Mr. Delacroix pulled a sealed envelope from his briefcase and held it out with both hands. “The condition is simple, Caleb. Your grandfather wrote that you must hear his letter read aloud, in front of your father, before anything is transferred.” I stared at him. “My father told me my grandfather was dead. Why would he ever sit in a room with me?” Mr. Delacroix lowered his eyes. “Because your father has called our office for three days. He knows about the will.”

Before I could answer, tires crunched on the gravel behind the restaurant. A familiar gray truck stopped at the end of the alley, and my father stepped out, smiling as if nothing had happened. My stepmother and stepbrother followed him, all three wearing their church clothes. “Caleb, son,” he called warmly, “we have been looking everywhere for you.” Mr. Delacroix slid the envelope back into his jacket. “Mr. Ramsey,” he said quietly, “you are right on time.”