The Fee Ledger That Changed When The Owner Asked Questions

The license cost $4,800 a year, with the daily charges added on top.

It let Lenora close the ramp whenever retail traffic required it. It also said I gave up any claim under an earlier access agreement.

I read that line twice.

“She wants me to rent what I already have,” I told Mara.

“And sign away the proof that you have it.”

Mara asked June who had approved the notice. June replied that she had approved no such thing. Lenora had used the company letterhead without sending her a copy.

By Monday morning, June was in Lewes.

She wore muddy walking shoes and carried a binder with bent corners. Lenora met her outside the store with coffee and a bright greeting.

“We'll clear up this little tenant problem,” Lenora said.

June did not take the cup.

“Let's start with why you called him a tenant.”

We sat in the small office behind the souvenir racks. Mara joined by speakerphone. I kept my hands on my knees.

Lenora opened her computer.

“His family has always paid us,” she said.

She turned the screen toward June. A ledger listed an annual $240 payment under “Workshop Rent.”

I recognized the amount.

“That's shared trash collection.”

“It's recorded as rent.”

“Show the bill.”

She moved the cursor but did not click.

I had brought my own folder. My grandfather's last bill and my two later bills all said the same thing: shared refuse service, annual contribution, $240.

June compared them with the screen.

“Who changed this description?” she asked.

“It's just how I track it.”

“It changes what the payment means.”

For once, Lenora had no ready greeting to cover the silence.

June asked her bookkeeper, Celia Grant, to review the workshop account and every new waterfront fee. Celia worked for the property company, two days a week. She arrived after lunch carrying a calculator in a cloth bag.

I thought the lock might come off that day.

It did not.

Lenora said only her insurer could approve public use near the deck. June asked for the insurer's written direction.

“It's a general requirement,” Lenora said.

“Then get it in writing.”

Mara told June that leaving the lock in place would keep adding to the harm. June said her own lawyer needed to review the route before she moved anything.

I understood the sentence. I hated the extra day inside it.

“The strip is too narrow to use safely,” I told her. “Even with the gate open.”

June looked along the deck rail. For the first time, she seemed to see the boat that would have to pass through that gap.

“I'll have a surveyor mark the recorded route,” she said.

“Please give Mara the date.”

I wanted a promise I could put on the calendar. I had already moved the next week's lumber delivery because I could not risk paying for wood while more students asked for refunds. June wrote down my lawyer's number, then called from beside the locked gate while I was still there.

Back in my shop, I worked on a cracked rib in a customer's old canoe. Steam softened the new ash strip. I bent it slowly against the form and held it while it cooled.

There were things I could still make fit.

Near dusk, Celia called.

“Did you agree to any daily charge?” she asked.

“No.”

“Did you ever pay one?”

“No.”

“Good. Please email that to me.”

Her review found that Lenora's invoice dates had been entered together, after our first argument. There was no approved fee schedule and no signed agreement.

The bills had been listed as money owed to the company. Celia removed them from the active balance while June's lawyer reviewed the dispute.

She sent me a statement showing zero due.

I printed it, but Mara warned me that clearing a balance did not clear a path.

“We need an order or a signed agreement that protects access,” she said.

I authorized her to file for urgent relief in the Court of Chancery in Georgetown. We reviewed my statement line by line. Three canceled classes. Eighteen refunds at $90 each. A locked gate. A narrowed route. No alternate place to launch from my property.

I signed beneath the statement that the facts were true.

It felt more serious than signing the deed had felt. The deed had been a gift. This was a choice to make someone answer.

That night Lenora taped another notice to my door.

This one said I owed $2,030 for fourteen days and would face collection costs. She had crossed out the printed company payment address and written her store office beneath it.

I photographed it before taking it down.

At nine the next morning, Mara called.

“The court has set our emergency hearing,” she said. “Bring the original easement packet. Amos needs to come too.”