Part 2: The Old Lease

The folder contained a copy of a lease for a workshop building near the river. The original tenants were my mother, Helen, and Julian's mother, Teresa. The lease had been signed years before either of us started our businesses.

Helen explained that she and Teresa had once run a small design workshop together. They rented the space, shared equipment, and planned to expand. The partnership ended after a dispute about costs. They had not spoken for years until the charity board brought them together again.

“Where do Claire and I fit into this?” Julian asked.

Teresa handed him a letter addressed to both of us. It had been written by the former building owner, who had died the previous year. The letter said that a set of design drawings remained in a storage cabinet and that the owner's daughter would like to return them to the people who created them.

Helen had designed some of the lighting concepts. Teresa had made restoration plans for the building. Their old work might be useful for a current project, but neither woman had agreed on how to retrieve or use it.

“Why didn't you tell me?” I asked my mother.

“I didn't want you involved in an argument from before your business existed.”

“You mentioned my studio.”

“Because the owner's daughter contacted you last month. I saw the letter on your desk when I brought you lunch.”

I remembered the envelope. It had asked whether my studio would consider a lighting project for the old river building. I had placed it in a folder for later review. I did not know my mother had recognized the address.

Julian said the same owner had contacted his restoration company. He had scheduled a site visit but had not connected the building to his mother's old workshop.

Teresa folded her arms. “We didn't want your firms competing over work that came from our partnership.”

“Then you could have told us,” Julian said.

Helen looked at the door. “The auction is waiting.”

“The auction can wait for one sentence,” I said. “Did either of you agree to anything on our behalf?”

“No,” she said. Teresa confirmed it. They had argued about the drawings, not signed a contract for our companies. I asked to see the letter and the lease later, with time to read them properly.

We returned to the gala. Julian and I did not pretend to be a couple to escape our mothers. We told them we would speak to the building owner's daughter and decide independently whether the project suited our firms.

At the auction, my mother introduced me to the man she had chosen. He was polite, and we spoke about the charity for five minutes. When he asked if I wanted to meet again, I said no. He accepted the answer. The awkwardness belonged mostly to the people who had arranged the introduction without asking me.

Julian found me near the exit with two glasses of water. He offered one and asked whether I wanted to compare notes about the building.

“Tomorrow,” I said. “Tonight I want to go home and take off these shoes.”

“An excellent plan.”

He gave me his business card. On the back he wrote, No sandwiches were harmed. I laughed, then added my number beneath it. The card was not a promise of a date. It was a way to continue a conversation we had both chosen.