“I’m not giving it to you.”
Dad relaxed slightly.
“I’m giving it to the garden.”
That silenced everyone.
“What does that mean?” Brent asked.
Anna looked at Claire.
“Your mother had an idea.”
Claire’s eyes widened.
“My mom?”
“She contacted me last year.”
Dad stared.
“Rebecca knew Anna?”
“Apparently,” Claire whispered.
Anna nodded.
“Rebecca wanted the land put into a small charitable trust. Permanently protected for food production.”
Dad looked overwhelmed.
“She planned this?”
“She was trying to.”
“Why didn’t she tell me?”
Anna’s expression softened.
“She wanted to tell you in person.”
That sentence seemed to visit every grief at once.
Mom.
Rebecca.
Lost time.
Missed meetings.
Dad removed his cap.
He stood in the garden with sunlight on his thin white hair.
“I don’t know anything about trusts.”
“I do,” Brent said.
We all turned.
He looked embarrassed.
“I’m an accountant.”
