The Final Account Closed Before Our Winter Festival Opened

I played Orson's message once for Dana.

"Do I have to answer?" I asked.

"No. There's no open business proposal you need to consider."

I sent him one email anyway.

Valdes Ice Works would not hire him or authorize him to quote prices, collect money, or speak for it. Any unfinished Prairie Lantern matter belonged with Ellis.

I kept it to four sentences. Then I blocked his personal number and left the company record address open through counsel.

It was a smaller act than all the arguments I had imagined. I slept better after it.

In early January, Ellis sent his final account for review. The fall invoices had been collected, and the $6,240 in supplier bills had been paid from those funds and the cash already on hand.

The recovered money had covered the customer refunds, all three workers' wages, and my overdue rent. My $7,500 was in my account. Tomas and the other workers had signed receipts.

The sale of the company's remaining office equipment covered the approved closing costs. Neither Orson nor I received a final ownership payout. Our original $6,000 contributions were gone.

I read that line twice.

Then I turned the page.

I had also paid my own legal fees. Getting my property back hadn't made those bills disappear. But I could cover them, keep my crew paid, and operate the winter dates without borrowing.

That was enough to build on.

Dana checked the report with me before the final court review. There were no missing customers left on the list. The canceled contract, the moved date, and every refund had a receipt or signed release beside it.

At the hearing, Orson wore the same spotless coat. He didn't speak to me.

The judge approved the final account and the steps to close the company. Ellis's authority ended after the remaining closing tasks. Orson no longer had a company account, a booking title, or a fleet to offer anyone.

His lender had been paid from his land sale. His own lawyer's bill remained his concern. There was no debt left hanging over my trailers.

Outside, he stood beside the boot scraper.

"You always had the paperwork ready," he said.

"I had the paperwork from when we made the agreement."

"You knew this would happen?"

"No. I thought we'd both keep it."

He looked down at the scraper. I walked to my truck.

Freya's January festival opened that Saturday at the new site. Her committee had signed a replacement agreement through the approved closing process. They had paid no early installment to Orson and owed no lost advance.

Their $21,600 package stayed at the price we had first discussed. The scope, payment dates, and weather plan fit on pages every committee member could read.

Before we opened, Freya introduced me to the volunteers.

"Maritza Valdes owns this fleet and runs the ice operation. If she closes a gate, it stays closed until she clears it."

"Unless it's the coffee gate," I said. "Keep that one moving."

They laughed. Then they listened while I explained the exits.

Tomas checked the last trailer latch. His supervisor had signed the service log, and my son had written the readings neatly enough for someone else to use.

He handed me the clipboard.

"I thought defending you meant saying something louder than him."

"Sometimes it means telling me when a gauge doesn't make sense."

"I can do both."

"Start with the gauge."

Freya asked about next winter while we watched the first session. I opened my calendar and marked a tentative hold. She would take the proposal to her committee. I would confirm only after the site and dates were approved.

She nodded as if that was exactly what she wanted to hear.

By February, every remaining winter booking had either run under a new signed contract or been canceled with its money returned. My calendar was full enough to pay the bills, with days left for service and weather delays.

I no longer called those days empty.

On one of them, I replaced the split trailer door seal I had marked back in November. Tomas held the light. When we finished, the door closed without a whistle of air, and we went home before dark.

On the season's last night in Minot, I sat beside the skate rack after the crowd left. Tomas carried the dry pairs into their numbered bins. He asked if I wanted help with the last blade.

"I've got it. Tell me how your class went."

He talked while I worked the edge, then tested it with my thumb.

One blue chalk square remained on the bench beside its inspection line. I checked the blade again and brushed the square away.

The shop door opened, and Tomas came back with two cups of coffee.

He set mine beside the closed chalk tin. Through the window, our little rink shone under the yard light, smooth and still.