She began to sob—dramatic, heaving cries I’d heard countless times when she didn’t get her way.
“It’s too late for tears,” I continued. “Vincent will send over the paperwork. You both sign, renouncing all claims to Canton Family Orchards and the house. In return, I won’t press charges for fraud, attempted elder abuse, and theft.”
“And the fifty thousand?” Brandon asked, his businessman’s mind still calculating.
“That offer expired,” I replied. “You get to stay out of jail. That’s all.”
I hung up, set down the phone, and stared out the window of Vincent’s office at the town where I’d spent my entire adult life. Across the street, the farmers’ market was setting up, just as it did every Thursday. People moved about their business, greeting neighbors, examining produce, living normal lives where children didn’t abandon mothers on roadsides.
“They’ll fight,” Vincent said, setting a cup of tea beside me.
“Let them.” I didn’t touch the tea. “I have one more call to make.”
I dialed a number I’d memorized decades ago but rarely used.
“Robert, it’s Naomi Canton. I think it’s time I called in that favor.”
Robert Wilson had been Nicholas’s roommate at Penn State before either of them met me. They’d remained friends even after Robert moved to Philadelphia to start what would become one of the largest real estate law firms in the state. Thirty years ago, Nicholas had loaned Robert money when his first firm collapsed—money that helped rebuild a practice now known for tearing predatory developers apart in court.
“Naomi,” his voice was warm with recognition. “I’ve been meaning to call since I heard about Nicholas. I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you, Robert. I need your help with a situation.”
I explained everything. The forgery. The abandonment. The developer. Robert listened without interruption, and when I finished, the silence stretched so long I thought we’d been disconnected.
“I’ll be in Milfield tomorrow morning,” he finally said, his voice tight with controlled anger. “These developers—Platinum Acres—they’ve been on our radar. Naomi, what they’re planning violates at least six environmental regulations. We’ve been looking for a way to stop them.”
“And now you have one,” I said.
“Yes.” I could hear him shuffling papers. “Don’t sign anything before I get there. And Naomi… I’m sorry about your children.”
“I stopped having children three days ago,” I replied. “Now I just have adversaries.”
That night, I sat in Lucille’s kitchen as she closed the bakery, drinking tea and watching her prepare dough for the morning.
“You should try to eat something,” she said, nodding toward the sandwich she’d made me. “You need your strength.”
“I’m not hungry.” I hadn’t had an appetite since Nicholas died. Food was fuel now. Nothing more.
“Heard Melissa’s staying at the Milfield Inn,” Lucille said, kneading with practiced movements. “Brandon’s still at the house. People are talking.”
“Let them talk.”
The small-town grapevine had always annoyed my children, but now it served me. Every move they made, I knew about it within hours.
“Sophia’s article runs tomorrow,” Lucille continued. “Front page. Got a call from the Philadelphia Inquirer, too. They want to pick up the story. Something about the developer having trouble with other projects.”
I nodded, unsurprised. Robert’s call had confirmed what I’d suspected. Platinum Acres had a pattern of targeting vulnerable landowners, particularly the elderly, with promises they never intended to keep.
“Did I do the right thing, raising them the way we did?” The question slipped out before I could stop it. Not sentimentality, but a genuine curiosity about where I had failed.
Lucille’s hands stilled in the dough.
