The Locksmith Read My Lease Beside A Rack Of Powdered Wigs

I kept the door shut and spoke through the glass.

“Who hired you?”

The man turned his clipboard toward me. His work order said Adler Dressing Suite. Below it, someone had written Remove Existing Tenant Access.

“I'm only measuring tonight,” he said.

“Then please write that access was refused by the tenant. Call your office before you come back.”

I showed him the first page of the lease and my driver's license.

He read the names, nodded, and left. He hadn't come to pick a fight. He had come for a job.

Daniel waited until the man's truck pulled away.

“You made that awkward.”

“He was about to put a price on locking me out.”

I photographed the work order through the glass before the man lowered it. Then I sent the picture to Ezra and Priya Shah, the lawyer who had handled my lease.

Daniel reached for the folder.

I closed it.

“Ask first.”

He drew back his hand.

“I didn't know she'd already hired somebody.”

“What did you know?”

“Celia showed me a plan. I said the rooms would look good.”

“While I was still in them.”

He had no answer.

I went home alone. Daniel stayed behind to talk to his sister. At our kitchen table, I placed my wedding ring in a small dish while I washed the red dye from my fingertips.

I put it back on. I wasn't ready to decide what it meant.

At eight the next morning, Ezra met me in the workshop. Without the crowd, he stood straight and spoke clearly.

“Show me the whole agreement.”

I laid out the lease, its exhibits, and the last rent receipt.

The nonprofit was the landlord. Feld Wig Works, my company, was the master tenant of the rehearsal wing. The original term was eighteen years. Twelve remained.

My company could grant subleases within the wing. It could set room schedules, collect rent, and approve changes to the rooms. The theater kept rights to inspect and make agreed repairs.

Phyllis's name appeared nowhere.

“They signed this in return for the work,” Ezra said.

“And the rent.”

I handed him the restoration summary: $146,280. New wiring. A roof repair over the wing. Windows. Floor joists. A ramp from the loading court.

I'd used savings, a business loan, and money from selling my father's small house after he died. The nonprofit had given me a long lease and reduced rent in exchange. It was a deal, not a favor.

Ezra checked the signature page against a scan in his records.

He also checked the exhibit that listed the rooms. The corridor, sewing room, two rehearsal rooms, and workshop each had a number. I hadn't drawn a red line around space I wished I controlled. The line matched the signed plan, down to the shared door by the loading court.

“Same agreement,” he said. “Approved in the board minutes. Rent current.”

“Then why does she think she can do this?”

He removed his glasses.

“Because people keep moving when she points.”

I nearly smiled.

Celia arrived carrying a cardboard tray of coffee. She wore rehearsal clothes beneath a white coat.

“Let's make this pleasant,” she said.

She set a cup beside my lace stretcher. I moved it to the sink.

“You can use the basement at Mother's house,” she said. “It's bigger than you think.”

“I have clients who use wheelchairs. I have steam equipment. I have insurance tied to this address.”

“You always make everything so detailed.”

Ezra turned the floor plan toward her.

“Details are the agreement.”

Celia looked at the red border.

“Mother said your lease was month to month.”

“Did you ask me?”

“She said you'd agreed.”

I waited.

Her mouth tightened.

“I knew you weren't happy about it.”

“That's different.”

Her coffee tray shook once against the table.

She had a small, valid sublease for a rehearsal room at the far end of the wing. It cost $350 a month and ended in December. I'd kept her rent low because she taught youth acting classes there on Saturdays.

“Your room stays yours under that agreement,” I said. “The rest doesn't.”

“Mother already sold naming rights.”

Ezra put his glasses back on.

“Sold what?”

Celia searched her phone. She showed us an invitation with a drawing of my workshop stripped bare.

THE MARJORIE BELL DRESSING SUITE, it read. FOUNDING GIFT: $48,000.

Ezra took a slow breath.

“I need a copy of that.”

“It's a pledge,” Celia said.

“The deposit line says paid.”

Outside, a truck reversed toward the loading court. Its warning bell carried through the window.

Celia glanced at it, then away.

“What else is coming?” I asked.

She didn't answer.

My phone lit up with a message from Phyllis.

You have until ten to move your personal items. The clearance crew is on its way.