by Penny Reid
I clicked my tongue, my heart aching. I felt so sorry for these folks. Nancy Danvish, Nikki Becker, Vanessa Romero, and Kenneth Miller as the farm investors, but also Roger Gangersworth and Posey Lamont for the chunk of their savings they’d poured into the failed farm stay venture. They’d made the mistake of believing my father, and now they were paying too big a price.
Of course, Old Man Blount and Richard Badcock had their claims too. The civil cases against my father hadn’t yet been settled, he owed them payment for damages, and he’d died before justice could be served.
“God love you, since He’s the only one who can,” spat Nikki, shaking her head. “You and Jenn need to do the right thing, Cletus, if you still know how.”
“Nikki Becker. Jenn and I have nothing to do with it.” Cletus sounded entirely reasonable. He glanced over his shoulder. I could tell he searched for me, likely to make sure I was safe.
Another vehicle pulled up just then, stopping between where I stood at a distance and the ruckus. Billy’s truck idled as he jumped out. “What do you think you’re doing? This isn’t how to behave.”
“You’ll make sure they do what’s right, won’t you Billy?” Nancy appealed to Cletus’s brother. “You’ll make sure that woman does what’s right?”
Elena, unmoved, crossed her arms, staring each of them down in turn—
Wait. No. Not all of them.
Yes, her eyes, fierce and hateful, had settled on each face with disgust until she’d reached the back row of the mob—Roger Gangersworth, Kenneth Miller, and Old Man Blount—at which point her glare dropped and she seemed to recoil. Almost like . . .
Like she’s afraid.
But which one? Which one had inspired the fear?
I studied each man in turn and, honestly, I had no idea. All three looked equally irate, ready to do the woman—and Cletus—harm, just like everyone else gathered. Yet Elena’s reaction had been real and swift.
Why would she fear one of them but none of the others?
“I realize this here is an atypical request, but I sure do appreciate y’all making time.” Luis Leeward, perched at the head of the conference table, turned a friendly—but also somehow condescending—smile to Isaac and me. “As you know, I was a good friend of your father’s. I know you kids sometimes had a contentious relationship, but I hope you know he only wanted the best for you both.”
We were all gathered in a conference room—Cletus, Billy, Elena, me, Isaac, and my father’s lawyer—seven floors above street level with windows that might’ve had a view forty years ago, but which now just looked into a taller building.
After Billy arrived and dispelled the crowd through whatever magic he inherently possessed to persuade folks against their own worst impulses, Elena had taken the elevator with us and selected the chair directly across from mine. The woman was, as Cletus had said, two drumsticks short of a picnic.
Other than the dark wood table and matching chairs, a coffee station sat along the wall closest to the entrance. A few plastic-wrapped danishes rested on a tray lined with a paper doily that sat in the center of the table.
The carpet was dark blue, the walls were beige, the curtains bracketing the windows were red and gold damask, and the entire office smelled faintly of parmesan cheese and air freshener.
Isaac’s eyes seemed to narrow by degrees with every word out of the lawyer’s mouth until his clear blue irises were hidden behind slits. “My father’s intentions for me and for my—for her, are irrelevant. He’s dead.” Isaac picked a piece of lint off his pants. “We can dispense with any additional commentary, Mr. Leeward. Read the will.”
My brother had arrived last and five minutes late. He hadn’t looked my way since strolling into the room, and I tried not to notice he’d taken the chair farthest from mine. But I did notice, and I also noticed how Elena seemed to shrink as he’d entered, her gaze never straying in his direction.
She still didn’t look at him now as she said, “This is what he had to deal with, from his own children. Such ingratitude, such disrespect.” Elena lifted a hand and then let it fall to her thigh. “Unbelievable.”
I’m not an angry person. I do not thrive on whatever part of the brain seemed to derive pleasure from rage. That was not me. But in this moment, listening to the woman who I suspected had killed my father reprimand me for my treatment of him made me want to—
“Don’t do it.” Cletus said under his breath, snagging my attention. His gaze held compassion but also recognition, like he could read the violence in mine. I gathered a deep breath and released it slowly, working to find the lid for my temper.
