Daniel frowned.
“For what?”
“That,” Judge Halstead said, “is what we need to determine.”
The hearing was adjourned until the attorney’s complete file could be produced.
Outside the courthouse, rain had begun falling.
I stood beneath the stone overhang while Margaret searched her bag for an umbrella.
“Did you know about that appointment?”
I asked.
“No.”
“Could Mom have changed her mind?”
“Certainly.”
The answer hurt, but I appreciated it.
Margaret never comforted people with lies.
“She could also have wanted to discuss taxes, maintenance, mineral rights, or whether the farmhouse roof needed replacing.
We don’t guess.
We find evidence.”
A voice behind me said, “Abby.”
Nobody had called me that in years.
I turned.
Daniel stood several feet away.
Dad and Whitmore were already walking toward the parking lot.
My brother shoved his hands into his pockets.
“You really are a captain.”
“So I’ve been told.”
For the first time, he almost smiled naturally.
Then it vanished.
“I thought you hated us.”
“I hated some things that happened.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“No.”
Rain drummed against the courthouse steps.
Daniel looked toward the street.
“I didn’t know about Annapolis.”
I studied him.
“You never saw the letters?”
“No.”
“Dad says he didn’t either.”
Daniel hesitated.
Then he said something unexpected.
“Mom had a box.”
“What box?”
“In the attic.
She kept things there.”
“What things?”
“I don’t know.
Letters, I think.”
“Mine?”
“Maybe.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
His expression tightened.
“Because until today, I thought you were the one who stopped writing.”
That evening, I drove to Mercer Farm for the first time in twelve years.
The lane seemed narrower.
The white farmhouse looked smaller.
But the maple tree behind it was enormous.
Mom was buried beneath it.
I stood there for a long time.
“I’m sorry,” I whispered.
There was no answer except wind moving through leaves.
Daniel appeared carrying two mugs.
“Coffee?”
I accepted one.
We climbed into the attic after sunset.
Dust floated through the beam of his flashlight.
Christmas decorations.
Old furniture.
My grandmother’s sewing machine.
Then Daniel pointed.
“There.”
A cedar box rested behind a stack of quilts.
My mother’s handwriting was on the lid.
ABIGAIL.
My fingers trembled as I opened it.
Inside were my letters.
Dozens of them.
Unopened.
Every birthday card.
Every Christmas card.
Photographs from Annapolis.
A postcard from Bahrain.
A letter I had written after receiving my first command assignment.
Daniel sat beside me.
“She never opened them?”
I shook my head.
Then I noticed another envelope underneath.
It was not mine.
It was addressed to me.
In Mom’s handwriting.
ABIGAIL — WHEN YOU ARE READY TO COME HOME.
I opened it.
The letter inside was only two pages.
The first sentence stopped me.
“My darling Abby, if you are reading this, then I failed to find the courage to tell your father what I should have told him years ago.”
Daniel leaned closer.
I kept reading.
Then I reached the final paragraph.
And suddenly the inheritance case no longer seemed to be about eighty-seven acres.
Mom had written:
“There is something beneath the old red barn that belongs to neither you nor Daniel alone.
Your grandmother made me promise that when the time came, I would show both of you together.”
I looked at my brother.
Daniel stared back.
“The old barn?” he whispered.
I folded the letter carefully.
Outside, beyond the attic window, the rain had stopped.
Across the dark field stood the red barn our grandfather had built.
And for the first time since returning home, my brother and I walked toward it together.