Vincent placed the deed carefully on his desk.
“What do you want to do, Naomi?”
I met his eyes.
“I want my home back. I want the business my husband built. And I want my children to understand exactly what they’ve done.”
Vincent didn’t flinch at the coldness in my voice. Instead, he nodded.
“Let’s start with a place for you to stay tonight. My sister’s B&B has a vacancy. Tomorrow we’ll begin the legal work.”
“No.” I shook my head. “I need to move faster than that. The developer is closing next week.”
Understanding dawned in Vincent’s eyes.
“You’re not planning to just go through the courts.”
“Courts are for people with time,” I said. “Vincent, I have a better idea.”
That night, in the floral-papered comfort of Rose Hill Bed and Breakfast, I made my first call. Not to my children. They could wonder where I was, whether I’d reached town or collapsed on the roadside. My call was to Harold Winters, the regional manager of Pennsylvania Trust Bank, where Canton Family Orchards had done business for decades.
“Mrs. Canton, I’m so sorry about your husband,” he said.
“Thank you, Harold. I’m calling because I’ve discovered some concerning transactions, and I need your help to protect what’s left of our business.”
My second call was to Martin Adams, the agricultural extension agent who’d worked with us for fifteen years.
“Naomi, I was at the funeral but didn’t get to speak with you,” he said.
“I know, Martin. It’s been chaotic. Listen, I need information about a potential development on farmland in the county.”
My third call was to Sophia Delaney, editor of the Milfield Gazette and Nicholas’s second cousin.
“Ellie, how are you holding up? I’ve been worried,” she said—using the old nickname only people from town remembered.
“I’m managing, Sophia, but I think there’s a story you might be interested in—about developers, protected agricultural land, and inheritance fraud.”
By midnight, I had made seven calls, each one a strand in the web I was weaving. Outside my window, the quiet streets of Milfield slept peacefully, unaware that Naomi Canton—always the peacemaker, always the nurturer—was planning war.
