Chapter 8 - The Work That Belonged to Me
I spent Friday morning reviewing the lender's proposal with Margaret and the accountant. The arrangement would protect the shop from immediate foreclosure while we established a repayment schedule, but it required independent oversight of the business finances. Dad would no longer manage the books, and Derek's company would have to repay a portion of the money it had received. Some equipment might be sold to cover obligations the shop could not reasonably carry.
It was not the clean victory I'd once imagined when I first learned the deed had been forged. It was a chance to keep the business operating without continuing the habits that had nearly destroyed it.
“Before you agree,” Margaret said, “you need to decide whether you want to run this company. You can challenge the transfer and still choose not to own the business. Those are separate decisions.”
I looked at the accountant's projections. The numbers were tight, but the shop had regular customers, experienced employees, and equipment that remained valuable when properly maintained. If we reduced unnecessary expenses and stopped advancing money to Derek's company, the business had a realistic chance of becoming stable. It would require discipline and a willingness to turn down work that promised more than it could deliver.
“I want to run it,” I said. “But I want the authority to do it properly.”
“Then the agreement needs to reflect that,” Margaret replied. “And you need to understand that ownership means responsibility for the legitimate debts, not just control of the assets.”
I signed the documents authorizing her to negotiate the restructuring, not the final agreement itself. The distinction was important. I wasn't surrendering my rights or committing to terms I hadn't reviewed. I was choosing to pursue a future in which the shop could stand on its own.
After the meeting, I went to the salvage company's office to complete the paperwork for the Beetle's recovery assessment. The county had approved the preliminary plan, provided that the crew used the required environmental precautions and stopped work if the contamination posed a risk. The recovery itself would depend on what the assessment revealed.
Derek met me there. He had sold his truck to raise his share of the initial costs, then borrowed a vehicle from a friend to get to the appointment. When I asked how he planned to get to work, he shrugged.
“Bus for now. It's not the end of the world.”
It was a small sacrifice, and I didn't praise him for it. Selling the truck did not undo what he'd done, but it meant he was beginning to absorb some of the inconvenience instead of passing it to me.
The recovery supervisor showed us photographs taken from the lakebank. The water was too murky to see the car clearly, but sonar had identified its position. The Beetle lay on its side in deeper water than the initial estimate suggested. The steel firebox was believed to be inside the front compartment, though nobody could guarantee it had remained secured.
“We can attempt the recovery,” the supervisor said, “but the car may be damaged beyond repair. We'll prioritize safe extraction, not preservation of the vehicle. If the box has opened, the documents may be compromised.”
I signed the authorization for the next stage. Derek signed his portion of the cost agreement, then stood beside me as the supervisor explained the schedule. We would not be allowed onto the embankment during the operation, and the crew would contact us when they had something to report.
Outside, Derek shoved his hands into his pockets. “I used to think you could fix anything.”
“I can fix some things.”
“Engines. Broken equipment. Other people's messes.”
I looked at him. “Those last two aren't the same.”
“I know.” He watched a truck pass on the road. “When I was younger, Dad always said you were the responsible one. I liked hearing it because it meant I didn't have to be. I could mess up, and everybody would say you were strong enough to handle it.”
His voice held no self-pity, only a reluctant recognition of how the arrangement had worked. I had resented being called responsible, but I'd also used the role to feel indispensable. If I was the person who could repair everything, then nobody could tell me I wasn't needed.
“I let it happen, too,” I said. “Not because it was fair, but because I thought if I kept helping, you'd eventually stop needing me to.”
Derek nodded slowly. “I'm sorry I made you feel like you had to earn your place.”
It was the closest he'd come to acknowledging the deeper injury beneath the car and the money. I couldn't offer him forgiveness on demand, but I could tell him the truth.
“I don't want you to need me less because you don't care about me. I want you to need me less because you're taking care of your own life.”
He looked at me for a long moment. “I don't know if I know how to do that yet.”
“Then start by learning.”
We drove separately back to the shop. That afternoon, I met with Luis and the other employees to explain the proposed restructuring. I told them the business would have independent financial oversight and that we would be reviewing costs before making any long-term commitments. I also told them that the goal was to preserve the work we could sustain, not to pretend the company had unlimited resources.
Luis asked whether I'd be taking over the books.
“Yes, with an outside accountant reviewing them.”
“And your father?”
“He won't be handling the finances.”
Luis absorbed that quietly. “Your grandfather would have liked that.”
“Maybe,” I said. “But I think he'd care more about whether we do the work honestly than who sits in which chair.”
That evening, Nathan and I sat on the floor of our living room, sorting wedding gifts into piles because we still hadn't bought shelves for the apartment. We found a set of kitchen knives, two mismatched serving bowls, and a small framed print from Claire. It showed a yellow Beetle parked beside a white chapel, an illustration she'd ordered months earlier as a joke about our planned getaway.
I laughed when I saw it, then felt the laugh catch in my throat.
Nathan sat beside me. “You can keep it if you want.”
“I want to keep it. I just don't know whether I can look at it without thinking about the lake.”
“Maybe that will change.”
I leaned my head against his shoulder. “I don't want the car to become the most important thing about this marriage.”
“It won't,” he said. “But you don't have to pretend it didn't matter.”
I placed the print on the shelf beside Granddad's photograph. The two images looked almost absurd together, one showing the car as a bright, uncomplicated symbol of freedom and the other showing the real man who had taught me to repair it. I couldn't control what the Beetle would look like if it came out of the water, but I could decide what it meant to me.
On Monday, the recovery crew began the operation. We waited at the shop while the supervisor sent updates, and I found myself unable to concentrate on the work in front of me. Derek arrived shortly before noon and sat across from me in the break room, his hands wrapped around a paper cup.
“I keep thinking about what I'll say if the box is ruined,” he admitted.
“You don't have to say anything.”
“I do, though. I want you to know I didn't mean for this to happen.”
“I believe you didn't plan to destroy the box. But you chose to push the car.”
He nodded. “I know.”
A little after two, the supervisor called. The Beetle had been brought close enough to the surface for the crew to assess it, and the firebox was still lodged inside the front compartment. The vehicle was badly damaged, but the box appeared intact from the outside.
They would need several more hours to remove it safely.
I looked at Derek, who had gone pale again, though this time he didn't rush to the window or ask me to promise everything would be all right. He simply waited with me.
May you like
The first thing we might recover from Lake Brier was not the money, the deed, or the future of the shop.
It was the chance to find out what had survived without pretending nothing had been lost.
