I turned with a clothespin still in my mouth, expecting Joyce or maybe the propane man. A black limousine had pulled up beside my mailbox, long and out of place as a piano in a cornfield.
The driver got out first, then a tall man in a gray suit, holding a leather folder and a sealed cream envelope.
"Eleanor?" he said gently, crossing the patchy grass. "I'm Mr. Whitfield. I was your husband's attorney."
I heard tires on the gravel.
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The clothespin fell from my mouth.
"Garrett instructed me to wait until after his passing before contacting you," he said. "He wanted you to see clearly who his children were. It took me some time to track down this address through your church. He left strict instructions that I deliver this to you personally, to make sure you got exactly what you deserved."
Whitfield handed over the envelope with my name written in my late husband's hand.
