Chapter 19 - The Night Before the Awards
The Hartwell Awards returned eleven months after the rehearsal scandal.
The studio considered changing the venue.
Mara voted against it.
“Stage Twelve isn’t cursed.”
Several executives stared at her.
She continued.
“Pretending places become contaminated by what happens inside them is how institutions avoid remembering.”
Tessa smiled.
“Stage Twelve it is.”
The event would include a tribute to restoration artists, archivists, and craftspeople whose work usually appeared only in end credits.
Lillian’s name would be mentioned.
Not as a victim.
As an archivist.
Mara insisted.
The night before the ceremony, she brought Ivy to rehearsal.
The fake ballroom had returned, though the colors were different this year.
Gold instead of silver.
Round tables instead of long ones.
Camera Four occupied nearly the same position.
Ivy noticed.
“That’s it.”
Mara followed her gaze.
“Yes.”
“The camera.”
“Yes.”
Ivy took off her backpack.
For a second Mara worried.
Then Ivy walked toward the guest table where Evelyn had approached her a year earlier.
She placed the backpack on the chair.
Unzipped it.
Looked inside.
A sketchbook.
Markers.
A paperback novel.
A granola bar.
Nothing else.
She zipped it again.
“Okay.”
Mara smiled.
“What was that?”
“I wanted to put it there.”
“Why?”
“Because I can.”
Mara’s throat tightened.
Ivy slung it back over her shoulder.
Tessa called from production control.
“Ivy! Want to see Camera Four?”
The girl’s face lit up.
She climbed the stairs with a security escort.
Julian arrived a few minutes later.
He stood beside Mara looking toward the booth.
“She seems okay.”
“She is okay.”
“Not because nothing happened.”
“No.”
“Because something happened and she’s still herself.”
Mara looked at him.
“That sounded suspiciously like therapy.”
“I pay enough for it.”
They laughed.
The ease between them was new.
Not the old ease built from assumptions.
This one required attention.
Julian had begun producing again, independently.
His first project was a small documentary about craftspeople who preserved old film negatives.
No Hartwell financing.
No family guarantees.
When he told Mara about it, she teased him for choosing the least glamorous subject possible.
He said glamour had exhausted him.
Now, beneath Stage Twelve’s lights, he handed her a small envelope.
“What is this?”
“Nothing dramatic.”
“That sentence is usually dramatic.”
“It’s a lease termination.”
Mara stared at him.
“For your apartment?”
“Yes.”
She looked up.
Julian immediately added, “I have not moved anything.”
“Good.”
“I am asking.”
Mara said nothing.
“If the answer is no, I renew it.”
“You really have changed.”
“I’m terrified.”
“That’s not the change.”
He smiled nervously.
Mara looked toward the production booth.
Ivy was waving at them through the glass.
A year ago, Mara had left Stage Twelve believing she might never trust Julian again.
Now she understood trust was not a door that opened once.
It was a series of small permissions.
Some revoked.
Some restored.
Some earned slowly.
“You can come home,” she said.
Julian’s face changed.
She raised a finger.
“Separate office.”
“Fine.”
“Your mother’s furniture stays in storage.”
“Absolutely.”
“You do school drop-off Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“Done.”
“You do not say ‘done’ before checking your calendar.”
Julian pulled out his phone.
Mara laughed.
“Now?”
“I learn.”
They reviewed the calendar.
Tuesday worked.
Thursday required moving a production call.
He moved it.
Then he looked at her.
“Now can I say done?”
“Yes.”
He did not kiss her immediately.
He waited.
Mara closed the distance herself.
The kiss was quiet.
No applause.
No orchestra.
No camera close-up.
Exactly right.
That evening, they picked up Ivy and walked across the empty lot toward the parking structure.
Stage lights glowed behind them.
Ivy held both their hands.
Halfway across, she stopped.
“I forgot something.”
“What?” Mara asked.
“My sketchbook.”
“In the backpack?”
“No. Camera room.”
Julian volunteered to retrieve it.
Ivy shook her head.
“I can.”
Mara watched her daughter run back toward the stage with Tessa’s assistant.
Julian said, “A year ago I would have told her not to.”
“Why?”
“Because I’d be afraid.”
Mara looked at him.
“And now?”
“I’m still afraid.”
He squeezed her hand.
“I’m just trying not to turn my fear into her cage.”
Mara rested her head briefly against his shoulder.
Behind them, Ivy disappeared through the soundstage door.
Then reappeared seconds later holding the sketchbook over her head like a trophy.
Nothing chased her.
No accusation followed.
May you like
She was simply a child running back toward her parents.
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