Years Offshore, I Turned Toward Spring Ridge

Chapter 1: The Signature

I had one boot on the boatyard floor when Willa slid the agreement across the counter.

The paper stopped against my hand. A blue tab marked the signature page. The ink beside my name was dark and confident, with the long crossbar I used to put through my capital H.

I had never signed it.

"Welcome home," my sister said.

Rain ran off my jacket and gathered in a black puddle at my feet. Behind her, the boatyard's old windows rattled in their frames. I had spent seven years offshore, first surveying pipelines, then inspecting foundations for wind farms. I knew what wind could do to a steel platform. I knew what salt could do to a hinge. I had forgotten how small our office looked when I stood in it again.

"Tell me that's a draft," I said.

"It's an offer."

"You told me the yard was having a bad month."

"It's been a bad year."

She tapped the paper. The proposed buyer, Tideglass Resorts, would acquire the boatyard's waterfront lease and the narrow strip of access road behind it. In exchange, it would pay off the yard's debts, buy out our father's old equipment, and provide Willa with a consulting contract.

There was no mention of the people who worked here. No mention of the repair slips or the public launch ramp. Nothing about the local fishermen who stored their skiffs beneath our roof when winter storms rolled in.

"Where did this signature come from?"

"I sent you the documents."

"You sent me a text that said, 'We need to talk about the yard.'"

"I sent the link after that."

"I was on a vessel with no signal."

"Then you could have called when you came back in."

I looked at her. My suitcase stood by the door, still zipped. I had driven straight from the airport to the yard because Willa's message had said she needed me here. She had not said she had already put my name on a sale agreement.

"Did you sign it?" I asked.

Her jaw tightened.

"Did you?"

"You've been gone seven years, Mara."

"That doesn't answer me."

"You left the business to me."

"I left town for work. I never gave you my share."

The family company, Hart Marine, belonged to the two of us equally. Our father had put the yard into a small trust after his second heart attack, with a clause requiring both of us to approve any sale of the waterfront lease. At the time, we had laughed at him for being dramatic. He'd said he wanted us to have a choice when he wasn't around to make it for us.

Willa kept her eyes on the agreement. "The bank wants its money. We're three months behind."

"How much?"

"Enough."

"That isn't a number."

"It's a number you don't need to carry."

The answer landed harder than the paper had.

I pulled out the chair opposite her and sat down. "I'm here now. Show me the accounts."

"There isn't time to go through every line."

"Then there's time for me to find the line that says Tideglass gets our shoreline for less than it's worth."

She leaned back. A streak of grease marked one cuff of her work shirt. I used to wipe those marks from her sleeves when we were kids, before she learned to tell me to stop.

"The offer expires Friday," she said. "They've already covered the yard's insurance payment. If we sign, the staff gets severance and the town gets a new seawall."

"Where's that in the contract?"

"It's in their development plan."

"Plans aren't contracts."

Her mouth went flat. "And your promises aren't invoices."

I looked again at the signature. The H was close. The loop on the r was almost right. Whoever had copied it knew my name well enough to make a decent attempt.

That was worse than a stranger forging it.

I folded the page carefully and put it back on the counter.

"I'm not signing anything today."

"You don't have to. You already did."

Willa picked up the agreement and tucked it into a blue folder.

"I didn't."

"Then prove it before Friday."

She went through the connecting door toward the workshop. I heard a tool drop against the concrete, then the scrape of a rolling cart.

I stayed at the counter until the rain stopped. When I finally carried my suitcase upstairs to the office loft, I found Dad's old brass key on the windowsill, where someone had left it beside a stack of unpaid invoices.

I took the key in my hand. It felt heavier than I remembered.

Below me, Tideglass had put stakes along the harbor road.