Six months later, the Independent Design Showcase opened in Southfield.
My booth was modest. At the center stood the battered umbrella, its mended patch clearly visible, my mother's handwritten words beside it: [The rain has stopped, but don't put down the umbrella.]
Someone came up to me and asked, "Ms. Harper, is the umbrella part of the work?"
I thought about it. "In a way, yes."
"What does it represent?"
"Something that broke," I said, "but still works."
They smiled, nodded, and took a photograph.
Rowan was standing nearby. He handed me a cup of warm water. "Congratulations, Ms. Harper."
I took it. "Thank you, Mr. Hale."
He raised an eyebrow. "Still Mr. Hale?"
I smiled. "Rowan."
He seemed satisfied and left it at that.
Rowan had always known where the lines were. He had bro
