The Second Workshop Promise Finally Put Heath In A Chair

Cora had called while the movers were setting down the press. I had given her my new address, thinking she wanted to see the machines before she spoke to a lawyer.

Now she laid her folder on the feed table.

"Can I touch this?" she asked.

"The table? Yes."

She rested one hand on its worn edge.

"I paid for access to this. Twelve thousand six hundred dollars."

Her agreement was six pages long. Heath had signed all six.

Apparently, he could put a promise in writing when someone else was paying.

Cora owned a small building north of town, on the road toward Bosler. She had run a campground for years and wanted to start repairing shelter fabric in winter. Heath had offered to run her shop and supply the cutting line.

The agreement listed the same four machines I had just collected.

"He said he owned them free and clear," she said.

I showed her the purchase contract and release.

She read the dates twice.

"He took my payment a week before your last installment."

"Did he give you my name?"

She turned a page.

Pualani Aiona will supervise production and stand behind open orders.

Below that sentence, a blank line waited for my signature.

"He said you'd sign when the move was done," Cora said.

I looked at the blank space. He had planned my consent as if it were another piece of equipment he could load later.

"I won't sign this."

"I understand that now."

She asked for copies of my title papers. I called Ellen before sending them. Cora took her own agreement to a different lawyer that afternoon.

Before she left, she wrote her phone number on the folder. "If he says I agreed to something about you, call me first," she said.

By Monday, the eight customers wanted answers. Two fabric suppliers did, too. Heath had ordered $4,680 in canvas and binding tape, using my name for the billing contact.

I had not opened those credit accounts. One supplier had delivered goods. The other had held its shipment until someone confirmed the new address.

Ellen sent written disputes with my sample signature and the lockout date. I asked each supplier to preserve the original order messages.

"Don't throw anything away," I said. "Even if it looks like a duplicate."

On Tuesday, we met in Ellen's conference room. Heath came with his lawyer. Cora brought hers. Gail joined us with the ledger, and I set my chalk box beside my folder.

Heath gave the box a tired look.

"Is that meant to say something?"

"It holds my paper clips."

Ellen began with the eight orders.

"Twenty-three thousand four hundred dollars remains unpaid," she said. "Those customers need to know who was supposed to perform their work, where, and with whose equipment."

"It was a joint expansion," Heath said.

"Show us Pualani's approval."

He spread his hands.

"We talked."

"When?" I asked.

"Over the summer. About growing."

"I said we needed a second drying rack."

Cora slid her agreement across the table.

"You told me this was settled."

Heath's lawyer read the page, then leaned close to him. They spoke too softly for me to hear.

Gail opened her sheet of customer receipts.

"The deposits total $8,400. Your records show $2,640 still available. We need the statements behind the rest."

"Rent," Heath said. "Advertising. Normal costs."

"For which workshop?" Cora asked.

He rubbed his face.

The room went quiet enough that I heard sleet strike the window.

Finally, he looked at me.

"I promised to equip Cora's building. I needed your line there to start. The unpaid jobs would cover the next costs once they were finished."

"And where was I supposed to work?"

"I thought you'd come around. You always liked the work."

That was true. I liked it enough to have paid for my tools. He had mistaken that love for a rope he could pull.

"The customers hired your shop," Ellen said. "You accepted their deposits. Pualani did not sign these promises."

Heath's lawyer asked for a break.

When they returned, they agreed to produce the bank statements and send a correction to every customer and supplier. The eight jobs would be reviewed one by one for return of goods, cancellation, and refunds.

No one asked me to lend the line again.

Outside, Cora buttoned her green coat.

"He sold me a room full of somebody else's work," she said.

"You still have the room."

"Yes," she said. "And now I have a lawyer."

Ellen called me back inside. Heath's lawyer had left a proposed settlement, with a condition on its last page: I would have to deny the lockout ever happened.