MAKE ROOM AT THE TABLE.
Mom smiled faintly.
“He liked sayings.”
“He liked telling other people what to do,” Dad said.
“He was your father.”
“Exactly.”
We spent two hours exploring the property.
There was no treasure.
No hidden fortune.
But the land itself was peaceful.
A seasonal creek crossed the back acreage.
Oak trees shaded one ridge.
The old road offered enough access that, according to Inez, the property might have practical value.
Derek stood in the surviving shed for a long time.
“What are you thinking?” I asked.
He looked embarrassed.
“Nothing.”
“That’s never true.”
He kicked gently at a curled wood shaving that might have been older than either of us.
“I could move the restoration work here.”
I said nothing.
He quickly added, “If Dad wanted. If the trust allowed it. If we figured out permits.”
“You already designed it in your head, didn’t you?”
“Only approximately.”
“How approximately?”
He pointed.
“Main restoration tables there. Finishing room separated for ventilation. Storage racks along the north wall. Office in the front corner.”
