He laughed. Short and ugly.
Helen’s expression didn’t change. “The will is very clear. Your mother was specific about the distribution.”
“Specific,” Marcus repeated, like the word itself offended him. He looked at me. “Dad, you’re sixty-eight years old. You’re going to live on a falling-down shack in the middle of nowhere?”
“I haven’t seen it yet,” I said.
Helen slid a cream-colored envelope across the table. Jenny’s handwriting on the front.
Sam — Open at the farm. Trust me.
I picked it up. My hands weren’t entirely steady.
“There is one more thing,” Helen said. “Your wife left instructions that this sealed letter be opened at the property. Not before.”
Marcus stood abruptly. “I’m getting a lawyer.”
Helen’s voice was almost bored. “That’s your right. But your mother’s will was drafted by one of the finest estate attorneys in Oklahoma. It’s ironclad. You’ll spend considerable money and arrive at the same result.”
Marcus stared at me. “You’re not seriously going to accept this.”
I looked at the envelope in my hands. Jenny’s handwriting. Her slanted, unmistakable script.
“Your mother wanted me to have the farm,” I said.
Helen handed me a rusted key — old-fashioned, heavy, the kind that belongs to a different era entirely.
