The next twenty-four hours passed in a blur of paperwork, phone calls, and quiet meetings in back offices throughout Milfield. People who had known me for decades—known us, Nicholas and me—stepped up with information, signatures, and support. Not out of pity, but out of respect, and perhaps a touch of relish at seeing the Canton children, who had abandoned their hometown for shinier places, get their comeuppance.
By evening, I’d moved into a small apartment above Lucille’s Bakery. The owner, Lucille Brennan, had been my friend since our children started kindergarten together.
“Stay as long as you need,” she said, pressing the key into my palm. “That boy of yours never did right by this town. Or by you and Nicholas.”
I slept surprisingly well that night, lulled by the familiar smell of bread and pastry rising from below.
In the morning, I dressed in clothes Lucille had lent me—a pair of jeans and a sweater that fit well enough—and prepared for war. At precisely 9:00 a.m., when the deed office opened, I filed paperwork asserting my ownership of the original twenty-acre property that included the main house, the barn, and, most critically, the water access any developer would need.
