The Board Put My Work on the Record and Rebuilt Its Budget

This time, somebody else brought the coffee.

Elaine had put my name on the agenda as Mara Fenwick, Conservator and Studio Member. Beneath it, she had attached the pages showing my forty percent interest.

"Our earlier minutes repeated Mr. Dacre's account," she said. "They will be corrected."

The board approved the correction. Ruthie watched the secretary write it down.

"Read that last sentence back," she said.

The secretary did. Nobody objected.

It was a small thing, a sentence in minutes most people would never read. I had spent weeks hearing my work made small. Hearing it named correctly loosened something in my chest.

Owen joined by video with Riverlight's lawyer. Vivian sat beside me.

"We have a proposed adjustment to the purchase," Owen said. "It needs the seller's agreement, but the money is still held."

Removing my curtain reduced the price by $82,000. The buyer's $75,000 note would be canceled. Another $7,000 would come out of the $80,000 escrow.

That left $73,000 held in cash.

Of that, $64,400 would go straight back to the six customers whose deposits had been marked earned. The remaining $8,600 would cover the agreed costs of untangling the sale, including Simon's review.

"No customer has to accept another promise of work," Vivian said. "Their refunds will be documented separately."

"Why would Felix agree?" Elaine asked.

"His company gave warranties about ownership and the books," Riverlight's lawyer said. "Our claims are already in writing."

There was no magic in it. Felix faced several people who had stopped accepting his version without support.

Elaine turned to me.

Before I could speak, another board member asked why they should trust anyone from the old studio. He had every right to ask. His name was on the checks Felix had treated as money for something else.

I passed him a sample treatment sheet.

"You won't have to take my word for completion," I said. "You can check the work against this list before approving each stage."

He read the page, then turned it over to check the back.

"And changes?"

"Written down, priced, and approved before we do them."

He kept the sheet in front of him through the rest of the meeting.

"If our deposit comes back, can you finish?"

I put a one-page proposal on the table.

"The original contract was $42,000. My new contract would be the same total. The full scope is listed here, with dates and payments."

"Under whose company?"

"My own practice. Mara Fenwick Textile Conservation."

I had registered the name, opened a separate account, and arranged insurance that covered the theater work. The confirmations were clipped behind the proposal.

I had also priced a short lease on a clean ground-floor room near the theater. There was space for a long worktable and a sink. I could start there once the board released its curtains from the old contract.

"How many people?" Ruthie asked.

"Me and two experienced stitchers. I've confirmed their dates and rates."

"How many days?"

"Twenty-six until opening. Twenty-one scheduled for treatment and installation. Five for delays and checks."

I laid out the jobs. Support the weak lower edges. Replace the failed lining. Repair the hanging points. Check each curtain on its track, then record the final condition.

The old Orchard Drop was a separate loan. It would be supported for display in the lobby, behind a rail, away from the moving stage curtains.

"It won't be lifted for performances," I said. "It's a painting on fragile cloth. The stage needs working velvet."

Ruthie nodded.

"Finally, somebody said that out loud."

The board asked about missed dates, insurance, access, and the last $14,000 payment. I answered what I knew and marked two details to confirm with the installer.

There was no speech about saving history. We had a room, fabric, money to recover, and a clock.

They approved the new contract subject to the refund and release of the old one.

After the meeting, Ruthie walked me to the bus stop. Across the Hudson, the hills had gone dark under low clouds.

"You looked different in there," she said.

"I wore the same jacket."

"You let them finish asking before you tried to prove you deserved the chair."

My phone rang. It was Vivian.

Felix had accepted the refund arrangement in principle. He still disputed my ownership of the curtain and wanted a broad release from me.

"We'll read every word," she said.

That evening, I returned to the empty room I hoped to rent. I measured the doorway, checked the window seals, and counted outlets. I pictured the two velvet legs flat under work lights.

A message from Felix arrived while I was writing down the table length.

He had copied the board.

It said I had no right to use the studio's treatment photographs or claim its past jobs as mine. Unless I signed his release by morning, he would seek to stop my new contract.