1. Corporate Property #3
My grandmother would have appreciated that distinction. Years ago, a developer offered to buy several cottages along our street, including this one.
I remember sitting across from her at this same table while she read the offer. “They added another zero,” I told her, because at fourteen that seemed like the most important part.
She pushed the letter toward me and tapped the drawing of the development planned for our street. “Then they can afford to hear no.”
I look at the window above the sink now, the same one that still whistles whenever the wind turns east. Then I look back at the man on my screen.
Sigurd Eiriksson is still staring at me with those strange blue eyes. He is annoyingly compelling for someone I currently want to strangle.
I open a fresh search and type his name again. Whatever he wants with Saltweather, I intend to find out.
The front door bangs open hard enough to rattle the glass in the kitchen window. I look up as Hattie fights the wind long enough to get herself inside. She shoulders the door shut behind her.
Rain shines across her forehead and drips from the hem of her coat onto the linoleum. Hattie normally apologizes when somebody else bumps into her. Tonight, she crosses my kitchen without even taking off her wet shoes.
“Val, look at this.” Her hands are shaking as she pulls a laminated sheet from beneath her coat. She lays it across the maritime book beside my laptop.
The familiar company name is printed across the top. I recognize the format from the notices on the quay. This one has a property address beneath the logo and a deadline in heavy type.
“They’re locking the fish-market stalls,” Hattie says, watching me read. “Marta has until tomorrow to clear hers out.”
“Tomorrow?” I ask, checking the deadline again. Hattie nods and pushes damp hair away from her face.
“They started putting locks on the empty stalls as soon as everyone left the docks,” she says. “Marta argued with them, obviously, but they just handed her that.”
“Did she throw anything this time?” I ask. Hattie gives me a tired look that answers the question before she does.
“Not while I was there,” she says. “But I wouldn’t rely on that continuing.”
She’s right, and I can’t even blame Marta for it. If they are already locking businesses, we do not have time to fight this from Saltweather. I glance at Sigurd’s photograph still open on my laptop.
“I can’t fix this from here,” I say. Hattie follows my attention to the screen.
There is an address for Eiriksson Maritime headquarters. I check the clock above the stove and pull up the train schedule in a new tab.
An evening service into the city leaves soon, and the station is close enough that I can make it. Hattie sees the timetable appear and goes very still.
“Valerie,” she says, watching me check the departure time. I already know what she is going to say.
“I couldn’t get through to his office,” I tell her. “So I’m going to it.”
“You cannot just walk into a billionaire kraken’s headquarters and demand to see him.” Hattie plants both hands on the table. I close the corporate page and leave the train schedule open.
“I can certainly walk into the building,” I tell her. “What happens after that remains to be seen.”
“People like this have security, Val.” Hattie points at Sigurd’s photograph, clearly hoping it will frighten some sense into me.
“What if he says no?” she asks.
“Then he can refuse me in person.” When Hattie reaches across the table for my hand, I squeeze her fingers once before letting go.
I pull my canvas overnight bag from the hook beside the kitchen door. There isn’t much to pack for one night, and I have eighteen minutes before the train leaves.
A clean shirt, underwear, toothbrush, phone charger. More importantly, I add the folder I’ve been building across the table. It holds the Eiriksson notices, my research, relevant harbor documents, and photographs of Saltweather.
Marta is laughing behind her fish stall in one of them, her wings half-open as she gestures at someone outside the frame. In another, Nita sits cross-legged on the library carpet with a book spread across her lap.
I tuck both photographs into the folder and slide it into the bag. Hattie watches me zip it shut, worry still plain on her face.
“Call me when you get there,” she says. “And if they throw you out, you come home. You don’t pick a fight with security.”
“I never pick fights,” I tell her, adjusting the strap over my shoulder. “I present strongly worded objections.”
Hattie gives me a look but lets that pass. I’m grateful, because I have very little time left for another debate.
Tomorrow, if everything goes well, this kitchen will still be mine and Marta will still have a stall to open. That is enough reason to go.
I pull open the front door, and cold rain blows beneath the porch roof. Hattie follows me as far as the threshold while I shift the bag higher on my shoulder.
“What are you actually going to say if you get in?” she asks. I glance toward the wet road leading to the station.
“I’m going to tell him he owes me a library,” I say. “And a town.”