The Old Loan Paid For A Cottage Instead Of Gold Coats

The records arrived in batches over the next six weeks.

Ellis asked for them through the case. When Emeka objected, the judge ordered production of the bank records and company books tied to the disputed purchases. We also filed for divorce and asked that the related money claims be handled without conflicting orders.

"There are two jobs here," Ellis said. "Untangle the business. End the marriage. We need clean records for both."

I moved into a small upstairs apartment near the warehouse. The first night, I slept on a mattress beside a lamp with no shade.

Nobody asked me where the dinner plates were.

I slept nine hours.

During the day, I did school uniform repairs on the machines Emeka had left behind. The inventory order allowed access to inspect the stock, but it did not yet let me rent it out. Ellis was seeking that next.

Every week without rentals cost money.

Patrice worked at a folding table beside my machines. I paid her bills in stages. She wrote down every hour, including one fifteen-minute call that ended when her office lost power.

"You shouldn't pay for me staring at a dead screen," she said.

One Tuesday, she brought the 2016 loan file and asked for the oldest envelopes in my box.

We found my deposit duplicate for $48,000. I had moved the loan money from our joint account into Moonwake's account at Emeka's request. The bank stamp was clear. So was the note I had written: expansion stock.

The bank records supplied in the case showed what happened next.

"Two days," Patrice said.

Moonwake received $48,000. Two days later, it paid $47,200 to a small building contractor. The other $800 went to a permit fee and bank charges.

No costume seller received a cent.

"Could the contractor have built storage?" I asked.

I still tried to find a fair answer for him. The habit made me tired.

Patrice turned over a copy of a paid building bill.

The work address was a cottage north of the railroad tracks in Biloxi. Emeka had inherited it from his uncle. He had told me it was too damaged to use and that selling it would cost more than keeping it.

The bill listed new plumbing, a kitchen, windows, and a small back porch.

"He fixed it," I said.

"With the money you spent seven years repaying."

I remembered those years in small sums. Shoes for $28 left on a shelf. A $140 dental visit put off until a tooth hurt. Cheap lining that pulled under my needle.

He had called it a tight season.

It had been a tight season only on my side of the table.

I found the last loan payment in my envelope for 2023. Beside it, I had written finished in small green letters. That night, I had cooked a special meal. Emeka had toasted our hard work, then left me to wash the plates.

More records showed rent flowing into Moonwake, then Lantern Pier. Patrice counted $31,800 left after documented property costs and taxes. Other rent had paid real expenses. She refused to call every incoming dollar profit.

"The exact loss matters," she said. "Being angry doesn't let us round up."

The cottage tenant was a retired bus driver. Through the lawyers, he supplied his lease and rent receipts. He had never heard of Gulf Hem or gold coats. He had paid Emeka for years and wanted to know whether he could stay until his lease ended.

"Tell him I don't want him put out," I told Ellis.

The tenant also had the first rental advertisement, dated January 2017. Its photograph showed the new porch.

My $48,000 had steps and railings.

Maren had not caused that loan. She had not even known us then. That mattered, though I wished it didn't. The affair had opened a door onto something older.

"I thought he changed," I told Patrice.

She set down her pencil.

"You found a part he kept covered."

That afternoon, Emeka asked to meet in the warehouse parking lot. Ellis told me I could decline. I chose to listen with the office door open and Patrice within hearing.

He brought flowers in wet paper.

"That cottage was for our retirement."

"Why did you charge our business for coats?"

"It was a way to move money."

"And make me pay it back."

"We were married. We had one future."

He held out the flowers.

"Where was my name on that future?" I asked.

He left them on my car.

The next morning, Colin sent Ellis a document Emeka said settled ownership once and for all. It was a release of my partnership share, dated two years earlier.

At the bottom was a signature that looked almost like mine.