PART 3
I looked at the small velvet case beside the letter.
For the first time since Dad’s funeral, I understood why my father had insisted that I keep my mouth shut when Rick took the watch.
“Perhaps you should read Dad’s letter,” I said.
“What letter?”
“The one he left for me.”
There was a long silence.
Then Rick lowered his voice.
“You knew about this?”
“I knew Dad had something he wanted me to understand after he was gone.”
“You knew he was going to leave me the watch?”
“No, Rick. I knew he wanted something handled properly.”
He cursed under his breath.
“Listen to me. I took the watch to a jeweler this morning.
I thought I could have it cleaned and appraised before I flew back to Phoenix.
The man examined the inscription, opened the back, and found a second engraving inside.
Then he called someone.
Now he’s telling me not to touch it until an attorney gets there.”
I closed my eyes.
Dad had always been careful with his possessions.
He never bought anything expensive without keeping the receipts.
He labeled the keys to his workshop.
He kept warranties in folders and paid his bills before their due dates.
But he had never explained the full story of that watch to me.
At least, not until three months before his death.
“Rick,” I said, “do you remember what Dad told us about the watch when we were children?”
“Of course I do. He said it was his most valuable possession.”
“No. He said it was the most meaningful possession he owned.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“It never was to Dad.”
He exhaled sharply.
“Just tell me what’s going on.”
I unfolded the letter and read the final paragraph again.
Then I told him the truth.
“I think you should come to Dad’s house.”
“I’m leaving for the airport in two hours!”
“Then you should decide whether getting on that plane is more important than understanding what Dad left behind.”
I hung up before he could answer.
For several minutes, I sat without moving.
I wasn’t happy that Rick was frightened. Despite everything, he was still my brother.
But I was relieved.
For years, I had wondered whether Dad understood what had happened between us—how Rick had gradually become the son who visited occasionally and offered advice from a distance, while I became the daughter who handled the difficult, ordinary work of keeping our father safe.
Now I was beginning to understand that Dad had noticed far more than he had ever said.
I opened the letter again.
My dear daughter,
If you are reading this, I am gone, and your brother has probably done something he believes he has every right to do.
Please do not fight with him at my funeral. Do not let my final day become another occasion for my children to hurt each other.
The watch has a history your brother does not know. That is not because I loved him less. It is because he never asked me about it.
Inside the velvet case is the first thing you must examine. After that, call Mr. Whitmore. His number is written on the card.
Do not make a decision because you are angry. Make it because you finally understand.
Love, Dad.
I picked up the velvet case.
Inside lay a small brass key and a folded piece of paper bearing a telephone number.
Beneath them was a photograph.
It showed Dad as a young man, standing beside a railroad locomotive. His hair was dark, his shoulders broad, and his smile so familiar that for a moment I forgot he was gone.
Beside him stood another man wearing a railroad uniform.
On the back, Dad had written five words.
The day everything began.
I turned the photograph over again.
There was a date beneath the sentence, followed by a name.
Thomas Whitmore.
I took out my phone and dialed the number on the card.
A man answered after two rings.
“Whitmore speaking.”
“My name is Daniel’s daughter. My father recently passed away. He left me a letter and asked me to call you.”
The man became very quiet.
“Your father has passed?”
“Yes.”
“I’m sorry. Daniel was a good man. I wondered when I might hear from you.”
My fingers tightened around the phone.
“You knew my father well?”
“Very well. We worked together for years. In fact, I was hoping he would introduce us before his health declined.”
“Why?”
“Because your father entrusted me with something important. He told me that after his death, one of his children would probably contact me about the gold watch.”
I glanced toward the photograph.
“One of them?”
“Yes,” Mr. Whitmore replied. “But he was quite specific about which child I was supposed to speak with first.”
I swallowed.
“Me?”
“Yes. He said his daughter would understand why the watch could never simply be sold.”
My heart began to pound.
“What is it worth?”
Mr. Whitmore sighed.
“That depends on what you mean by worth. The gold itself is not the important part. The watch is a piece of railroad history, and the records connected to it are unusually significant.”
He paused.
“But before I explain anything else, I need to ask you something.”
“Of course.”
“Did your brother remove the watch from your father’s wrist before the burial?”
I stared at the kitchen wall.
“Yes.”
“Then I suggest you ask him to preserve every document the jeweler gave him. Do not accuse him of anything yet. We need to establish the facts.”
“Mr. Whitmore, what did my father do?”
“I believe,” he said gently, “that your father spent the final months of his life making sure an important promise would be honored.”
“What promise?”
“I would rather explain that in person. Can you come to my office tomorrow morning?”
I agreed.
Before hanging up, he added one more thing.
“Bring the letter. And, if possible, ask your brother to come too.”
I almost laughed.
Getting Rick to attend a meeting about something he couldn’t immediately sell might prove more difficult than arranging Dad’s funeral.
But I promised I would try.
That evening, Rick arrived at Dad’s house without calling first.
He looked nothing like the confident man who had stood beside the coffin three days earlier. His tie was loosened, his face was pale, and he kept rubbing his palms against his trousers.
“Where’s the letter?” he demanded.
I was standing beside the kitchen counter.
“Hello to you too.”
“Please. I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
He looked around the room as though Dad might suddenly appear from the hallway and explain everything.
Finally, he sat down.
“The jeweler showed me something inside the watch. There are two sets of numbers and a tiny inscription. He said the watch may be connected to an old railroad collection, and the ownership records might be complicated.”
I pulled out a chair opposite him.
“What did the second inscription say?”
Rick hesitated.
“‘For the man who brought them home.’”
I felt a chill run through me.
I had never seen that inscription, but I knew immediately that it mattered.
Dad had once told me about an accident on the railroad during his early years. He had been a young maintenance worker when a storm damaged part of a track. Several men had been caught in a dangerous situation, and Dad had helped bring them to safety.
He never spoke about himself as a hero.
When I asked him about it, he always said, “Everyone did what they could.”
I told Rick what I remembered.
He stared at me.
“Why didn’t he tell me any of this?”
“Maybe he did. You just weren’t listening.”
The words escaped before I could stop them.
Rick’s face hardened.
“There it is. The lecture. You always thought you were the better child because you lived nearby.”
“No,” I replied. “I never thought I was better. I just wanted Dad to have someone when he needed help.”
For once, Rick had no immediate answer.
I took a breath.
“Mr. Whitmore wants to meet us tomorrow.”