights across the street came on, one apartment at a time.
“Do you think they can agree?” she asked.
“I think the people in the room finally know what's at stake,” he said. “That has to come before agreement.”
She looked down at a photograph of the Harbor Circle women with mortar on their hands. She wanted to tell them that the building would be safe and the workers would be paid. History had cured her of promising outcomes she could not control.
Instead she prepared the materials Rosa had authorized for the hearing: the letter, the receipts, the recorded agreement, the minutes, and the names of the people who had kept the room open.
THE LANGUAGE OF FIRE
THE WOMAN BENEATH THE HONOR WALL
THE ROSES THAT REMEMBERED
On Monday, it would all be laid before a room where the women who paid for the bricks finally had the chance to speak for themselves.
And the person most determined to save Harbor Street House would surprise everyone by saying she might be ready to leave it.
Rosa Delgado surprised the hearing by saying she wanted to move.
The room went still. Keisha looked at her. Agnes lowered her glasses. Even Martin Talbot, who had spent most of the morning discussing redevelopment as if the building were a collection of empty rooms, stopped turning the pages of his prepared statement.
Rosa stood with both hands on the edge of the table. She had dressed carefully: a navy cardigan, silver earrings, and the same sturdy shoes she wore to church. In her purse was a photograph of the Harbor Circle women standing in front of their newly repaired wall in 1987.