Chapter 6 - A Shadow Over the Auction
At one-thirty that afternoon, the main packing floor of Calloway Seafood was a hive of tense, anxious whispers. The forty processing workers stood huddled together near the eastern cutting tables, still wearing their yellow rubber aprons and white hairnets. Nobody was gutting fish. The conveyer belts were silent.
Standing atop the elevated wooden foreman’s catwalk was Gloria, dressed in a black tailored power suit, holding a clip microphone linked to the factory PA system. Tessa stood beside her, holding a new replacement tablet, her makeup immaculate, radiating an air of smug victory.
At the center of the loading bay stood three slick corporate men in charcoal wool coats—representatives from North Point Capital, holding leather portfolio binders and looking around the weathered timber smokehouse with visible disdain.
“Listen up, everyone!” Gloria’s amplified voice boomed across the corrugated steel rafters. “As you know, the seafood market has suffered severe downturns over the past two quarters. Calloway Seafood has carried this workforce out of Christian charity for far too long. As of five o’clock today, operations at this facility will officially cease.”
A collective gasp rippled through the gathered workers.
Old Bill Harper stepped forward, his knuckles white around his filleting knife. “You swore to Wren this morning that if she married Whitaker and gave up her shares, you’d keep all forty families employed! She signed your papers!”
Tessa leaned toward the microphone with an icy smirk. “Wren signed her own surrender, Bill. What my mother does with her private company is none of your business. North Point Capital has acquired the property to redevelop it into luxury waterfront condominiums. You all have two hours to clear your personal lockers.”
Marge Ellison broke into tears, burying her face in her apron. “My husband’s dialysis, Gloria... you promised us our health insurance would run through the winter!”
“Then your husband should have saved his money,” Gloria replied without a flicker of remorse. “Gentlemen from North Point, if you’ll follow me into the main office, we can execute the final closing documents and hand over the keys.”
“I wouldn't uncap those fountain pens just yet, Gloria.”
A calm, resonant voice cut through the cavernous packing room, echoing off the iron smokehouse kilns.
Every head turned toward the heavy double delivery doors at the rear of the bay.
Walking through the threshold was Wren. She wore a tailored wool coat in deep navy, her hair pulled back into an elegant knot, her posture commanding and absolute. Beside her walked Jonah. He was no longer dressed in grease-stained deck bibs. He wore an impeccably cut bespoke charcoal overcoat, a slate-gray cashmere sweater, and the heavy platinum signet ring gleamed openly on his left hand.
Flanking them were two uniformed deputies from the Cumberland County Sheriff’s Department, along with a middle-aged man in a sharp briefcase-carrying three-piece suit who looked like he billed five figures an hour.
Tessa let out a loud, mocking laugh from the catwalk. “Look who crawled back! Did the fisherman’s shack not have running water, Wren? Are you here to beg for a severance check?”
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The lead representative from North Point turned, adjusting his gold-rimmed spectacles to look at Jonah. His face suddenly lost all color. The pen slipped from his hand, clattering against the concrete floor.
“M-Mr. Whitaker?” the corporate man stammered, his knees visibly trembling. “What... what are you doing in Maine, sir?”
