The Safety Inspection Ended Before Malcolm's Donor Tour Began Upstairs

I put the safety sheets beside the door before the inspector arrived.

Then I moved a small cart away from the wall. It had never blocked the exit, but I wanted room for two people to pass without turning sideways.

The inspector introduced herself as Officer Serrano. She wore a wet jacket and carried a tablet.

"I have a complaint," she said. "That isn't a finding. I'll need to look."

"Of course."

I showed her the pigments, the labeled bottles, and the metal cabinet for the small amount of solvent used in cleaning tests. Most of my daily work used water, paste, and dry methods.

She checked the stair and the width of the path through my room.

"Any public events here?"

"No. Work appointments only."

She tested the exit sign outside my door. Its backup light failed.

"That needs service," she said. "I'll send the owner a notice. Your storage looks orderly. Keep it that way."

I thanked her. I did not ask who had complained. A guess was not a record.

Her report arrived that afternoon. I saved it with the other papers.

Malcolm forwarded me the exit sign notice ten minutes later.

"Your responsibility," he wrote.

June answered with the lease section placing common hall systems under the landlord's care. An electrician replaced the battery the next day.

Malcolm had finally spent money on something the building needed. I would have preferred a quieter way to get there.

That Friday, I found a printed invitation tucked beneath the front entrance buzzer.

CANAL MILL: A NEW STAGE FOR LOWELL.

The tour was scheduled for eleven. My third-floor room appeared in a photograph as the future center of Ruthie's operation. Under the picture, Malcolm had written that the old occupants were being cleared.

I called Ruthie.

"Did you approve this?"

"I approved coffee with one potential donor," she said. "Send it to me."

At ten forty-five she arrived, moving at her usual steady pace. She brought no rolls this time.

"I asked him to cancel," she said. "He replied with a parking map."

"You don't have to protect me."

"I'm protecting my company. You're allowed to benefit."

Six visitors came up behind Malcolm. One carried a notebook. Another wore a visitor sticker from an arts foundation. A woman in a gray coat stayed at the rear, reading the invitation as she walked.

Malcolm stopped at my open door.

"Eleni helps care for the historic materials," he told them. "She's been able to use this room during the transition."

I put my brush in its rest.

"My business rents this room under a prepaid lease through June 2039."

He made a short sound meant to pass for a laugh.

"We're still sorting out family arrangements."

Ruthie stepped beside the worktable.

"I need to correct something before anyone commits money. My company was promised this space. The current tenant has a long lease. We do not have possession, and there is no approved rehearsal project here."

No one spoke for a moment.

Then the notebook woman asked, "Have you signed anything?"

"Yes," Ruthie said. "That's the problem."

Malcolm turned toward the hall.

"Let's see the river view."

"I would rather see the documents," said the woman in gray.

He stiffened.

"Denise, we can talk later."

She introduced herself to me. Denise Vale represented the three investors who together owned sixty percent of Canal Mill Holdings. Malcolm held the other forty percent and managed the property.

"I received an income forecast," she said. "It showed new rent from this floor starting December first."

"I can't explain his forecast," I said. "I can give your lawyer my lawyer's number."

I wrote it on a clean sheet.

The visitor from the foundation folded his invitation.

"We'll pause our discussion," he told Ruthie.

"Please do," she said.

Malcolm stared at me as the others went downstairs.

"You enjoyed that."

I looked at the untouched paint drying in my cup.

"I was working when you arrived."

"Mother wanted a future for this place."

"She wrote one down."

He left before I could say more.

That evening, Mara came to the studio. She carried soup in a jar and did not try to call it a peace offering.

"He said you made a scene."

"Would you like to see what happened?"

I showed her the invitation and Ruthie's email correcting it. Then I showed her my restoration contract and acceptance report.

She read the $180,000 figure twice.

"You did all that?"

"You came to the opening, Mara. You stood in front of it."

She put a hand over her mouth.

Before she answered, a new message reached June and me. Malcolm had copied a contractor by mistake.

Attached was a work order for Monday: remove the partition around Studio 3B and prepare the floor for its new tenant.