Chapter 23 Ninety Days
Ninety days changed the Rialto before they changed Maren.
That was what she told herself, anyway.
By late June, the theater had scaffolding across the front, temporary roof protection, three grant commitments, a pledge wall in Hart Maren could not.
A new curve low in her body. A center of gravity that seemed to have opinions.
Hunger arriving like a legal summons. Tears during a hardware store commercial because an old man bought the correct light bulb.
Marta told her this was normal.
Dr. Ross told her this was normal.
Lenora told her nothing about pregnancy was legally required to be dignified.
Callum did not tell her anything.
That was the most startling part.
He had followed the rules.
After Isolde's letter and the North Bell evidence, his messages became sparse and structured around what Maren had permitted.
Medical coverage confirmations routed through Lenora.
Legal updates copied to counsel. No location questions.
No surprise gifts. No flowers arriving at the bakery like apologies with stems.
Every Friday, one message:
I hope this week has been manageable. You do not need to answer.
The first time, she had rolled her eyes and not replied.
The second, she had typed Stop making it sound like a corporate wellness check, then deleted it.
The third, she wrote:
I do.
His answer:
I'm glad.
Nothing more arrived.
It was infuriating how much steadiness could accomplish when it did not ask to be praised.
In June, the Rialto stabilization grant was approved.
The email came while Maren was sitting on the theater floor wearing a hard hat and sorting salvaged plaster fragments into labeled trays. Reeve read the first line, stopped, read it again, then said, "Well."
Maren tipped her hard hat back. "Well good or well bad?"
"Well, Marta is about to become unbearable."
Gideon, perched on an overturned crate, said, "Approved?"
Reeve nodded.
For three seconds, no one moved.
Gideon yelled so loudly a pigeon launched itself from the balcony and nearly gave a carpenter a religious experience.
By sunset, half the town had gathered outside the Rialto. Marta brought rolls. Someone found champagne. Someone else brought sparkling cider after remembering Maren. The historical society women cried openly, then denied it with great dignity.
Maren stood on the sidewalk beneath the damaged marquee and studied the facade.
Unsaved.
Not yet.
But held.
That night, the local paper ran a photograph of her, Reeve, Gideon, Marta, and half the project team standing under the scaffolding. The caption read:
RIALTO STABILIZATION GRANT APPROVED; LOCAL PRESERVATION TEAM CREDITS COMMUNITY PUSH.
Maren's name appeared in the article as project architect.
Project architect.
She read that phrase sitting on the edge of her bed with one hand over the baby and cried so hard Marta knocked from downstairs and shouted, "Happy crying or crisis crying?"
"Happy!"
"Suspicious but acceptable!"
Her phone buzzed at 9:42.
Callum.
Congratulations on the grant. I saw the local article. Project architect suits you.
Maren read the message again.
There was no donation attached. No I knew you could. No implied ownership of the victory because he had once watched a video.
Project architect suits you.
She typed:
Thank you.
Because some part of her had become brave in small, dangerous increments:
The baby appears to like ginger and hate coffee.
She set the phone down so fast it nearly slid off the bed.
His reply took eleven minutes.
Inconvenient for you. Sensible of the baby.
Maren laughed.
It was soft, surprised, and hers before she could stop it.
Another message arrived.
Thank you for telling me.
She did not answer.
But she slept that night with less armor around her ribs.
In New York, Callum printed the Rialto article and placed it in a folder labeled Maren.
he reconsidered, removed it, and placed it in a folder labeled Do Not Touch.
Sienna found him doing this because she had entered without knocking, a privilege she had earned by saving him from several versions of himself.
"That is either progress or a filing crisis," she said.
"Both."
She set a stack of investor briefs on his desk. "You could send a gift."
"No."
"Good. I was testing you."
He lifted his head.
Sienna's expression softened by one degree. "The article was good."
"Yes."
"She seemed happy."
Callum glanced at the printed photo.
Maren under scaffolding, hard hat tucked beneath one arm, hair windblown, smile not for him or because of him. A smile with work in it. Community. Weather. Bread shaped like stars, apparently, based on the caption.
"She did," he said.
It hurt less cleanly now.
No less.
Less cleanly.
Regret had become braided with something else. Pride, maybe. Love without access. A strange, demanding thing that asked him to be glad for a happiness that did not include him.
His phone buzzed.
Maren:
The baby appears to like ginger and hate coffee.
Callum sat very still.
Sienna, who saw too much, quietly picked up the investor briefs and left.
He read the sentence again.
The baby.
The words my baby stayed unwritten.
Your baby stayed unwritten, too.
The baby.
A door, not open. Not closed either.
He typed carefully.
Inconvenient for you. Sensible of the baby.
He waited. Then added what mattered more.
Thank you for telling me.
No reply came.
Callum did not need one.
That night, he slept four hours without hearing the voicemail in his dreams.