"My sister's losing her shop lease," I say bluntly. "Building sold. Thirty days."
Sam doesn't flinch. She must register something in my voice. She doesn’t offer some hollow sympathy line. She just drops her pen onto the notebook.
"What kind of space does she need?"
No I'm sorry. No that's awful.
"Tattoo parlor. Greenpoint. Six years in the same spot. Around 800 square feet. She needs street level, decent foot traffic."
Sam is already on her phone, typing. "Zoning for tattoo studios in Manhattan is specific. Has she looked at shared creative spaces, or does she need sole retail?"
"I don't know."
"What's her budget relative to current rent?"
"I—" I set both hands flat on the table. "I don't know that either."
Sam looks up.
"I also don't know if she's open to a shared space." I laugh.
I've been trying to solve a problem I don't understand.
"Listen." Sam sets her phone down. "I know a few people. Commercial real estate — developers, property managers who work with small retail. If your sister's open to it, I can make some calls." She pauses. "But I need specs first. Square footage, budget range, must-haves versus nice-to-haves. I can't go to anyone vague."
I stare at her.
She isn’t hesitating.
This isn’t a politelet me know if I can help. She’s already working on the problem. Calling people she knows. Doing it for someone she’s never met. On a morning when we’re supposed to be prepping a Board presentation.
"You don't have to do that."
"I know." She holds my gaze. "But while you're sitting there running the math on your sister's shop, you're completely useless to me anyway."
I blink.
She holds the straight face for half a second. Then the small, dry smile. "I'm kidding. Mostly. I can make a few calls. Let me help."
I don't answer right away. Helping Wren is what I do. She and I moved around a lot when we were kids. She was the only constant.
Sam is still watching me.
"I'll ask her," I say.
I pull out my phone and type the text. Hit send. The phone sits face-up on the table between us. Sam's hands are in her lap. I look at the site plan. She looks at her laptop screen. Neither of us is actually reading anything.
The reply lands in under a minute.
Is this the architect?
Yeah.
Bring her by the shop. I want to meet her anyway. And I'll give her the specs myself.
I look up at Sam.
"She wants to meet you," I say. "At the shop. Now, apparently."
