Chapter 3 - THE BUILDING WITH THE BLUE DOORS
"They can't announce your blessing if you haven't given it."
Evelyn studied me for a moment.
They can announce anything they like, she signed. Making it true is another matter.
I looked again at the program.
"Do they need your permission to sell Willow House?"
It's still mine. Arthur and I bought it together. I've never authorized a sale.
"Then why would Barbara arrange this?"
Evelyn touched the paintbrush charm.
Because she's counting on me not making a scene.
There was no bitterness in her expression.
That frightened me more than anger would have.
She had already considered the possibility that her family was using her reputation against her.
"Will you let me see Willow House?"
Her answer came immediately.
Tuesday. Ten o'clock.
On Tuesday morning, I drove my paint-splattered Subaru along a winding road outside Burlington.
Evelyn sat beside me, bundled in a burgundy wool coat. She had insisted on bringing a thermos of coffee and a tin of lemon cookies.
"People can investigate serious matters while eating," she had informed me in writing before we left.
I was beginning to adore this woman.
Willow House appeared beyond a stand of maple trees.
It was a two-story yellow building with faded blue doors and a wheelchair ramp that needed repainting.
A wooden sign hung crookedly above the entrance.
The windows were dark.
But the building did not look abandoned.
A row of children's muddy boots still stood beneath the porch bench.
Inside, the air smelled of dust, old wood, and dried acrylic paint.
Evelyn wheeled herself through the hallway, running her fingers along the colorful handprints covering one wall.
Each print had a name beneath it.
Some dated back twenty years.
Others were much newer.
One belonged to a girl named Leah.
The date was only four months old.
Evelyn stopped.
They told me the last children's class was canceled two years ago.
Before I could respond, a woman emerged from the storage room carrying a box of brushes.
She was in her late fifties, with short gray hair and paint on her jeans.
"Evelyn?"
Her face lit up.
Then she saw me.
"I'm Marisol Vega. I used to coordinate the programs here."
"Used to?" I asked.
Marisol's smile faded.
"Lauren canceled our remaining classes in August. Said the property was being prepared for redevelopment."
Evelyn signed a question.
I interpreted.
Marisol looked startled.
"You know ASL?"
"It's my first language."
For the next hour, we talked.
And every answer made the situation worse.
Willow House had not closed because families stopped coming.
The children's art program had twenty-six families registered for the fall session.
Seven adults had requested evening classes.
A local Deaf artists' group had offered to teach a weekend workshop without charging instructor fees.
But Lauren had canceled every reservation.
"She said the building wasn't financially sustainable," Marisol explained. "Then she raised the registration fees. When families complained, she told them the program might be closing anyway."
"Did you tell Evelyn?"
Marisol looked ashamed.
"I tried. Barbara said Evelyn was having difficulty remembering things and that upsetting news made her anxious."
Evelyn watched the conversation carefully.
Then she signed:
They used my age to explain away their decisions.
Marisol swallowed.
"Yes."
We entered the main classroom.
Sunlight fell across long wooden tables and a row of empty easels.
One painting remained clipped to a board.
It showed a yellow house beneath an enormous blue sky.
Across the bottom, in uneven letters, someone had written:
PLEASE DON'T CLOSE OUR HAPPY PLACE.
Evelyn stared at it.
Who painted that?
"Leah Mercer," Marisol answered. "She's nine. Her mother told me Leah still asks when she can come back."
I looked at Evelyn.
Her eyes were wet.
But she didn't cry.
Instead, she asked Marisol for the attendance records.
The former coordinator retrieved a cardboard file box from beneath her desk.
Inside were registration forms, canceled schedules, expense reports, and dozens of handwritten notes from families.
Nothing about the building suggested that nobody wanted it.
What I saw was a program that had been deliberately made difficult to attend.
Then Marisol showed us something even more disturbing.
A laminated display board stood behind a folding screen in the front office.
Across the top was a glossy rendering of Willow House surrounded by landscaped townhomes.
THE EVELYN RESIDENCES
Beneath the illustration were photographs of the Whitmore family.
Barbara stood in the center.
Lauren and Melissa stood on either side.
Charles was smiling.
And beside them was Daniel.
My Daniel.
Under his photograph were the words:
DANIEL WHITMORE — COMMUNITY EDUCATION PARTNER.
I stared at the picture.
Daniel had never mentioned being involved in the redevelopment.
Marisol watched my expression.
"He's your fiancé, isn't he?"
I nodded.
She hesitated.
"Then I think you should see the presentation they used at the planning meeting."
She opened a folder and laid one page on the desk.
It contained a promise to future buyers.
Willow House's educational programs will be relocated with the support of local educators, including Daniel Whitmore.
I read that sentence three times.
Then I looked at Evelyn.
She was watching me with an expression I couldn't bear.
May you like
Does Daniel know what his family has done?
For the first time since falling in love with him, I had no idea.
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