My elder sister ripped my work shirt open on the crowded deck of the Oakhaven Yacht Club right in front of six visiting Navy officers.
The revelation about Victoria’s pier felt like a heavy stone in my gut. I had proof, real, scientific proof, of her recklessness. But first, I needed to make a living. My padlocked shop, the severed power, and the freezing temperatures had put a chokehold on my income.
I still had two pressing commercial engine overhauls waiting: a deep-sea trawler and a charter fishing boat, both needing their engines rebuilt before the spring season. Without my shop, my specialized tools, and my bench space, I was stuck.
I loaded a few hand tools into my truck and drove north to Narragansett, hitting up three different neighboring boatyards. I’d worked with some of these guys before, borrowing space, lending a hand. We were all part of the same marine community.
At the first yard, O’Malley’s Shipwrights, old man O’Malley met me at the door, his usual gruff cheer absent.
“Caleb. Heard you were having trouble, son.” He rubbed his chin, avoiding my eye.
“Yeah, Victoria’s being Victoria,” I said, trying for a light tone. “Just need a temporary bench, couple weeks. Got two major overhauls lined up.”
O’Malley shook his head. “Can’t help you, Caleb. Not right now.”
My stomach tightened. “Why not? You’ve always had space.”
He leaned in, lowering his voice. “Victoria called, Caleb. Said you stole fifteen thousand dollars worth of specialized brass fittings from her estate storehouse before your shop was padlocked. Said she’d press charges if anyone aided you.”
My jaw dropped. “$15,000? That’s insane! She just made that up.”
“Maybe,” O’Malley said, shrugging, “but I can’t afford a lawsuit right now. Business is slow. You understand.”
I didn’t understand. Not really. But I nodded and left.
At the second boatyard, Saltwater Marine, the manager, a wiry man named Frank, barely let me finish my sentence.
“Dempsey? Yeah, I got a call,” he said, his face a mask of annoyance. “Victoria Dempsey. Said you were a thief. And a liability. My insurance wouldn’t cover you even if I wanted to.”
“Liability for what?” I demanded, my voice rising. “For saving fourteen men on a submarine?”
Frank just gave me a look that mixed pity and fear. “Look, I got enough on my plate. Good luck, Caleb.”
The third yard, Bayview Boatworks, was no different. The owner, a woman named Carol, was apologetic but firm. “Caleb, I respect your work. But Victoria made it clear. Anyone who gives you space, she’ll make their life hell. Said she’d report me for harboring stolen property.”
“She’s lying, Carol!”
“I know,” Carol said, her voice softer, “but I can’t fight Victoria Dempsey. Nobody around here can. Not with her money and her lawyers.”
I walked out of Bayview, the cold wind seeming to pierce through my clothes. Victoria hadn’t just padlocked my shop; she’d blackballed me across every shipyard employer in Rhode Island. She had effectively cut off my income, my reputation, and my entire livelihood. She was systematically dismantling my life, piece by agonizing piece.
She had trapped me. And she was tightening the noose.
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