My children thought they’d left me with nothing. They were about to learn how wrong they were.
The walk to town took nearly two hours. My shoes—sensible flats I’d worn for my husband’s funeral—weren’t made for country roads. By the time I reached Miller’s Gas and Grocery at the edge of Milfield, my feet were blistered and the afternoon sun had burned my neck. I didn’t care. Pain has a way of clarifying things, and with each step, my purpose had crystallized.
I didn’t go inside immediately. Instead, I sat on the bench outside, watching pickups and sedans come and go. Normal people living normal lives who had no idea that Naomi Canton—who’d judged their apple pies at the county fair for twenty years—had just been abandoned like roadkill by her own children.
“Mrs. Canton?”
I looked up to see Ray Miller himself, third-generation owner of the store, wiping his hands on his apron.
“You all right? You’re looking a bit peaked.”
“Just resting, Ray. Been a long day.”
He nodded, glancing at my suitcase. “Real sorry about Nicholas. He was a good man.”
“Yes, he was.” I straightened my spine. “Ray, could I use your phone? I seem to have forgotten mine.”
“Of course you can.”
He led me inside, past the beer coolers and snack aisles, to the small office behind the counter.
“Take your time,” he said.
I didn’t call any of my quilting friends, as Brandon had suggested. I called Vincent Hargrove, our family lawyer of thirty years.
“Naomi, I tried reaching you yesterday,” he said. “I was surprised not to see you at the reading.”
My hand tightened on the receiver.
“What reading?”
Vincent was silent for a moment. “The will reading. Your son presented a document, but I had concerns. I’ve been trying to contact you.”
“I’ve been indisposed,” I said, my voice steady despite the rage building inside me. “Vincent, I need your help, and I need discretion.”
“You have both. My office. One hour.”
“I’ll be there.”
