Chapter 9 - The Summer of Gold
By July, the Old Custom House Theater had been transformed into the most talked-about architectural project in Boston.
Scaffolding lined the soaring exterior, where stonemasons washed away a century of coal soot to reveal brilliant, warm pink granite beneath. The copper dome was polished until it caught the summer sunset like a beacon over the South End, and the boarded-up windows were replaced with soaring glass panes that flooded the interior with golden light.
I spent my summer days high up on the scaffolding inside the grand lobby, painting a massive forty-foot ceiling mural titled The Four Seasons of Hope.
I wore denim overalls splattered with titanium white, cobalt blue, and raw umber paint, my hair tied back in a messy bun, a pair of wireless headphones playing classical piano music while I worked thirty feet above the hardwood floor.
Julian Ross was always nearby.
As the lead structural engineer, his job was technically completed by June, but he somehow found reasons to be on site three times a week—checking the load capacities of the chandelier hooks, inspecting the plaster curing rates, or simply bringing two iced coffees and a bag of warm plum pastries from the local market at noon.
We spent hours sitting high up on the wooden scaffolding during lunch breaks, our legs dangling over the edge, looking down at the sunlit lobby below.
"You know," Julian said one hot July afternoon, leaning back against a support beam and taking a sip of his iced coffee, "my sister Mia tried to guess what you were like before I met you."
"Oh yeah?" I smiled, dabbing a bit of burnt sienna onto my palette. "What was her theory?"
"She thought you'd be this terrifying, unapproachable ice princess who lived in a marble tower and spoke only in Latin art terms," Julian laughed.
I let out a soft laugh, looking down at my paint-splattered hands and worn leather boots. "And what did you tell her?"
Julian turned his sharp blue eyes toward me, his expression softening into a deep, genuine warmth that made my heart do a quiet, sudden flutter.
"I told her," Julian said softly, "that you were the hardest-working person I’d ever met. And that when you talk about light, it makes people want to build windows."
I looked at him, feeling a flush of warmth that had nothing to do with the July heat.
For six years of my life, every interaction with a male figure had been defined by fear, control, manipulation, or emotional violence. My father had taught me that closeness was a transaction, and that weakness was an invitation to be crushed.
Julian was the complete opposite. He was steady, quiet, fiercely honest, and respected my work with a clean, unselfish admiration that required nothing from me in return.
"My father goes to prison next week," I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them.
Julian didn't flinch. He didn't offer fake, uncomfortable pity. He simply shifted closer on the wooden plank, resting his clean, strong hand on the scaffolding beside mine.
"How are you feeling about it?" he asked gently.
"Relieved," I admitted, looking up at the bright ceiling mural I was painting. "And... clean. It feels like someone finally took the trash out of the house."
Julian smiled softly, his fingers reaching out to gently touch the edge of my hand. "Then let's celebrate."
"Celebrate what?"
"Celebrate the fact that next week, you finish this mural, and the week after that, you start your second year at Waverly as the youngest department assistant in the school's history."
I looked at him, feeling the truth of his words settle deep into my soul.
May you like
My father was going to prison for the choices he had made. Brenda was working community service in Rhode Island. Mason was learning what it meant to live without a trust fund.
And I was standing thirty feet in the air, painting gold leaf onto a ceiling that would stand for another hundred years.