I shouldn’t have come. Clearly, Isaac didn’t care to speak to me, and Elena hoped to piss me off. This had been a mistake.
Leeward cleared his throat in what I suspected was a nervous habit. He’d cleared his throat when we’d arrived, he’d cleared his throat when Isaac entered, and he cleared his throat now. “This letter was written two months ago, when your father updated his will.”
“He—Kip did what?” Elena’s question was both breathless and sharp.
“He updated the will.” Luis Leeward repeated, not quite making eye contact with Elena. “Now that we’re all here and settled, let’s get started. ‘Elena, Billy, Diane, and my dear children. If Luis is reading this letter, it means I have departed this earth and am watching you from heaven.’”
I shut my eyes, lowered my chin, and pressed a palm to my forehead. Perspective, personal truth, relative reality, how strange the nature of the human experience. My father never saw his own faults. Indeed, to him, he had none. Everything he’d done, all the choices he’d made, had been justified by the lens through which he viewed this world. We all sit in judgment of each other, the bad decisions and evil deeds others make. Perhaps the most difficult of all truths is that no one can ever know, or understand, or share your own. What a lonely journey life was.
“‘I have asked Luis to read this letter because I want you all to know that you and your well-being are the things that matter to me the most. Everything I’ve ever done, I’d done with each of you in mind.’”
Billy shifted in his seat, and I moved my eyes to him. He looked desperately uncomfortable. The absurdity of the situation made me want to laugh. Poor Billy. He’d never courted my father’s fanatical favor. I had to wonder, did my father have a crush on Billy? Was that what had really been going on? Because, obviously even to the end, my daddy had been blind to Billy Winston’s indifference for him.
“‘We won’t be reading the will itself as I have summarized my wishes here. All legal documents should’ve already been sent to probate and are a matter of public and court record by now. I asked Luis to keep this fact a secret from all of you in particular until you were all gathered, because it’s important to me that you learn of my wishes from this letter, not from a will written with all that legal mumbo jumbo.’” Luis chuckled here, like he found the term mumbo jumbo to be charming.
When no one else laughed, he cleared his throat and continued, “‘I need you to know, I forgive those of you who have slandered my good name. I promised my God I’d leave this world forgiving each of you who needed it. Hopefully, this act of charity and grace on my part will help you forgive yourselves.’”
If the words hadn’t been so tragically ludicrous, I might’ve burst out laughing.
“‘First, my dear Billy. The son I should’ve had. I hope you know that—’”
“You can just skip it,” Billy interrupted and lifted his hand in a dismissive gesture.
Mr. Leeward peered at Billy over the rim of his glasses. “Are you sure? ’Cause he left you something.”
“Donate it.”
“Uh, pardon me?”
“Whatever it is, I do not want it. Donate it.”
Mr. Leeward patted down his front suit pocket and fumbled for a moment, eventually pulling out one of those thick, fancy-looking fountain pens. “Okay then. Where shall I donate the car?”
“The car?” Elena pla
ced her hand on the table, angling her body toward the lawyer.
“Yes. Kipling left Mr. Winston his BMW.”
Billy shrugged. “How about you donate it to a women’s shelter.”
“What?” Elena’s question cracked like a whip. “But what am I going to drive?”
“I have the name of one,” Cletus spoke up, pulling out his cell phone. “It’s the one Claire McClure used to volunteer at before she moved to Nashville. I’ll email it to you both.”
Billy considered his brother for a moment before glancing at his knees. “Sounds perfect.”
“All right then. So noted.” Mr. Leeward tucked his fancy pen back in his pocket and ignored Elena’s loud huff of displeasure. Blinking a few times at the letter, he began again, “Let’s see. Ah yes. ‘Diane. I leave you nothing but the grace of my forgiveness, which is more than enough considering. Be grateful I haven’t asked God to damn you to—uh—hell.’” Mr. Leeward fiddled with his glasses, the words obviously inspiring a tad bit of discomfort. “‘As my wife, you were willful and—’”
“How long does this continue?” Cletus asked. “Can we vote to skip it? She’s not even here.”
