The barista greeted Thiago by name through the speaker. He had introduced himself on a previous visit, which meant he had conducted reconnaissance at a drive-thru coffee window, either admirably thorough or slightly alarming, maybe both. While we waited, he scanned the side mirror, the street ahead, and the delivery entrance of the building across the lot. The barista passed the cups through the window, and he handed one to Dominic without comment.
Dominic looked at the cup. He sipped and said nothing.
I looked out the window and let the silence speak for itself.
Thiago parked in the stage access lot behind the Orpheum and walked around to Dominic’s door before Dominic could open it himself. The lot bordered a service alley connecting University Place on one end and a loading corridor on the other. Thiagowanted to be present when Dominic exited the vehicle. Dominic understood and allowed it. Progress.
Someone had propped the stage door open with a sandbag. Inside, work lights illuminated the pine deck with long, yellow rays. Two stagehands moved a riser dolly through the upstage area, with the iron wheels squeaking and echoing throughout the space.
Thiago walked in and examined all the angles: wing entrances, fly grid, balcony curve, and the two stairwells flanking the house. Dominic subtly relaxed the moment the stage door closed behind us.
A stagehand near the wing nodded as we passed. “Mr. St. Clair.”
“Raymond,” Dominic paused. “How’s the knee?”
“Better. Surgery was in June.”
Thiago dropped a half-step behind us. His phone was out, thumb moving—Michael, probably, or Eamon. He’d been in contact with both since early morning.
“The coffee was acceptable,” Dominic said.
Thiago looked up from his phone. “High praise.”
“I didn’t say it was good. I said that it was acceptable.”
I kept walking and said nothing. The corridor smelled slightly of sawdust. Every theater has its own smell. Since the renovation, the Orpheum reminded me of something almost-finished, in the process of becoming what it was going to be.
The archive room was at the end of the corridor, past the greenroom and the instrument storage bay, where padded cases stood upright in rows. Dominic produced his key and opened the door.
The room was climate-controlled and smelled distinctly neutral. Dominic had insisted on the environmental system five years ago, over the objections of two board members who felt the budget was better spent on instrument maintenance. He hadbeen correct as usual. The earliest programs in the collection, some dating to the theater’s 1921 opening season, were still legible.
“You do what we came to do, Luca. I’ll be walking around the building.” He turned slightly toward Thiago. “With him.”
I pulled the box containing Bridget’s file without checking the label and set it on the reference table. The room was quiet except for the ventilation hum.
I was about ten minutes in when I found a letter.
It was a single page on regional orchestra letterhead, addressed to Dominic, dated March 2016. He’d handwritten comments down the right edge in pencil, using the same precise script he used on scores. One phrase stood out.
Commercialviability;see enclosed.
I read from the top.
It was a response letter from a regional orchestra’s board, thanking Dominic for his recommendation in the final round of their music director search. It quoted him. The language was specific, and Dominic had written it about Bridget Marchand.
”…while Ms. Marchand’s musicianship is not in question, the long-term market viability of her leadership remains uncertain given the current donor landscape and subscription trends in comparable mid-size markets.”
I set it face down on the table and stood. I turned the letter over and read it again.
Market viability.
The original endorsement he’d written was missing from the box. Only the board’s response remained, quoting him. No plausible reason came to mind.
Bridget Marchand was Dominic’s concertmaster. She’d spent the last four years translating his intentions to the surrounding musicians, holding the ensemble together from the inside. Despite that, he had steered a board away from her leadership.At every rehearsal, he accepted her leadership inside his orchestra, but he rejected her qualifications for taking one more step forward.
He created a ceiling for her in a letter she was never meant to read.
Over seven years, I’d grown to trust Dominic’s judgment implicitly. Now—
