Sycamore Row

it?” she asked, confused.
    “Why is it private?” Simeon asked.
    “Because the law says it is,” Jake replied, fudging a bit. The law had nothing to do with this situation. In fact, as he muddled through this encounter he began to realize that his big news perhaps wasn’t so confidential after all. There was no doubt Lettie would tell her husband everything before Jake pulled out of the driveway. The last will and testament of Seth Hubbard was now a public record and would be scrutinized by every lawyer in town within twenty-four hours. Where was the privacy, the confidentiality?
    Simeon angrily tossed a beer can against the tree, sending a line of foam across the trunk. He bolted to his feet, growling, “All right, all right,” as he kicked the milk crate. He reached into the cooler, grabbed another beer, and stomped away, mumbling and cursing under his breath. The shadows consumed him as he moved deeper into the trees, no doubt watching and listening.
    Lettie, almost whispering, said, “Very sorry about that, Mr. Brigance.”
    “No problem. Look, Ms. Lang, there is a very important matter we need to discuss as soon as possible, preferably tomorrow in my office. It’s about Mr. Hubbard and his last will and testament.”
    Lettie bit her bottom lip as she stared wild-eyed at Jake. Tell me more.
    Jake continued: “The day before he died, he made a new will, one that he dropped in the mail so I would receive it after his death.It appears to be a valid will, but I’m sure it will be contested by his family.”
    “Am I in his will?”
    “You certainly are. In fact, he left a sizable portion of his estate to you.”
    “Oh God.”
    “Yes. He wants me to be the lawyer for his estate, and I’m sure that will be contested too. That’s why we need to talk.”
    Her right hand covered her mouth as she mumbled, “Oh my Lord.”
    Jake looked at the house where the light from its windows cut through the darkness. A shadow moved beyond it, probably Simeon circling around. Jake had the sudden desire to hop in the old Saab and cut a trail quickly back to civilization.
    She asked, nodding, “Should I tell him?”
    “That’s up to you. I would have included him but I’ve heard stories about his drinking. Didn’t know what shape he’s in right now. But, to be honest, Ms. Lang, he’s your husband and he should come with you tomorrow. That is, if he’s in good shape.”
    “He’ll be in good shape, I promise.”
    Jake handed her a business card and said, “Anytime tomorrow afternoon. I’ll be in my office waiting.”
    “We’ll be there, Mr. Brigance. And thank you for comin’ here.”
    “It’s very important, Ms. Lang, and I felt like I needed to meet you. We could be in for a long, hard fight together.”
    “I’m not sure I understand.”
    “I know. I’ll explain it tomorrow.”
    “Thank you, Mr. Brigance.”
    “Good night.”

7
    After a quick, late supper of grilled cheese and tomato soup, Jake and Carla cleared the table and cleaned the dishes (there was no dishwasher), and eventually settled in the den, which began where the kitchen left off, some six feet away from the dining table. Three years (plus) in tight living quarters required a constant reassessment of priorities and attitudes, along with a vigilance against edginess. Hanna helped tremendously. Small children care little for the material things that so impress adults; as long as both parents are doting, little else matters. Carla helped her with spelling and Jake read her stories, and as they tag-teamed through the evening they also caught up with the daily papers and the cable news. At 8:00 p.m. on the dot, Carla gave her a bath, and thirty minutes later Hanna was tucked snugly into bed by both parents.
    Alone at last and wrapped together under a quilt on the rickety sofa, Carla said, “Okay, what’s up?”
    Jake, flipping through a sports magazine, replied, “What do you mean ‘What’s up?’ ”
    “Don’t play dumb. Something’s up. A new case maybe? A new client who can pay a decent fee, or perhaps even a huge fee that might rescue us from poverty? Please.”
    Jake flung the quilt onto the floor and jumped to his feet. “Well, as a matter of fact, my dear, there’s a good chance we’ve just stiff-armed poverty.”
    “I knew it. I can always tell when you sign up a good car wreck. You get twitchy.”
    “It’s not a car wreck.” Jake was thumbing through his briefcase. He pulled out a file and handed her some