The Studio Door Opened On The Partner Behind Her Marriage Pitch

“I'm not signing anything,” I told Ellis.

His eyes moved to the folder beneath my arm.

“Then you should speak with Cressida.”

She came down the studio stairs wearing one of my old tour sweatshirts. I had looked for it for weeks.

“You weren't supposed to come here,” she said.

“Your invoices brought me.”

Ellis set the cups on a table inside. One had the lid cut open the way she liked it.

“How long?” I asked.

“The production partnership began last winter,” she said.

“That wasn't what I asked.”

She looked past me toward the street.

“We've been together since March.”

I thought of the school tours that spring. The motel sinks where I washed costume cuffs. The calls when she said she was too tired to talk.

“You kissed me in front of those investors yesterday.”

“They liked the husband-and-wife story. I needed to finish the round before changing the message.”

Ellis said, “There's no reason this can't stay friendly.”

I looked at the two cups. I wanted to throw one. Instead, I gripped my folder until its edge bent.

“Send anything else through Ruth Mercer.”

I walked back to my car.

At a stoplight near Gypsy Hill Park, I noticed that my wedding ring had worn a smooth patch inside my glove. I pulled the glove off and left the ring where it was. I had a whole drive to the shop ahead of me. I needed both hands for that much before I could decide anything else.

At the shop, I threaded Moss's cheek line through its guide. The red witness thread marked the hole, so I did not have to pull his head apart to find it again.

His smile returned before mine did.

Cressida called at noon.

“I can offer you $90,000,” she said.

“For what?”

“A clean break. You keep your tools. We keep the characters and move forward.”

“You offered $4,000 yesterday.”

“I found more flexibility.”

“You found my lawyer.”

She stopped using her bright voice.

“Nobody buys a puppet design, Julian. They buy a business with booking staff, vans, sets, a name.”

“Then why do you need the designs?”

She ended the call.

Ruth asked me to write down the conversation at once, including what I could remember from the studio. I marked the parts where I was unsure of the exact words.

“Don't improve the memory,” she said. “A plain, honest note is useful.”

Malcolm arrived with another contract. This one covered a small theater outside Richmond. Its fall renewal had not been signed.

“They want Nell,” he said. “They don't require Lantern Span to produce her.”

Their proposed deposit was $12,000. It would cover two rehearsal weeks and the first travel costs if a new operator could meet their terms.

“Can we take it now?” I asked.

“After the new agreement is signed and the payroll account exists.”

The difference between money I could see on paper and money I could use grew painfully clear.

Tessa brought the crew's time sheets. Bea, who sewed our tiny coats, came with her. Owen had sent his lighting hours from his second job.

“We're not asking you to fix your whole marriage today,” Bea said. “We need to know whether Friday is real.”

“I can't promise Friday,” I said.

Tessa shut her eyes.

“Then we pause,” I added. “No unpaid calls. No free load-in. Ruth is demanding the wages from Lantern Span.”

Bea took a small brass button out of her pocket and put it on my bench.

“For Moss's coat,” she said. “Already paid for.”

They left together. I sat beside that button for a long time.

By Thursday, Cressida's lawyer had replied to Ruth. He claimed Lantern Span owned all the designs under an assignment signed eighteen months earlier.

The claimed assignment was attached.

My name appeared at the bottom.

I had signed a van repair approval that day. I remembered because we had been stranded near Afton, and the tow cost $480.

“Could you have signed both?” Ruth asked.

“I didn't sign this one.”

“Let's find the repair approval.”

It was in my personal email. The signature had the same crooked tail on the last letter. Beside it was the same stray dot I had made while signing on my phone.

Ruth placed the pages next to each other.

“We need the original file and the record of how it was signed,” she said. “This resemblance alone isn't the whole case.”

She asked the other lawyer to preserve those records too.

At six, Malcolm called. He had finally received the investor packet, sent by a woman who had kept asking for the missing ownership papers.

“There's a proposed closing date,” he said.

“How soon?”

“Monday. They're selling your character library for $240,000.”