PART5

“That Harold was right.”

I looked at him.

“Right about what?”

Bernard closed the file.

“That they would underestimate you.”

I said nothing.

He stood.

“Come back tomorrow.”

“Why?”

“Because before you speak to Cardinal again, I want you to meet someone.”

“Who?”

“A property attorney.”

“I thought you were my attorney.”

“I am.”

“Then why do I need another one?”

“Because I have been Harold’s attorney for thirty-two years.”

He looked directly at me.

“And now I want someone whose only client is you.”

That night, I went home to the house Harold had shared with me for fourteen years.

It felt different.

Not because anything had changed.

Because everything had.

The hallway still smelled faintly of his shaving soap.

His slippers were still beside the recliner.

His coffee mug sat upside down beside the sink.

On the refrigerator was the grocery list I’d written three days before he died.

Milk.

Eggs.

Bread.

His handwriting underneath mine said:

Don’t forget your medicine.

I sat at the kitchen table.

For the first time since the funeral, I let myself cry.

Not because of the house.

Not because of the land.

Not because of his children.

Because Harold had known he was dying.

And instead of leaving me frightened and unprepared, he had quietly spent months building a bridge for me to walk across after he was gone.

I cried until my chest hurt.

Then my phone rang.

I almost ignored it.

The number was unfamiliar.

I answered.

“Hello?”

A man’s voice said, “Mrs. Vance?”

“Yes.”

“This is Daniel Mercer. I’m with Cardinal Midstream’s acquisition department.”

I sat up.

“How did you get my number?”

“We’ve had your husband’s contact information for some time.”

“My husband is dead.”

“I know, ma’am. That’s why I’m calling.”

His voice was smooth.

Professional.

Too smooth.

“I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.”

“I understand Ruth Kessler spoke with you this morning.”

“She did.”

“She may have gotten ahead of herself.”

My eyes narrowed.

“What does that mean?”

“We’re still evaluating the project.”

“She said the route was approved.”

A pause.

“Certain elements are approved.”

“That’s not what she said.”

“Mrs. Vance, I’d like to avoid confusion.”

“So would I.”

Another pause.

Then he said:

“We’re prepared to make you a generous offer for the parcel.”

I looked at Harold’s empty chair.

“How generous?”

“We could discuss that tomorrow.”

“No.”

He seemed surprised.

“No?”

“Put it in writing.”

“Of course.”

“And include every term.”

“Absolutely.”

“And don’t send me anything that says the offer is contingent on me signing an easement agreement.”

Silence.

For three seconds, there was no sound at all.

Then Daniel said quietly:

“Who advised you to say that?”

I smiled.

“Nobody.”

That was the first lie I’d told him.

“Good night, Mr. Mercer.”

I hung up.

The next morning Bernard arrived at my house at eight forty-five.

With him was a woman in a charcoal suit carrying a leather portfolio.

“Doreen, this is Evelyn Hart.”

Evelyn shook my hand.

“Mr. Skiles tells me you’re the owner of Parcel 44-118.”

“I am.”

She looked at Bernard.

Then back at me.

“Then we’re going to make sure you stay that way until you understand exactly what you’re being offered.”

I liked her immediately.

We sat around my kitchen table.

Evelyn spread out the documents.

“This parcel has three separate value components.”

She pointed to the first.

“Surface rights.”

Second.

“Access rights.”

Third.

“Subsurface and infrastructure rights.”

I looked at her.

“I don’t understand half of that.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

She tapped the map.

“The company doesn’t simply want to put a line across your property.”

“What do they want?”

CONTINUE READING PART6…