Chapter 3 - The Ghost of the Farm
Two days later,
I told them I wanted to visit Arthur’s farm.
“It’s too far,
Mom,”
Mason argued,
pacing the living room.
“It’s a two-hour drive.
You shouldn't be behind the wheel that long.”
“I’ll drive her,”
Harper volunteered suddenly.
I knew why.
They wanted to see the property.
They wanted to count the acres and estimate the timber value.
The drive was quiet,
save for Harper’s occasional attempts at small talk.
She spoke to me as if I were a child,
using simple words and a high-pitched tone.
When we reached the gates of the farm,
the sight took my breath away.
The rolling hills were a vibrant green,
and the old farmhouse stood like a sentinel against the sky.
It was peaceful,
untouched by the rot of the city or the greed in the car.
“It’s huge,”
Harper whispered,
her eyes darting across the landscape.
“How much is this worth?”
“Arthur loved this land,”
I said,
ignoring her question.
“He worked it every day.”
We walked toward the house,
and I saw a black SUV parked in the shadows of the barn.
It was Mr. Sterling’s car.
He was there to oversee the inventory of the estate’s physical assets,
hidden from view.
Harper was too busy looking at the wrap-around porch to notice.
“You know,
Eleanor,”
she said,
running a finger along the railing,
“this house is far too big for you.
It would be such a hassle to maintain.”
“I suppose so,”
I replied.
“But it’s mine.”
She laughed,
a short,
sharp sound.
“Of course it is.
For now.”
We walked inside,
and the smell of Arthur—cedar and old books—enveloped me.
I felt a sudden surge of strength.
This was my sanctuary.
I had the keys,
and I had the legal right to change the locks.
While Harper was in the kitchen,
checking the appliances,
I slipped into the study.
I found the hidden safe Arthur had told me about years ago.
Inside were journals,
deeds,
and something Mason would never find:
a series of letters Arthur had written about our family.
He had seen the greed in Mason long before I had.
One letter was addressed to me,
dated only a month before he died.
“Eleanor,
watch the boy.
He has his father’s eyes,
but none of his heart.
Don't let him take what you’ve earned.”
I tucked the letter into my coat pocket.
“What are you doing in here?”
Harper’s voice startled me.
She was standing in the doorway,
her eyes narrowed.
“Just looking at Arthur’s books,”
I said,
holding up a dusty volume of poetry.
“He loved to read.”
She stepped into the room,
looking around with a proprietary air.
“We should start clearing this junk out.
It’s a fire hazard.”
I looked at her,
really looked at her,
and saw the emptiness behind her eyes.
“You’re right,
Harper.
May you like
We should clear things out.”
I wasn't talking about the books.
