Chapter 6 - The Things We Could Still Save
Derek arrived at the machine shop on Monday morning carrying two coffees and a folder of bank statements. He had called first, asking whether I would meet him there, and I had agreed on the condition that he bring whatever records he had promised Margaret. When I opened the door, he held out one of the coffees without attempting a smile.
“Black, two sugars,” he said. “I remembered.”
I took it because refusing a cup of coffee wouldn't prove anything. “The records?”
He handed me the folder. Inside were statements from Derek's company account, copies of loan agreements, and a list of payments made to the private lenders. Some payments had gone toward legitimate business expenses. Others had covered interest on earlier loans, and several large transfers had no explanation attached. The numbers were worse than I'd expected, but they weren't evidence of a criminal scheme by themselves. They were evidence of a business that had been kept alive by money it couldn't repay.
“Margaret needs these,” I said.
“I know. I've already emailed her copies. These are the originals I have.”
I set the folder beside the files Dad had brought the previous day. Derek remained standing, studying the workbench where I'd once spent entire Saturdays rebuilding the Beetle's engine. He picked up a small socket wrench, turned it in his fingers, and put it back exactly where he'd found it.
“I used to think you worked on that car because you wanted to prove something,” he said. “That you could do a man's job better than everybody else.”
“I worked on it because I liked it.”
“I know that now.”
I wanted to tell him that he should have known it years ago, but the words felt too easy. He had spent most of his life seeing my competence as a challenge to his place in the family. I had spent most of mine hoping that if I worked hard enough, he'd eventually see me as a person rather than a competitor.
“What made you finally look at the records?” I asked.
Derek pulled out a chair. “The lender called me on Saturday. They wanted to know why I hadn't disclosed that the shop's ownership was disputed. I told them Dad had handled everything. They asked whether I'd reviewed the documents myself.” He looked at his hands. “I hadn't. I didn't want to know.”
That was the first answer he had given me that didn't disguise his responsibility behind Dad's decisions.
“Not knowing doesn't make the debt disappear,” I said.
“No. It just means I let other people carry it.”
He told me he'd contacted the salvage company again. The diver had inspected the lake from the bank and explained that recovering the Beetle would require specialized equipment, an environmental assessment, and permission to work near the contaminated runoff. The firebox might have survived, but nobody could promise that its contents would remain legible. The estimated cost was substantial, and the company needed a written authorization before proceeding.
“I'm willing to pay half,” Derek said. “I'll sell my truck if I have to.”
“Don't make promises you can't afford.”
“I can afford half if I sell the truck.”
“And then how will you get to work?”
He looked away. “I'll figure it out.”
I closed the folder. I wanted the car recovered, but I wasn't willing to let another impulsive decision become my responsibility. Derek had a habit of making dramatic offers when he felt guilty, then discovering that somebody else had to manage the practical details.
“Let Margaret handle the recovery arrangements,” I said. “If the costs are reasonable and the county approves the work, we'll divide them according to what we can actually pay. You can start by giving her a written statement about what happened that morning.”
He nodded, and I saw disappointment cross his face before he concealed it. He'd wanted a chance to prove himself through one grand gesture. I was asking him to do the slower, less satisfying work of telling the truth and accepting limits.
When he left, he took neither coffee nor the socket wrench. I watched his truck disappear beyond the fence, then returned to the records. Margaret had arranged for an independent accountant to review the shop's transactions. The first report would take several days, but the lender had agreed to maintain its temporary hold while the ownership dispute was examined.
By noon, I had made a list of what the shop needed immediately: payroll, insurance, utilities, and enough working capital to keep our existing orders on schedule. Several employees depended on the business, and none of them had chosen to become collateral in my family's arguments. Whatever happened to the property, I wasn't going to let their livelihoods become another bargaining chip.
That afternoon, I met the employees in the break room. I told them there was a dispute over the property records and that our attorney was working with the lender. I didn't explain the forged signature or the car in the lake. Those details belonged to the legal process, not to a room full of people who needed to know whether they'd have work next week.
“Are we closing?” asked Luis, our senior machinist, who had worked beside Granddad before I'd even finished high school.
“No,” I said. “We're continuing current orders while the review proceeds. I'll tell you if that changes.”
He studied me for a moment, then nodded. “Your grandfather would've wanted the machines running.”
After the meeting, Luis stayed behind. He told me Granddad had once refused a lucrative contract because the customer wanted the shop to falsify a quality report. The decision had cost them money, but Granddad had insisted that a bad part was a bad part, regardless of who was paying.
“You're doing the right thing by checking the records,” Luis said. “But don't let this place eat your whole life. Your grandfather made that mistake himself.”
I carried that warning home with me. Nathan and I had been married only days, yet every conversation seemed to circle back to my father, my brother, or the shop. I had begun answering emails during dinner and waking before dawn to check the bank's messages. When Nathan asked whether I wanted to take a walk after work, I'd said I couldn't spare the time.
He hadn't argued, but the disappointment in his face stayed with me.
That evening, I closed the laptop at seven. We walked to a small diner a few blocks from our apartment, where the waitress brought us coffee without asking and Nathan ordered the pie we usually shared. For the first time since the wedding, we talked about something other than documents.
“I don't want you to stop caring about the shop,” Nathan said. “I just don't want your family to take your marriage along with everything else.”
I reached across the table and touched his wrist. “I'm still learning how to be responsible without becoming responsible for everybody.”
“Then learn it with me.”
The words settled gently, without a demand attached. When we returned home, Margaret had emailed an update. The lender had confirmed that no final transfer of ownership had been recorded, and the accountant had identified transactions requiring further review. The shop was not safe yet, but it had not been lost.
There was one other message, from the salvage company. They could schedule the recovery assessment for Thursday, provided the county approved the environmental plan and someone signed the authorization.
May you like
I forwarded the email to Margaret and called Derek. We agreed to meet there together when the assessment took place, not because I trusted him again, but because the car had belonged to our grandfather, and the truth about what happened to it belonged to both of us.
For the first time since Lake Brier, we had something to do that didn't require either of us to pretend the past was different.
