Chapter 141
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The grand theater, visited after so long, was quiet and immaculate.
It was hard to believe someone had died somewhere within these walls. Perhaps they had diligently ventilated as Bridget had requested back then; only a faint dust haze lingered in the air.
"We're replacing every chandelier in this building, including the one hanging in the lobby."
At Bridget's words, the worker quickly began jotting notes in his notebook. Bridget, accompanied by several workers, carefully inspected the entire building starting from the grand theater's first floor, methodically pointing out areas needing repair.
It wasn't about completely tearing down the building; it was a renovation to refresh the atmosphere. While they were at it, they'd also replace any rusted or worn-out equipment. Her recent attendance at an artists' gathering—a new opportunity gained through connections made at Eris's party—had greatly aided today's decision. She'd listened intently to discussions about modern theater stage equipment.
"Remove all the curtains too."
"Yes, understood."
"I'll provide a separate list for the window glass. Replace them according to that list."
"Yes."
The intention was to transform the interior atmosphere, but actually finding each area needing repair revealed far more than expected. She would have to point out everything visible first, then perhaps compromise on a few spots.
While mentally gauging the reopening date and construction timeline she had kept in mind, she spotted someone lingering near the main theater entrance.
"Excuse me, Miss Bridget Pennington?"
The man lingering by the open door spotted Bridget and cautiously addressed her. Wayna, standing close to Bridget, eyed the stranger sharply.
At first glance, he appeared to be an ordinary gentleman. Bridget tilted her head slightly and replied calmly.
"Who might you be?"
"Ah, I am a gentleman in the service of Mrs. Callaway. I have come to deliver a letter from her. I visited your residence and was informed you were here."
If she sent someone personally instead of using the post, it must be a very important and sensitive matter. Could it be related to Finn Emerson? Surely she wouldn't be changing her mind now?
Her anxious hands hastened to tear open the letter.
But the moment she read its contents, all the tension drained from her body.
"I would appreciate a reply as soon as possible."
Staring speechless at the letter, Bridget gave an awkward smile.
"You really came to see me about this?"
"Yes."
She stared silently, wondering if the mail carrier was teasing her, but he was utterly serious. Bridget was certain the man before her didn't know the contents of this letter. Unless, of course, Mrs. Callaway pulled stunts like this so often he'd become immune.
"Truly an unimaginable reason."
Bridget muttered as if to herself, then looked down at the letter in her hand once more.
In a way, she even felt a sense of admiration. She had guessed Mrs. Callaway might have liked the early draft of her work.
‘The rest of it...?’
She was asking about the rest of the manuscript.
Not demanding the manuscript itself, but literally expressing curiosity about what came next. So she felt she should at least know a little about it.
Bridget recalled her draft manuscript, returned to her by post not long ago. She had written some of the later parts, but the draft was never actually finished. She never intended to finish it, either.
Lowering her gaze, Bridget replied in a somewhat cold tone.
"There's no need to write a letter. Just tell her we won’t be meeting. That should be enough for her to understand."
"Understood."
Glancing back at the departing figure, Bridget bit her lip hard and averted her eyes. To erase useless thoughts, she busied herself again, scurrying around the Grand Theater, wiping away traces of the past.
***
Due to interior construction issues, Bridget visited the Grand Theater building for several days. And it was precisely to that very place, where construction had begun and dust was flying, that Mrs. Callaway herself made an appearance.
"No, why?"
Bridget, greeting Mrs. Callaway in the chaotic executive office amidst furniture changes, averted her gaze with a bewildered expression.
When Mrs. Callaway had visited Bridget's mansion, she had been quick to point out the old, ordinary interior the moment she stepped inside. Yet here she was, sitting quite comfortably in this Grand Theater building, completely turned upside down for the construction. Even as she covered her mouth and nose with a handkerchief, seemingly annoyed by the occasional dust flakes drifting by.
"Is it just that you find it too bothersome to tell me?"
"Of course not."
"Then tell me. There must be a reason. Why can't we meet?"
And to think that reason was precisely why she was enduring all this trouble. Even now, as she faced Mrs. Callaway right before her eyes, Bridget couldn't quite believe it was real.
