Then I drove back toward Hampshire Pike.
Past the big white farmhouse.
Past the barn.
Past the pond.
Down the gravel lane toward the little house where I’d been born.
I parked beneath the pecan trees.
The porch steps creaked exactly as they had when I was a child.
I sat on the swing.
And looked across the grove.
Forty-one trees.
Some planted by Isaac Whitsett himself.
My great-grandfather.
For the first time in my life, I understood that those trees weren’t simply part of the Lockridge estate.
They were part of my family’s story.
I was still sitting there when a Range Rover came down the lane.
Thurston stepped out.
Bertram followed.
Both looked furious.
“Elnora!” Thurston shouted. “What are you doing here?”
I remained seated.
He held up his phone.
“My developer’s attorney just found a deed transferring thirty-eight acres into your name!”
I said nothing.
