Debbie Macomber: No Place Like Home

When Molly’s grandmother was alive, she’d smoothed the waters. Her charm and humor had more than compensated for Walt Wheaton’s prickly nature. By now, Gramps had probably alienated just about everyone in Sweetgrass.

The foreman who’d phoned said he’d been around for more than six months. If Gramps had mentioned hiring a foreman in any of his letters, she’d missed it—hard to believe, considering how often she’d read them. But knowing Gramps, he’d rather chew nails than admit he needed help.

Sam Dakota. The name sounded almost familiar. She grinned weakly, allowing herself to be amused for just a moment—maybe she was confusing him with South Dakota. Or maybe Gramps had mentioned him, but not in a discussion about hired hands. She was sure of that.

The boys went to bed that evening with a minimum of fuss, for which Molly was grateful. She followed soon after, weary to the bone.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise that she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, all she could see was Gramps. All she could think about was the cantankerous old man she loved.

At midnight, Molly gave up the effort and turned on the light. Tossing aside the covers, she went to her desk and sorted through the drawers until she found the last letter she’d received from Gramps. She sat on her bed, legs crossed, and read it slowly.

Dear Molly,

Thanks for the pictures of you and the boys. They sure don’t look like they’re any relation to us Wheatons, do they? Guess I can’t hold it against them that they resemble their father. They aren’t to blame for that. The picture of you is another story. Every time I pick it up, it’s like seeing my own sweet Molly at your age. Only she wore her hair long.

I don’t understand what’s with women these days. They cut their hair short like they want to be men. Ginny Dougherty, the gal who ranches the spread next to mine, for instance—damn fool woman thinks she can tend a herd as good as a man, so she decides to look like one. She might be a handsome woman if she kept her hair long and even wore a dress. I tell you, her husband would turn over in his coffin if he could see what she’s done to herself.

As for the hair business, I’ll admit men aren’t much better. Seems a lot of them prefer to wear it long—like back in the sixties, hippies and all. But I never thought I’d see grown men—gray-haired geezers, for Pete’s sake!—wearing ponytails. Even worse—what do you call them?—those pigtails. Far as I’m concerned Willie Nelson’s got a lot to answer for.

It isn’t just the way people do their hair, either. More and more strange things are going on in Sweetgrass. A man doesn’t know who to trust any longer. People talk as if the government was the enemy. I didn’t fight in a world war to hear that kind of crazy talk, but then folks around here never have been keen for my opinion. I give it to them, anyway, whether they want to hear it or not.

The weather’s been good and bad. Winter hasn’t been too hard so far—only one blizzard.

The chickens are laying more eggs than I can use, which means they’re content. There’s nothing better than bacon and eggs for breakfast. I hope you’re feeding the boys a decent breakfast every morning and not that sugar-coated junk.

Now about you. It sounds like Daniel finally got what he’s deserved all along. Imagine cheating those decent folks out of their hard-earned cash! I never did understand why you married that smooth talker. I knew the minute I met him he wasn’t any good. If you’d asked me before you were foolish enough to go through with the wedding, you might have saved yourself a lot of trouble. Well, at least you have your boys, so something good came out of the marriage.

You’re my only grandchild, Molly, and you’re all I have left. You know that. I remember the day you were born and your father called to say Joan had given birth to a girl. Your grandmother wept when she learned your parents decided to name you after her. They must have known something even then, because small as you were, you resembled my Molly, and you do so more every year. She was a beautiful woman, and you are, too.

I wish your marriage had been like ours. It was the best thing in my life, Molly. I’m glad you’re rid of that no-good Daniel, but I wish you’d marry again. Though I suppose that subject’s best saved for another day.

I want to talk to you about something else. I recently celebrated my seventy-sixth birthday, so I decided it was time I got my affairs in order. I had a new will drawn up. When I was in town last week, I stopped off and talked to Russell Letson. He’s an attorney who’s been around awhile, and his father and I used to be friends. I like Russell well enough, even though I suspect most attorneys are shysters. Anyway, I brought in my old will, and Russell and I talked a bit and he asked me a bunch of questions that got me to thinking.

There’s certain things you should know. First off, I’ve got a safe-deposit box at the bank. I put some medals in there from the war. When the time is right and they appreciate that sort of thing, you can give those medals to my great-grandsons. I suppose I should put your grandmother’s wedding band in there, but I never could bring myself to part with it. I got it on the nightstand next to the bed. Nine years she’s been gone, and I still miss her.

The ranch will be yours. I wish you’d moved here after Molly died, but I understood why you decided to return to California. For myself, I don’t know how you can breathe that foul air—I’ve seen what San Francisco’s like, on television. It can’t be good for the boys to be taking in all that smog. I’m hoping that after I’m gone you’ll give Sweetgrass another try. Folks here are hardworking and decent. Most years, the ranch should at least break even. And the house is solid. My father built it in 1909, and after he died, Molly and I added electricity and indoor plumbing. As houses go, it isn’t fancy, but it’s stood all these years and will stand longer.

That pretty well takes care of what I wanted to tell you.

I love you, Molly girl, and those youngsters of yours, too. I’m sure you know that, although I’m not one to say it often. This letter seemed like a good time to do it.

Remember—don’t let Daniel give you any more grief. He’s getting what he deserves.

Gramps

Molly read the letter a second time and then a third. It all made sense now.

According to what the foreman had told her, Gramps must have written it two months after he got the pacemaker. Her beloved grandfather hadn’t said one word about his health problems, and she knew why.

Daniel.

Gramps hadn’t wanted to burden her with more worries while she dealt with the publicity and embarrassment of Daniel’s trial.

Gramps was right about Daniel; a prison term was exactly what he deserved. As an investment specialist he’d been regularly stealing retirement income from his elderly clients. He’d been clever about it, concocting schemes and falsifying numbers; it had taken several accountants and finance specialists almost a year to uncover the full extent of his crimes. Throughout his entire so-called career, he’d been cheating the very people he was supposed to be helping. He’d lied to his colleagues and clients, lied to the police and the press. He’d even been caught lying under oath. His trial had lasted for weeks, with mobs of angry senior citizens packing the courtroom demanding justice. They didn’t get their money back, but they were there to see Daniel sentenced to twenty years.

Because Molly had been so distressed by what was happening to all these people who, like her, had once trusted Daniel, she hadn’t paid enough attention to some of the remarks in Gramps’s letter. She’d read and reread his words for the comfort they gave her, for the way they brought him close, but she hadn’t stopped to question his sudden interest in a will and settling his affairs. Hadn’t recognized that he was preparing her for his death. It seemed obvious now that he didn’t expect to live much longer.