Chapter 39 - A SKY WITH MORE THAN ONE DOOR
By the following March, the Meridian project had become less of a headline and more of a collection of difficult decisions. That was how I knew it had a chance of becoming real.
The city and the education foundation had reached a preliminary agreement on public access, subject to final legal approval. The historic observatory would remain under protected status while repairs were assessed. A separate public astronomy program could begin using inspected venues throughout the neighborhood, and the future of the ridge building would be decided through a process that included residents, accessibility experts, educators, and the parties with recognized property interests.
There was no promise of a dazzling dome by Christmas. There were spreadsheets, engineering estimates, and meeting minutes. I liked them more than I expected.
The financial proceedings continued. Graham Ashford disputed some claims through his lawyers while regulators and civil counsel pursued the issues within their jurisdictions. Peter Knox's firm had retracted the forged certification and provided corrected notices, but the investigation into the document's preparation and use was not finished. Luca's inherited company had begun performing its supervised obligations and had given up any direct role in designing the public program. The foundation's new trustees were seeking recovery of funds and reviewing old contracts.
Those processes still mattered. But they were no longer the only things happening at Riverside.
The center had begun a portable Night Window series, offering free evening astronomy lessons in accessible classrooms and inspected courtyards. Teachers borrowed equipment from local colleges. Volunteers received training and clear reporting procedures. Families could request transportation help, and nobody was told that accepting assistance meant giving up the right to complain.
Celia Bell joined the planning team. She insisted on a written sign-in and pickup procedure, a working contact list, and emergency-route checks before every event. Gabriel looked delighted to meet someone who found safety plans as interesting as he did.
“They're going to become friends,” June told me after their first meeting.
“They might start a club called Please Read the Instructions.”
“I would join,” June said. “Somebody has to make the posters.”
She was preparing to transfer to a four-year university and had been accepted into a summer research program in public health communication. She also took photographs of the night sky on her phone and complained constantly about how difficult it was to capture stars without expensive equipment.
“Your mother would say that's what shared equipment is for,” I told her.
“She already did.”
The old white star remained in protected storage until the ownership review was complete. June had decided that when it was returned, she would paint one corner yellow and leave the rest white. She said the unfinished parts represented questions she hadn't answered yet. I thought that was a better choice than covering every inch in a triumphant color selected by somebody else.
One afternoon, the center board held a design workshop for the portable program and the future Meridian proposal. Sophie attended with her school science group. She carried a cardboard model that now had a round roof, accessible paths, and three different exits.
“It's over-engineered,” Luca whispered to me.
“I think she's compensating for the first version.”
He smiled. “I know the feeling.”
Sophie presented her model to a group of students and adults. She explained that not every room needed to be in the old building, and that equipment could travel to schools if transportation made a single site difficult to reach.
“Mom thought children should have access to the sky,” she said. “That doesn't mean all the children have to come to one place.”
June, sitting in the audience, nodded slowly.
After the presentation, Sophie approached her. I stayed back, allowing them to decide what kind of conversation they wanted.
“Your proportions are better,” June said, inspecting the model.
Sophie grinned. “I watched two tutorials.”
“Very professional.”
“Would you help me build a real star chart for the next event?”
June thought about it. “Maybe. You'll have to accept that I disagree with your color scheme.”
“I can handle that.”
I watched them walk toward the poster table. They weren't friends because an adult had ordered reconciliation. They were two young people discovering a shared interest and making room for each other's opinions.
Luca looked at me. “I think Sarah would be proud of them.”
“So do I.”
Then he added, “And Celia should be proud of June.”
“She is.”
He nodded, letting the thought stand on its own.
At work, I had applied for a summer archival placement at a municipal history project unrelated to the Moretti family. The interview panel asked me about metadata, retention policies, and the ethics of access. Nobody asked whether I'd once worked in a mansion. Nobody seemed especially interested in who I was dating.
I received the offer on a Tuesday afternoon while waiting for the bus. I read the email three times, then called my mother.
“They chose me,” I said.
“Of course they did.”
“Mom, it was competitive.”
“I know. I watched you study.”
I laughed and cried at the same time.
The position came with a modest stipend and a supervisor who specialized in oral histories. It would be demanding. It would also let me develop skills I had worked hard to earn without using Luca's connections.
When I told him, he lifted both hands in celebration.
“This calls for dinner,” he declared.
“I already had dinner plans with Mom.”
“Then it calls for dessert after dinner.”
“Now you're thinking clearly.”
He brought a small cake to my mother's apartment, with congratulations written in uneven icing. Sophie had added three little stars and a fourth that looked suspiciously like a potato.
“It's Jupiter,” she said when I asked.
“Jupiter isn't a star.”
“I'm aware.”
We laughed. My mother took photographs. Luca helped wash dishes and didn't complain when she made him dry the roasting pan.
Later he asked whether I had thought about our living arrangements. It was a careful question, not a demand.
“I have,” I said. “I want to keep my apartment through the placement. I like having a home that's mine.”
“I understand.”
“And I want us to spend more ordinary time together. Maybe a regular weekend at your place, and some weekdays here.”
“I'd like that.”
“We should make sure Sophie has a say about household routines without making her responsible for our relationship.”
He nodded. “We can discuss it with her in age-appropriate ways.”
We sat together at the kitchen table, making plans that involved calendars and grocery shopping instead of legal strategy. It was strangely romantic. I had once believed love announced itself in grand rescues or public declarations. Now I thought love might also be two people deciding whose turn it was to buy dish soap.
In April, the city completed a new site assessment. Meridian's stabilized dome could be preserved in a phased plan if sufficient funding and independent oversight were secured. The public terrace required extensive accessibility and safety work. The report included alternatives, costs, and ongoing maintenance requirements. The city made it available online and in print.
Residents debated the options intensely. Terrence argued that the most expensive plan might fail without a sustainable revenue stream. June wanted public use guaranteed before any commercial partnership. Harriet asked how the center would protect its existing programs from becoming financially responsible for a second building.
Those arguments were not signs of failure. They were the work of making a promise realistic enough to survive the people who first made it.
At one meeting a child asked why everyone kept arguing about stairs when the point of an observatory was to look up. The room laughed, then an architect explained that people needed a safe way to reach the place where they could look up. The child considered this and nodded.
“Then make the path first,” she said.
I wrote the sentence in my notebook.
As spring brightened the city, the first portable Night Window event was scheduled for the courtyard of an accessible public library. The center's name appeared on the poster alongside the library, school district, and local science volunteers. There was no portrait of a donor. There was no dramatic photograph of Celia's injured hand. Just the date, program details, accessibility information, and a note that families could attend free of charge.
June asked whether I'd help with the correspondence table.
“I thought you were tired of having me around,” I teased.
“I am,” she said. “But you write better lists than I do.”
“That may be the nicest thing you've ever said to me.”
“Don't get used to it.”
I smiled all the way home.
For months, we'd been asking who closed the Night Window and why. Now we were arranging to open another one—not by pretending the past hadn't happened, but by building procedures that made it harder to happen again.
There would be more hearings, repairs, and uncomfortable disclosures. The work wasn't complete.
May you like
But one Saturday night, children would be able to look through a telescope without paying for the privilege, and their parents would know where the exits were.
That was a beginning I could believe in.
