In complete disbelief, we three sisters exchanged glances, our voices rising, each speaking over the other now, not in anger, but in urgency—to get our points across, as if the volume directly correlated with the others’ understanding of the words.
Jordan said, “Daddy ain’t had but two brothers and one died when he was one year old. Direct descendants? Make that make sense.”
“Shit, Jordan! It doesn’t have to. Wilton is just a name.” Nellie nudged my shoulder.
I interjected, my voice overpowering theirs, “Nellie’s right. Somebody who claims to be a descendant sold his interest to this Wilton.”
“But what the fuck, Mary? You pay the taxes! You’ve paid them every year since Mama died.” Jordan swiped the paper off the table. She looked like she was about to cry.
“It’s not enough that I pay the taxes. Not if he’s an heir.”
“He’s lying, though.” Nellie grabbed the sheet of paper off the floor and slid it across the table at me, like I needed to see it again. “He’s obviously a crook. Look at the dollar amount in this letter. No way his claim could possibly be worth that kind of money. One hundred and ninety thousand, for his one-fourth share? That would make the farm worth over three-quarters of a million dollars.” She broke into a rusty laugh. “Damn, girls! We’re millionaires!”
I snickered, couldn’t help myself. “I feel better already. Now that I know I’m so rich.”
Nellie slapped the tabletop. “I’m gonna go buy me a Lexus!”
We laughed together. It felt like Nellie and I were schoolgirls again, trying to put on a brave face and shrug off something that was bringing us down.
Jordan stared at both of us like we were crazy. Well, she was the baby. Our little Saint Jordan. The relationship dynamic was different with her.
Our laughing got the kids’ attention. They came running intothe kitchen. “What’s funny?” Stella asked. She was the youngest. Jordan’s first daughter was named Rose, for our mama.
Jordan turned into strict Mama. “Out into the backyard, you two. I told you we were talking about grown-up business in here.”
“But y’all was laughing, Mama.”
“You gonna make me tell you again?”
That did it. We waited until they slipped out the patio door into the back. Watched while they ran across the yard and climbed onto the swing set. Jordan lingered by the window, then turned to me. “What do we do, Mary?”
I’d already started to map it out. “We’ll be prepared to go to court. We get all of the documentation we can put together. I’ll get the deed from the safe-deposit box at the bank. Jordan, you’ve still got the family Bible?”
She sputtered, indignant. “Of course I’ve still got it!”
“I’ll do a title search. Nellie, did you ever find anything when you were going onto that ancestry website?”
She shook her head. “Girl, there wasn’t much I could find. It’s hard to document our family history, even after our people were free. We just didn’t have many official papers. No birth certificates or death certificates. No government documents.”
“I think I’ve got Mama’s and Daddy’s death certificates. There are some old obituaries somewhere.”
“Yeah, I think I’ve got those,” Nellie said.
“We’ll put it all together. You know, another name for heirs’ property is ‘tangled property.’ We need to straighten it out.”
We fell silent for a long minute. Jordan reached across the table, clutched both our hands. I gave hers a squeeze.
My baby sister’s voice wavered when she asked, “We won’t let them take the farm, will we?”
“No!” I answered. I didn’t repeat my vow to Arch Pearce: that we’d dig up Luke Stone, if need be. Sounded gruesome.
Nellie wasn’t put off. “I told you, Mary. They’re coming after you.” She shook off Jordan’s hand, walked away from the table. Her voice sounded bitter when she spoke.
“That goddamn court case.”
I didn’t deny it.
She wasn’t wrong.