She came all this way to question her because she disliked the ending of her practice piece? Mrs. Callaway herself?
No, but what's wrong with that ending anyway?
"Should we meet?"
"After writing such a lovely fairy tale beginning, why on earth did you end it like that? It's far too realistic! This is a work of art; it should bring joy and delight to many people. Your ending is bleak and hopeless!"
"But it's my work."
Since she wrote it, wasn't it her prerogative to choose any ending she wanted? Besides, art didn't always have to bring only joy and pleasure. In fact, given that Bridget's draft hadn't even been published, calling it a finished work of art felt embarrassing.
At Bridget's calm retort, Mrs. Callaway looked at her with a look of utter disbelief.
"Huh."
Mrs. Callaway stamped her foot and sighed. It was hard to believe this was the same imposing lady she had met at their first encounter.
"I didn't expect you to come all this way just to nitpick the ending."
Honestly, she hadn't realized Mrs. Callaway had liked her draft that much. When she thought it was written by Finn Emerson, she might have unconsciously found it more entertaining because of his reputation, but now that the author was revealed... To see such a fierce reaction to the work of an ordinary woman who hadn't even debuted, who didn't even write anymore. In a way, she was almost grateful.
At Bridget's words, Mrs. Callaway turned her head with a displeased expression. She still seemed to be covering her mouth with a handkerchief.
"Such a fresh and bright story, the first I've seen in ages."
Bridget fell silent with a peculiar expression at that brief comment. Certainly, the early part of her draft could be seen that way. Her heart at the time of writing had been just that. Fresh and full of hope, she couldn't bear to hold back that overflowing feeling without pouring it out into words. Because that story was about her first love, one she couldn't carelessly share anywhere.
<That guy wasn't Kai, but you can make him into Kai. Bibi, writing has that kind of power.>
It was the letter Mrs. Olden had written back that gave her the courage to start writing. And that writing was destined to remain locked away in her drawer forever. Based on her story, it was an inevitable fate.
“………………I hear everyone’s looking for flashy, sensational stories these days.”
When she mentioned the trend she’d overheard at an artists’ gathering, Mrs. Callaway clicked her tongue sharply in rebuttal.
“Warm stories are always needed. They should always be within sight. It’s not grand, profound philosophy that enriches the human soul, but the warmth that allows us to rest for a moment.”
Mrs. Callaway, who had habitually reached for the teacup before her, pulled her hand back with a look of disgust and continued.
“I mean they should always be provided to many people.”
A warm story.
Bridget stared at the teacup, pondering Mrs. Callaway's words.
Since returning to Glynford, Bridget had lived as if pursued by something. She had been depressed, resigned, and eventually reached a point of anger and hatred toward someone. Nothing had failed to gnaw at her soul. And at the end of that breathless race, Bridget arrived at a question.
That version of herself who had been happy enough to draw someone's envy. The self who had fallen in love. The self who had believed in the world's justice and strived never to lose that belief.
What had that looked like? What expression, what emotion, what look in her eyes, what tone of voice had she lived with? Could she ever reclaim that self?
Could a warm story enrich her soul too? Those mere arrangements of letters?
Mrs. Callaway frowned at the pensive look on Bridget's face. She seemed to take it as Bridget deliberately stalling for time.
"Well, you're quite the schemer. Fine. I'll sponsor Miss Pennington."
To offer sponsorship based solely on the latter part of a mere draft was an extraordinary decision. Yet Bridget responded calmly, her expression showing little surprise.
"I'm sorry, but it's not necessary."
Mrs. Callaway's eyes widened in disbelief at being rejected outright. Bridget explained to her in an unflappable voice.
"I have no interest in writing. Running the Grand Theater keeps me busy enough."
"But it's closed now, isn't it?"
"I plan to reopen it."
"Huh!"
Mrs. Callaway sighed again.
"And that's why you intend to end that story with such a dreadful conclusion?"
………It doesn't seem quite that dreadful.
A half-hearted rebuttal rose to her lips, but Bridget decided against provoking Mrs. Callaway further. Instead, she offered a compromise to appease the lady before her.
"It's been a long time since I put down my pen. Would you give me some time to think?"
Of course, the answer she reached after thinking wouldn't change.
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