“Moving on,” Isaac said almost cheerfully, and I glanced at him. He wore a smirk, his attention affixed to Mr. Leeward’s face.
“Yes. Of course. This section does go on for quite a long time. Ms. Donner isn’t here, so we should skip it. I’ll just make sure I make a copy for her.” Leeward set down two pages of the letter, presumably filled with hateful rhetoric for my mother.
“Ah, yes. This is better. ‘Elena, my love. Thank you for always being the better woman. You have my gratitude to sustain you in your life. I’ll always be in your heart.’” Leeward sent Elena a small, encouraging smile, then turned his attention back to the letter. “‘Isaac, you have been a disappointment—’”
“Hold on.” Elena lurched forward. “What else?”
“Pardon?” Leeward inclined his head as though to hear her better.
“What else? That can’t be all.”
“No, no.” The lawyer gestured to the letter in his hands. “There’s more.”
“Oh. Good.” She reclined, looking relieved.
After clearing his throat, Luis Leeward added, “We still have Isaac and Jennifer.”
All eyes turned to Elena. She grew very still. “No, Mr. Leeward. I mean, what else did he say about me?”
“Uh—” Another clearing of the throat. “Ms. Wilkinson . . .” Mr. Leeward paused, chuckling nervously, his sparse eyebrows darting upward. Looking pained, he sent an unmistakably pleading glance to Billy. “Mr. Winston, may I implore upon your, uh, leadership skills here.”
“What is it you’d like me to do, Mr. Leeward?”
“Would you mind reading the rest of the letter?” His hands shook a little as he held it out to Billy, and I didn’t know if it was because he was nervous, afraid, or just had a slight tremor. “My voice is failing me, I think. Seeing as how Kipling was such a good friend of mine, it’s a hard thing for this old man to do.”
“Certainly.” Billy stood, his imposing height, stature, and presence shrinking the room. He took the letter from Leeward, scanned the page he held, and something quite interesting happened. He smiled.
Not a big smile. In fact, it was a small smile, real small. The kind Billy wore when he was trying not to smile.
Billy did not clear his throat. “Ms. Wilkinson, to your question, there doesn’t appear to be any additional mention of you in this letter, unless it’s on a later page. I will hand it over to you once I finish reciting it, should you wish.”
“I—I . . .” Elena’s mouth opened, closed, opened as the blood drained from her face. “I—are you sure?” Her brittle voice finally cracked.
Ignoring Elena’s quiet breakdown, Billy rushed through the words, delivering them with stoic efficiency. “‘Isaac, you have been a disappointment to me your whole life. Even as I contemplate death, I think you are my biggest regret’ . . . etcetera.” Billy lifted his attention to Isaac, his gaze mimicking his tone. “I’m not reading this to you, Isaac. Point is, your father has nothing kind to say, and he left you nothing.”
“Thanks. Got it.” Isaac, still smirking, nodded once. He didn’t look the least bit upset. Amused, bemused, but not upset. However, my brother had always been a master at pretending not to feel anything. Growing up, I’d been the only person he confided in, the only person he trusted with any part of himself.
My heart pinged, aching terribly, and my eyes stung with a rush of feeling. I didn’t miss my father. I didn’t care about the letter or the will or any of it. Elena could swim in her vault of riches.
I missed my brother. He was the only reason I’d come. I’d wanted to see him. I missed him.
Abruptly, Isaac’s eyes cut to mine, and held. Instinct had me looking away, a smarting of embarrassment heating my cheeks as my throat tightened with uncomfortable emotion. His gaze had been indifferent, cold. I doubted the same could be said about mine.
He didn’t want to know me, fine. Fine. Fine. FINE.
But it still stung.
Billy discarded two more sheets of paper, presumably a list of all the ways my brother had been a letdown, and took a deep breath before continuing, “‘Jennifer Anne, I leave you the remainder of my worldly possessions. I think with this—’”
“No!” Elena was up on her feet, the single word a lightning strike in the otherwise still room. “No, no. He didn’t. He wouldn’t!”
