The Supply Invoice Paid For A Loan I Never Signed

Naomi spread three pages across the archive's fitting table.

“First, the bank payment. Then the ledger entry. Then the actual bill.”

The ledger said lace and hair supplies, $4,800.

The bank showed the same amount sent to Alder Quay.

The bill named Petra alone. It charged $3,600 for personal loan interest and late fees, plus $1,200 for appraisal and account costs.

Not one dollar had bought hair.

“Could it be a mistake?” Ben asked.

He had been cutting clean tissue for the crates. He still held the scissors.

“One wrong box can be a mistake,” Naomi said. “We need to ask about this whole set.”

She was careful. I appreciated that. I wanted a review I could trust even when the answer hurt me.

She sent the pages to both lawyers, with questions about who had approved the payment and why it had been recorded as supplies.

“Can you change the entry?” I asked.

“I'll preserve it first,” Naomi said. “Then make a correcting entry. We need to see both.”

She saved the bank record and bill beside the ledger page. I watched her name the files with dates and amounts. Nothing disappeared when she put things right.

I wished fixing the rest of the business could be that plain. Still, I could follow what she had done, and so could someone who had never met either of us.

Then she opened the payroll screen.

“Your hours are all entered,” she told the apprentices. “Friday's wages are covered under the temporary plan.”

Lara sat down with a small, tired sound.

“My landlord doesn't accept temporary plans.”

“He can accept your regular payment,” Naomi said.

Once the apprentices returned to their work, she showed me the rest of the review.

The business had paid its rent and taxes. There was no second hidden bank account in the records she had received. Our trouble was serious, but it had edges.

I needed to hear that.

For two days, every blank space had looked like a hole deep enough to swallow my life.

At noon, Vanessa called.

Petra's loan application had arrived through her lawyer. The stated use of the money was a down payment on a small condo she planned to renovate and sell.

“She told me she was saving for a bigger shop,” I said.

“This application names a personal investment.”

“Did the lender ask about me?”

“Yes. There is a question about other ownership claims.”

Petra had answered none.

She had also signed a statement that all pledged items belonged to her or to a company she alone controlled.

Vanessa paused.

“The lender's lawyer has asked for your original purchase records at the next hearing.”

“They've had copies.”

“Now they want to examine the originals.”

I took the gray box off a high shelf in the fitting room.

Ben watched me open it.

“All this time,” he said. “You had that.”

“All this time, I hoped I wouldn't need it.”

He touched the edge of Schedule A without lifting it.

“She made it sound like you didn't understand business.”

“I understood enough to keep the receipt.”

That afternoon, Petra called the workroom. Franklin put her on speaker only after telling her who was present.

“I can explain the payment,” she said.

Naomi opened her notebook.

“Please do.”

“It supported the value of our tools. The appraisal benefited everyone.”

“And the $3,600 in interest and late fees?”

“I was keeping the collection available to the shop.”

I looked at the empty shelf for BX-044.

“You couldn't keep my property available by borrowing against it.”

“You never would have agreed.”

Naomi stopped writing for a moment.

Petra heard the silence.

“That's not what I meant.”

“You can send an explanation through your lawyer,” I said.

Then I ended the call.

There was no pleasure in hearing her trapped by her own answer. There was relief. I could stop searching my memory for some talk in which I might have nodded without understanding.

She had known I would refuse.

By evening, we had only two days before the archive's decision deadline. The fitted wigs lay covered on tables. We could start cleaning and checking lace, but I would not begin final blocking with a piece missing and no signed rental.

Franklin brought tea in four plain mugs.

“The board asked if another block could be made,” he said.

“Yes. With a fresh fitting, materials, and time. Forty-four holds adjustments we promised to have ready.”

“That's what I told them.”

We drank standing up.

At six, Vanessa forwarded Petra's response to the court order. It identified a packing broker and included an email authorizing release of a carton from rented storage in Waterford.

The broker's attached photograph showed a pale block with a white tag.

The tag read DISPLAY SAMPLE, NO FITTING VALUE.

I enlarged the picture until I saw the little flat place above its right ear.

Someone had priced my missing block at $60.