Bernice Counted The Returned Blocks Before I Accepted The Keys

On Monday morning, Gavin's rented van backed up to the shop.

Bernice stood inside the door with the old green binder. June held the new inventory sheet. I waited beside the rack, wearing my red pincushion again.

We had agreed on a supervised return before the closing funds could be released.

Gavin carried in the first crate without looking at me.

"All there," he said.

Bernice opened it.

"Then counting won't hurt."

She lifted out the blocks one by one. Eighteen canvas heads, each with LL-17 on its base. Six stands followed. Nothing was broken. The block with the split cover still had my safety pin in it.

June checked each item. Bernice signed the receipt, and Gavin signed beneath her.

I countersigned only after I had checked the count myself.

The keys came last. Shop door. Office. Stock cupboard. Gavin put them on the counter in a small heap.

"I suppose you'll change everything," he said.

"The locks today. The bank access at closing."

He waited, perhaps for a speech about what else I might change.

I handed him his copy of the return sheet.

At Leena's office, the full $36,000 was held for the purchase. My savings and the loan had both arrived. The closing statement sent $18,000 to Gavin and $18,000 to the company for the obligations he had agreed to pay.

We signed the transfer of his sixty percent. I already owned forty. Now I held the whole business, along with its work and debts.

I read the last page before I put down my name.

Gavin's signed client correction went out through the lawyers that afternoon. It stated that I hadn't resigned or taken the missing stock. It confirmed that all five deposits would count toward the original orders.

Two days later, the court entered our consent judgment. It recognized my original ownership interest and closed the claims under our settlement, including his claim about the blocks.

I put that copy beside the buy-in acknowledgment.

One paper showed where I had begun. The other showed he could no longer argue me out of it.

Celia helped close the old account period and open a clean one. The restored funds covered the $3,600 accounting bill and put the diverted deposits back on the proper books. The company also repaid my separate $2,680 supplier advance.

She worked with the tax preparer to correct the company records and the filings affected by Gavin's entries. I reviewed the finished copies. My share appeared from the date I had bought it.

My $4,200 legal bill stayed my expense. I paid it. The loan payment went onto my monthly budget.

Nothing about those numbers felt like a fairy tale. They felt possible.

We checked every client's balance and sent a statement showing the original deposit. Nobody had to pay the same deposit twice. The last of those five orders left Newark on its promised date.

Gavin cleared out the Kearny room the next month. His lawyer confirmed that our name and order records had been removed from its materials. He sold the equipment he'd bought and ended that shop's lease.

I heard he'd started taking freelance fitting work. That was his work to find. He had no key, no bank authority, and no vote in mine.

I kept the company name. Lantern Lace had stood on good work before it stood on his bad decisions.

Under it, I added a small door card.

Rosalia Vitale, Owner.

June watched me level it.

"Do I still turn in hours on Friday?" she asked.

"Friday. And now you get a copy without having to ask."

She grinned.

I hired a bookkeeper for four hours a month. Every order got a folder with its deposit, head chart, supply costs, and shipping record. I checked the bank statement myself.

When a payment arrived, I knew which promise it belonged to.

Bernice came by on a wet Thursday before her company headed west. She carried the green binder, though we no longer needed to open it.

"Want me to leave this here?" she asked.

"I'd rather you kept it."

"Good answer."

I showed her the repaired cover on the returned block. The seam lay flat now. No safety pin. No loose thread waiting for a free hour.

"You finally fixed it," she said.

"I had time."

She sat in my old black chair while I checked a wig for her next tour. Outside, rain slid down the window. A bus sighed at the corner, and someone carried warm bread past our door.

I tested the ear tabs, brushed the nape, and held the lace against the light. Then I cut the three yellow basting stitches and dropped the threads into a white saucer.

"Ready?" Bernice asked.

"Ready."

Before I turned out the lamp, the printer stirred. Her office had sent next spring's order, already approved. I laid it flat beside my red pincushion, with the three yellow threads resting in the saucer.