Billy cast her an irritated side-eye and soldiered on, “‘I think with this unselfish gesture on my part you might feel sorry for how you treated me and misjudged me since coming of age. Though I do forgive you, I hope you do not forgive yourself as easily for your transgressions against your father, whom you did not honor according to your Godly duty. Your disobedience . . .” Billy sighed, scanned the rest of the words on the page he held, glanced at the next page, and shook his head. “Jenn, do you want to hear any more?”
I gaped, my brain processing Billy’s words—my father’s words—in slow motion. “Wha—what did you say?”
“This isn’t right,” Elena shrieked. ”You’re lying!”
Billy leaned over the table and placed the page he’d been reading in front of her. “There you go, read it. It’s handwritten.”
Her gaze frantically searched the page and a strangled-sounding whimper launched from her lips. Frenzied, she grabbed for the rest of the pages, reading each quickly, and slamming them down on the table.
“I don’t understand,” I said dumbly, looking to Billy, then to Cletus. “Why would he do that? He—he couldn’t stand me.”
Meanwhile, Mr. Leeward attempted to continue business. “We should schedule a day to review the extent of your holdings, Jennifer. I took the liberty of gathering your father’s account statements so you could review the liquid assets. The will was sent to probate, but his estate is held in trust.”
“This isn’t right!” Elena, having gone through each page at least three times, fell back in her chair, her hands balled into fists of frustration, her eyes on me filled with such loathing and hate. If she could’ve strangled me in that moment, I felt absolutely certain she would’ve.
Tearing my eyes from the evil intentions in hers, I shook my head to clear it. “I don’t know why he did this. But I don’t want it. I don’t want anything from him. I’d like to follow Billy’s lead. I’d like to donate—”
“Well now, hold on, little lady.” Leeward lifted a hand as though to halt my words and picked up a sealed envelope, holding it out toward me. “You are the owner of quite a lot of property. The question of donation is not a simple one. Your father was a man of significant holdings.”
Elena started to cry. Loudly. “She doesn’t deserve it, any of it! I loved him, I stood by him. She didn’t, I did!”
In the face of her despairing display, I felt nothing but jaded. All the pomp and circumstance, the black veil, the clothes, the tears, the wringing of hands, t
he gnashing of teeth. What a show. A year ago, I might’ve felt moved. But today, suspecting what I did, I decided to embrace misanthropic instincts and dismiss her completely.
But Cletus sent Elena an irritated glance, leaning forward and turning his body in front of mine as though to shield me from her hysterics. “You’re referring to the farms, Mr. Leeward? The Romero, Becker, Danvish, and Miller parcels?”
My brain stuttered, and I placed a hand on Cletus’s forearm. “Wait, wait. The . . . the Miller farm?” Immediately, my heart took off at a thundering gallop, and for the first time since walking into the office I felt awake to my surroundings.
The Miller farm. With its wildflower field, pond, acreage, grazing prairie, forest, and view. What a temptation.
“I believe, by ‘Miller farm,’ you’re referring to the dairy property, correct?” Mr. Leeward glanced at Elena and squirmed in his seat. “Well, yes. But I believe that Ms. Wilkinson was in talks with its previous owner to transfer the deed back. She can speak better to that.”
Instead of speaking, Elena buried her face in her hands and cried louder.
“Of course,” Mr. Leeward lifted his voice to be heard over her wailing, “you are under no obligation to honor any agreement initiated by Ms. Wilkinson, or by your father prior to his—uh—death.” The lawyer’s features seemed confused on how to arrange themselves, caught somewhere between a grimace and a solicitous smile.
But I was only half listening to the man, my mind on overdrive. I want that farm. I’d wanted the Miller farm since the first time I’d seen it. I loved it. I loved the location, the topography, the versatility of potential uses. It was the most ideally situated spot for my hopes and dreams. The house could be demolished, but the land . . . I want it!
And yet, it wouldn’t be right to keep it. I knew Mr. Miller was desperate for his land, land my father had basically stolen from him. Furthermore, I knew he was desperate to have his cows returned, willing to pay back the exorbitant price my mother had forked over at auction.
