He Offered Me Nine Thousand Dollars To Forget The Rest

Nolan's first written settlement offer arrived in a thick envelope.

He offered $9,000, the old van subject to its loan, and my personal tools. In return, I would sign away every claim against him, Prairie Lantern, and Celia.

He also wanted a statement saying the royalty dispute had been a misunderstanding.

Beatrice read that page over my shoulder.

"Nine thousand dollars buys a lot of misunderstanding."

"Apparently not mine."

Ruth asked what I wanted before she wrote back.

I had expected that question to be easy. It wasn't.

I wanted the last several years returned. I wanted a dentist bill to have been just a dentist bill. I wanted to remember my marriage without checking each kind act for a hidden charge.

None of that fit in an agreement.

So I wrote down what did.

A full accounting. Return of the money owed, with proper credit for actual bills. Clear control of my designs. An honest division of the studio debts. Legal fees addressed. No statement that I had imagined it.

"And a correction to the hotels," I added. "He told them the studio was bankrupt."

"We can request a joint factual notice," Ruth said.

That was something I could use.

I also asked Ruth to make sure clients' deposits stayed with their jobs. Two families had already paid for spring weddings. Neither had hired us to fund a divorce.

We opened a separate business account in the studio's name and moved the documented deposits under an agreed arrangement. I listed the delivery dates, order sizes, and amounts still due on one sheet. The next morning, I called both families and confirmed their ice. Keeping those promises steadied me more than answering Nolan ever had.

At Nolan's deposition, I sat beside Ruth while another lawyer asked him questions under oath. A court reporter typed every answer.

He wore the blue tie I had bought for an awards dinner where he had introduced himself as the creative half of our business.

"Who designed R-04?" Ruth asked.

"We worked as a team."

"Who drew the pattern?"

"Marisol did the drawing."

"Who carved the master?"

"She handled production."

"Who signed as creator and licensor?"

His lawyer asked for a short break.

Afterward, Nolan said my name.

Ruth showed him the change instruction and asked if he had signed it.

He said he couldn't recall.

She showed him the email carrying the attachment from his account.

"I handled paperwork with her permission."

"Permission to receive mail, or permission to sign her name and waive her statements?"

He stared at his tie.

"She didn't want details."

I had wanted details. I had asked over muddy loading docks, beside dish sinks, and in bed while he scrolled through his phone.

I stayed quiet. The reporter couldn't type a memory I hadn't spoken.

When Ruth asked whether he had told me about the $92,400 investment account, he said no.

That answer took one word.

Celia's deposition happened the following week. She called the $27,180 a fair share for helping build the mold business.

Ruth asked for her agreement with me.

There wasn't one.

She asked for records of work on the listed manufacturer orders.

Celia referred to the invoices.

Ruth placed my warranty email beside the $2,160 invoice.

"What booking service did you provide here?"

"Nolan gave me the figures."

"You sent the invoice under your name."

"I trusted my partner."

She had used that word about him in front of me once, while she still called herself only our agent. I had spent the drive home blaming myself for hearing it wrong.

Now the word was in a transcript.

Outside, Theo waited with his blue sharpener and a draft report. He had billed for each hour and explained each charge before doing more work. Ruth's bills came the same way.

I was learning that a question about money did not have to start a fight.

The studio's remaining real debts came to $31,700. Theo verified the rent arrears, van balance, supplies, and utilities. He found no evidence that the mold rights had ever belonged to Prairie Lantern.

The numbers were hard. They were also smaller than the ruin Nolan had described.

I arranged a payment plan with the landlord and kept taking jobs. Two hotel chefs agreed to book directly with me after their existing contracts ended.

One asked whether Nolan needed to approve my price.

"No," I said. "The quote comes from me."

I charged $1,650 for a wide ice bowl with a rim shaped like river reeds. When the deposit cleared, I printed the receipt and filed it myself.

Near closing time on Friday, Theo called.

A fresh bank response included an instruction to close Nolan's investment account and wire the entire cash balance to another account on Monday.

"How much?" I asked, though I knew.

"Ninety-two thousand four hundred dollars," he said. "I've sent it to Ruth."