I looked at him.
He caught himself.
“I allowed one to be built. There’s a difference, but it doesn’t help you tonight.”
Around us, people kept arriving.
Some recognized him and slowed, waiting for a greeting.
He ignored them.
His phone vibrated.
He answered.
“Cancel the meetings.”
A pause.
“All of them tonight.”
He ended the call and put the phone away.
“What do you need?”
I looked toward the dark screen.
For once, I knew.
“His name.”
Enzo waited.
“If you use that photograph, his name belongs beside it. So do the names of the other people who built those places. Not just the men who owned them.”
He nodded.
“And if you tell the story of Bell Street, don’t tell it as though nothing happened.”
“We won’t.”
I wiped my face angrily.
“I’m not asking you to turn my father into a speech.”
“I understand.”
“Do you?”
He looked at the room.
At the guests.
At the tables waiting to be served.
Then he said, “I’m beginning to.”
Gideon arrived twenty minutes later.
I recognized him from the photograph before anyone introduced him.
He was older now.
Silver hair.
A careful smile.
A hand resting possessively on Enzo’s shoulder.
I stood beside Nia at the entrance.
Gideon looked at my name badge.
Then my face.
The smile changed.
“Bennett.”
I said nothing.
Enzo moved beside us.
“Uncle.”
Gideon lowered his voice.
“Not here.”
Enzo looked at him.
“That depends on what you intend to say.”
“This is becoming embarrassing.”
I felt something settle inside me.
All those years.
