It took three weeks to work out what we agreed on, and a lot of coffee. We met at Mr. Haskins’s desk, then at my kitchen table, and once in the cab of Dale’s rented Ford during a rainstorm, parked at the gate.
I didn’t sell him the strip. I want to be clear about that. It was the first thing I told him.
“I’m not selling it, Dale. Not for any price.”
“I’d pay. Whatever you want.”
“It’s not about the money.”
He stared at me with wide, tired, confused eyes. “Then what is it about?”
“Dad wanted the strip held. Not spent. Held.” I folded my hands. “Here’s what I’d like to do. I keep the strip. It stays in my name. But I grant a permanent, recorded easement, for access through the gate and along the lane, for the well and the water lines, and for the drainage tile. It goes on record with the Register of Deeds. It belongs to the farm itself, not to any one person. Whoever owns the Dekker ground, now or a hundred years from now, gets to use the gate, drink from the well, and drain through the main.”
