The younger woman leaned closer.
"What instructions?"
The attorney opened another envelope.
Inside was a handwritten letter.
The daughter recognized the writing immediately.
Her father's.
The older woman looked toward her.
"He asked me to give you this when you were ready to decide what to do with the ponds."
The daughter stared.
For a moment, she couldn't move.
Then she took the envelope.
Her hands trembled.
She wanted to open it.
But she was afraid.
Afraid of what it might say.
Afraid that it would contain another argument about preserving the farm.
And afraid it might remind her of how much time she'd spent trying to convince him to stop.
She placed it inside her handbag.
"I'll read it later."
The attorney nodded.
"Of course."
Then she added something the daughter remembered after the hatchery trucks arrived.
"Your father was more organized than people realized."
The younger woman gave a sad laugh.
"Except with his kitchen."
The attorney smiled.
"Except with his kitchen."
Then her expression became serious.
"He also asked me to make sure nobody rushed you into selling."
The daughter looked up.
"Why?"
The attorney considered.
"He believed the property was being undervalued."
The young woman sighed.
"Everyone says the ponds are worthless."
The older attorney shook her head.
"Everyone isn't qualified to determine that."
She placed one hand against the property documents.
"Your father wanted an independent assessment."
The daughter nodded.
Then looked toward the window.
Beyond the courthouse, a narrow street ran toward the edge of town.
She could see pickup trucks.
A farm supply store.
And the little diner where her father used to buy coffee after early morning equipment repairs.
For a moment, she wanted to leave.
Return to Des Moines.
Let the attorney handle the estate.
And put the entire burden behind her.
But the envelope inside her handbag felt heavier than anything else she carried.
Her father had left something for her.
And she wasn't ready to decide that his work had been meaningless.
The first two weeks at Hollow Creek Farm were miserable.
The farmhouse smelled of dust and old coffee.
Several windows needed repairs.
The kitchen sink leaked.
And the pantry contained jars of preserved vegetables labeled in handwriting her mother had used years earlier.
The daughter moved slowly through the rooms.
Every object reminded her of someone she'd lost.
Her father's cap hung beside the back door.
His worn boots stood beneath a bench.
And a photograph of her parents rested near the kitchen window.
In the picture, they were standing beside the largest pond on a summer evening.
Her mother wore a light blue dress.
Her father had one arm around her shoulders.
Both were smiling.
The pond behind them reflected the trees.