“Lifts along that wall,” Hank said, pointing. “Dyno at the back, with exhaust ventilation tied into that existing duct if we can salvage it.”
Jason measured with his eyes. “We can. We’ll have to reinforce that wall if you want to anchor anything serious. But it’s workable.”
Bree drifted toward the steel staircase leading upstairs, her steps soft on the treads. Hank watched her go.
“She okay?” Jason asked quietly.
“She’s thinking,” Hank said. “That’s good for all of us.”
Jason nodded. “Upstairs is in better shape structurally,” he said. “Less water intrusion. More natural light. It’s going to clean up nice.”
They climbed after her. The second floor opened out into a wide expanse with tall windows facing the harbor. The glass was cracked in places, but the light poured in.
Bree stood near one of the windows, palm flat against the dusty sill, eyes half closed. Her sketchbook dangled from her other hand.
Hank came up beside her. “What do you see?”
“Walls knocked back,” she said. “White paint, but not too clean. A big work table there. Easels along that side. A couch in the corner for when I forget how to sit like a normal person. And that entire wall…” She pointed opposite the windows. “Gallery space. Rotating work. Maybe a couple of pieces that never move.”
“Security film on the glass,” Jason said. “New frames. We can keep the size. The light’s kind of the whole point.”
Bree chewed her lower lip. “No bars,” she said.
“No bars,” Jason agreed. “We’ll put shutters on the outside that roll down at night; from the street, they’ll look like part of the building. Cameras at the stairwell and entrance. That way, anyone who comes up here is either invited or recorded.”
Hank saw the tension in Bree’s shoulders, saw it ease a fraction at the word recorded. “You okay with that?” he asked.
She nodded slowly. “I can live with shutters if they’re up when I’m working,” she said. “And if the cameras aren’t giant, blinking red eyes.”
“I leave the blinking to smoke alarms,” Jason said. “We’ll keep them discreet.”
They walked farther into the space. Brian and Colby peeled off, talking excitedly about mezzanines and storage. Jason stopped near a section of floor where the boards creaked.
“We’ll need to reinforce this area,” he said. “Especially if you plan on holding openings with more than a handful of people.”
“Openings,” Bree echoed, soft and almost to herself.
“You’re going to have them,” Hank said. “Might as well plan for it.”
She looked at him, eyes bright in the filtered light. “You really think people are going to climb those stairs to look at my work?”
“I think people are going to climb those stairs to feel something they didn’t expect to,” he said. “Your work does that. I’ve seen it.”
Her throat moved as she swallowed. “You keep saying things that make it harder to be rational.”
“Rational’s overrated,” he said. “Calculated risk, that’s the sweet spot.”
Jason cleared his throat politely. “Before this turns into a Hallmark moment and I have to pretend I’m not here,” he said, “let me talk timelines. If we get permits moving next week, they can complete the structural and roof work in three months. Windows, wiring, and plumbing will layer in as we go. You’re probably looking at six months before you’re ready to open the doors to customers.”
“Next season,” Colby said from across the room. “We could be running under our own sign by the time the Cup roll-out returns here.”
“That’s the idea,” Hank said.
“Money?” Brian asked. “Just so we know whether we’re eating instant noodles all winter.”
Jason gave them ballpark figures. They weren’t small, but they weren’t impossible. Hank felt the numbers click into the mental spreadsheet he’d been carrying since the mayor’s office.
Prize money. Savings. A percentage of past seasons he’d never touched. The studio build-out was from Bree’s account. Possible small-business grants, the mayor had mentioned.
