When Mr. Rollins died, things changed slowly at first and then at once.
Their children didn’t want to win. They didn’t want a worn farm or a barn that leaned into their own shadow. They wanted money, which was their right. About a year after the funeral, the property was sold to Brent and Laurel Whitaker from Nashville.
I met them in April.
He was cleaning the brush along the stone fence when a bright side by side rolled up on his side of the line. Brent was driving. Laurel sat next to him with oversized sunglasses and a sleeveless white vest that looked too clean for anywhere near the grass. They were in the mid-forties, both polished, smiling like people’s smiles when they believe that charm is a universal key. Brent had tanned the skin, expensive teeth and energy of a man who had never entered a room doubting that he would rearrange around him. Laurel was quieter, vigilant, with blonde hair hidden under a cap and a phone in one hand, as if he were already framing the world for someone else to see later.
