Eli Laid Eighteen Bait Contracts On My Clean Mixing Bench

I made Eli put the folder on a dry tray. Paper picked up fish oil almost as fast as people picked up rumors.

"Did you sign any?" I asked.

"Dad signed them all. I made the cover sheet."

It said ANTONELLA'S PROVEN SPRING BLEND above a picture of my shed.

Below that, in smaller type, it said bookings were handled by Mallory Harbor Supply.

"You used my name."

"He said you'd agreed."

"When did you hear that from me?"

He stared at the tray.

"Never."

I called Maren and put her on speaker. She asked Eli to scan the contracts, keep the originals safe, and write down what he remembered while it was fresh. She told him he could get his own lawyer.

"I can't advise both sides," she said.

"Am I a side?" he asked.

"You helped sell something. Get advice before deciding what that means."

After the call, he helped me count pounds.

Roscoe had sold twenty-four tons of bait for $72,000. He had taken thirty percent down. June's order was larger than most, which explained her $2,400 deposit.

I already had eight tons booked with my own buyers. With the cold space, mixer time, and deliveries I could safely manage, I could make sixteen tons before the promised pickup dates.

Roscoe had sold three times my spare capacity.

"Dad said we'd add night shifts."

"And where would we store the fish?"

"He ordered another mixer."

"A mixer doesn't make a cold room."

I pulled on gloves and opened a small test bucket. The binder had settled. I folded it through, lifted a handful, and pressed a ridge.

It slumped at once.

"That batch needs adjusting," I said. "You don't fix it by printing a better label."

Eli rubbed both palms down his jeans.

"What do I do?"

"Start by telling the truth without putting your father in front of it."

He left with copies and the carton of his things. I kept the scans he had sent me, with his written permission to give them to Maren.

By evening, the harbor had split.

My regular buyers called to make sure their orders were safe. Roscoe's buyers called to ask why I had stolen their deposits. One man said he would never buy from a woman who hid behind a lease.

"I didn't receive your money," I told him.

"Then go get it."

My cousin Lidia called from her diner on Main Street.

"Roscoe says grief has made you stubborn."

"It has made me tired. There's a difference."

"Could you meet him halfway? For Danny?"

I looked at Danny's yellow paint on the mixer cover.

"Danny knew a half share had to be offered before it could be stolen."

I ended the call gently. Then I cried in the little washroom, with the tap running so a customer at the door wouldn't hear.

The next morning, June came herself.

"I brought the bank record," she said.

She laid it beside her contract. The payment had gone to a new account owned by Roscoe's company.

"I believe you didn't get it," she said. "I still need bait."

"I can sell eight more tons at most. That won't cover everyone."

"Then someone gets left out."

"Yes. But I won't take their money while pretending otherwise."

June sat on an upturned crate.

"My deckhand says people are choosing sides by where they tie up. This will get ugly."

I wrote three columns on packing paper: orders, deposits, promised dates.

"Help me check this," I said.

We spent two hours calling buyers with their permission to share figures among the group. June knew which boats used different bait and which could buy whole fish elsewhere. She didn't promise anyone a favor.

For the first time, the trouble had edges I could see.

I put my own eight tons on a separate sheet. Those buyers had ordered from me, paid me, and received receipts with my account number. Their money was still in my business account, ready to buy their fish and binder.

"They don't lose their place because Roscoe sold it twice," I said.

June nodded, though her mouth stayed tight.

"Put that where everyone can read it. People fill empty space with whatever frightens them most."

Maren called at noon. She had filed my request for an order stopping Roscoe from blocking access or claiming authority over my lease. A hearing was set for the following week.

"Keep the door open for normal business," she said. "Don't argue on the dock."

I worked until dusk, cleaning and checking seals. June left with a copy of the order list, not a promise of bait.

When I stepped outside, a flatbed truck blocked the lane.

Its driver held a pickup slip for my yellow mixer.

At the bottom, under authorization, Roscoe had written: Family Owner.