The Driver's Carbon Copy Led Us To A Collector's Deposit

The driver was named Ellis Ward. He owned his truck, paid his own insurance, and wanted his $225 hauling fee.

"I didn't buy anything," he said. "I moved a crate."

Lucien came away from the kiln fast.

"That order belongs to me."

Ellis held it against his chest.

"It's my copy. You told me to keep it for taxes."

Petra gave a tiny nod. She liked a man who kept his copy.

Simone asked Ellis whether he would speak with her privately. He agreed. She took photographs of the order with his permission, then wrote down his number.

The deputy stayed until the buyers left. Simone arranged new locks for the trustee and gave me a key under my existing appointment. Lucien had to remove his folding table while I watched.

He folded it badly. One leg snapped back and hit his shin.

"Enjoy this," he said. "You won't enjoy paying my lawyer."

I picked his price stickers off the racks after he left. They tore into little yellow scales. Removing them took longer than putting them there had.

By lunch, we knew where the window had gone.

Hollis Vale, a private collector outside Madisonville, had agreed to pay $72,000. He had sent a $12,000 deposit to Lucien. The remaining $60,000 was due after an inspection and proof of clear ownership.

The window sat in a rented storage bay while Hollis had a wall prepared at his house.

"Seventy-two thousand," I said.

My cousin had offered to sell every loose sheet left in the building for $14,800. He had already picked out the thing worth the most.

Simone sent Hollis notice of the trust's claim and a demand that he keep the window safe. She copied the storage manager. Nobody could pretend they had not been told now.

Hollis called her office that afternoon. I listened on speaker with her permission.

"Mr. Boudreaux represented himself as the sole owner," he said. "I have a signed agreement."

"Please send it," Simone said.

"Am I supposed to lose my deposit?"

"You should preserve your claim against the person you paid. The trust didn't receive your money."

"I bought in good faith."

"Then help us establish what you were shown."

He agreed to suspend installation while his attorney reviewed the papers. He would not agree to hand over the window that day.

"I need something stronger than a phone call," he said.

I understood that. He had a wall waiting. I had an empty rack. We both needed paper strong enough to stand between us and Lucien.

I asked Simone to leave every conversation in writing afterward. She sent short letters confirming the calls. Each one named the speaker, the date, and what had been agreed. I started a binder with plain cardboard tabs.

His agreement arrived as a scan.

The description matched S-17, down to its height of forty-six inches. Lucien had listed its origin as an unused church panel acquired by Grandma in 1986.

It had never belonged to a church. Grandma had made it in 1993, the year I turned seven. She had let me choose one amber border piece. I had chosen a lumpy scrap with three seed bubbles trapped inside.

"That little bit will tell on you forever," she had said.

I could still find those bubbles with my eyes closed, three small bumps beneath the cool skin of the glass.

The wrong history mattered. Somebody might claim two similar windows existed. We needed to prove which one the crate held.

I found Grandma's work notebook in the flat drawer. It held a rubbing of the border, her cut list, and a photograph of my small hand pointing to that piece.

Across the page she had written: NADINE CHOSE THE UGLY GOLD. PERFECT.

I laughed once, then cried so hard Petra moved the notebook away from my wet hands.

"We can have feelings after we make copies," she said.

We made copies first. Then she sat beside me until I could breathe.

That evening I spread packing felt over the workbench. If the window came home, it would need a safe place. I checked the old soldering iron, cleaned my grozing pliers, and cut fresh card to support the border.

Working kept me from calling Lucien and asking what part of our childhood had been worth $12,000 in advance.

My phone rang while I swept.

It was Simone.

"Hollis sent another attachment," she said. "A completion certificate. It states that the trust released the window for sale."

"The trust never released it."

"I know. It also says the custodian inspected it and approved removal."

I put down the broom.

"Whose name?"

She took a breath.

"Yours, Nadine. There's a signature under your name."