Sycamore Row - John Grisham

9
For her last day on the job Lettie arrived half an hour early, and she did so in the
hopeless belief that such punctuality might impress Mr. Herschel and Mrs. Dafoe; that
they might somehow reconsider and allow her to stay on. At 7:30, she parked her
twelve-year-old Pontiac next to Mr. Seth’s pickup truck. She had stopped calling him Mr.
Seth months earlier, when they were alone anyway. Around other people she used the
“Mister,” but only for appearances. She took a deep breath and clutched the wheel and
hated the thought of seeing those people again. They would be leaving soon, as soon as
possible. She’d heard them gripe about being forced to spend two nights there. Their
worlds back home were crumbling, and they were desperate to get away. Burying their
father was such a nuisance. They despised Ford County.
She had slept little. Mr. Brigance’s words “sizable portion of his estate” had rattled
noisily around her brain throughout the night. She had not told Simeon. Perhaps she
would later. Perhaps she would let Mr. Brigance do it. Simeon had badgered her about
what the lawyer wanted, what he’d said, but Lettie had been too bewildered and too
frightened to try and explain anything. And how could she explain what she didn’t
understand? As confused as she was, Lettie knew the most foolish thing she could do was
to believe in a positive outcome. The day she saw any money would be the day she
believed, and not a moment before.
The kitchen door off the garage was unlocked. Lettie entered quietly and paused to
listen for sounds of activity. The television was on in the den. Coffee was brewing on
the counter. She coughed as loudly as possible, and a voice called, “Is that you, Lettie?”
“It is,” she said sweetly. She stepped into the den behind a fake smile and found Ian
Dafoe on the sofa, still in his pajamas, surrounded by paperwork, lost in the details of
some looming deal.
“Good mornin’, Mr. Dafoe,” she said.
“Good morning, Lettie,” he replied with a smile. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks, and you?”
“As well as can be expected. Up most of the night with this,” he said, sweeping an
arm over his beloved paperwork, as if she knew exactly what it all meant. “Get me some
coffee, would you? Black.”
“Yes sir.”
Lettie took him coffee, which he accepted without a nod or a word, lost once more in
his deal. She returned to the kitchen, poured herself some coffee, and when she opened
the refrigerator to get the cream she saw a bottle of vodka, almost empty. She had never