The Borrowed Signature Carried A Mark He Forgot To Cut

Pilar's email came while Micah swept foam curls from the floor.

The attachment was called Contract Transfer Approval. It said I had agreed to move the ferry order, its money, and its remaining payments to Cross Coastal Cushions.

At the bottom was my signature.

I stared at it long enough for Micah to stop sweeping.

"Is that yours?"

"The handwriting is mine. I never signed that page."

A small black triangle sat under the last letter of Baines. I knew that mark. It was the torn corner of a repair estimate that had lain under a form when we scanned it after the hurricane.

I opened my storm folder. There was the old repair approval, with my signature and the same black triangle.

The old form gave a builder leave to replace our damaged wall. It said nothing about a ferry or a second shop.

I sent both pages to Ruth.

"Don't call it a forgery in a public post," she said. "Let me ask his lawyer for the original."

"I wasn't going to post anything."

"Good. Send Pilar a clear written denial. Keep it short."

I typed that I had not signed or approved the transfer. I attached the temporary court order and asked that payments continue to the company account named there.

Pilar answered in six minutes.

No transfer accepted. Our contract also requires our written consent. You have it for the existing shop only.

I read that twice.

At lunch, Emmett called.

"Why are you turning a simple form into a federal case?"

"Send Ruth the original with my wet signature."

"It was an office shortcut."

"Put that in writing."

"You want everything in writing now?"

"Yes."

He sent an email ten minutes later.

I reused your scanned signature because you always make paperwork slow. We had already discussed moving the work. Stop confusing the customer.

We had never agreed to that move. His own email now said he had reused a signature. I saved it with the full message details and forwarded it to Ruth.

His lawyer sent a correction to Pilar's office that afternoon. The transfer page had not been signed by me for that purpose and should not be used. Ruth asked that the correction be preserved with the false page.

"Why keep both?" Micah asked when I printed them.

"Because the second one makes sense only if you know why it was needed."

I put the pages in order, oldest first. It was the same way I stacked a cushion's pieces before I sewed. If one layer went missing, the whole thing could look right until someone put weight on it.

For once, my habit of keeping old scraps had saved more time than his shortcut.

That afternoon, Bea Nance came in carrying the receipt for her sailboat cockpit cushions.

"Emmett said you were done," she said. "I've been trying to get my deposit back."

Her $2,100 was part of the cash he had emptied from our account. The job had been due after the ferry order. I had even saved her fabric sample, a faded blue square she wanted matched.

"I'm still here," I said.

"I see that. But I booked someone else."

She looked ashamed, as if she had hurt my feelings by needing a place to sit on her own boat.

I brought out her order folder.

"You cancelled because our partner said we couldn't do the work. You'll get the full deposit back."

"Today?"

That one word was harder than any speech Emmett had made.

"I can't pay it today. The account is under court safeguards. Let me give you a written refund date after I check the cash plan with my lawyer."

"I don't need another promise that floats away."

"I know."

Ruth reviewed the budget that evening. After the final ferry payment, the shop could refund Bea without touching the money needed to finish the job. I wrote the amount and date into an agreement and took it to her porch myself.

She read it under the yellow porch light.

"You drove across town for a piece of paper?"

"You drove to the shop for one first."

She signed the copy I kept.

Back at work, Micah had sorted the next twelve covers by number. I set Bea's signed refund agreement in a red folder. Red meant unfinished business now, too.

"You ever wish you'd just taken his offer?" Micah asked.

"No. I wish he hadn't made it necessary to refuse."

We worked until the light outside turned the color of pewter. My good machine ran smoothly again. The second batch began to look like something that could leave the shop.

Then Ruth called with the accountant's first report.

"He didn't just spend the ferry advance," she said. "We can now trace the other $13,740. And his lawyer wants a meeting before we file the full report."