“He’s at peace now,” the pastor said.
And I wondered if that was true, or just something people say when someone dies after long suffering. Nicholas and I weren’t religious, but we’d maintained the social convention of occasional church attendance—Easter, Christmas, the odd potluck—enough that Pastor Williams knew to focus on Nicholas’s love for the land rather than any heavenly reward.
What I remember most about that day was the silence afterward. The house echoed with it as neighbors dropped off casseroles and spoke in hushed tones about Nicholas’s kindness, his integrity, how he’d helped Mr. Peterson save his dairy farm during the recession or employed the Wilson boys when they needed summer work. Nobody mentioned how he’d built our business from nothing while raising two children who seemed to have inherited none of his values.
“I made up the guest rooms,” I told Brandon and Melissa that evening as the last visitors left. “I thought we could spend tomorrow going through some of your father’s things together.”
