Page 63

“Here?” she repeats, looking me up and down with much more scrutiny than before.

“Yes ma’am. Letters that, apparently, George had written… to you.”

Strangely, she didn’t move at the bomb drop. Her face didn’t change, her body language didn’t give anything away. It’s almost as if she hadn’t heard me. So, I continue– “They mention an affair, a deep connection, and… a pregnancy. Patrick seems convinced George was his father.”

She finally snaps back to attention. Her complexion pales, and the hand gripping her shawl trembles. “Those damn letters,” she whispers. “Oh God.” I can see her mind working through what this new information may mean for her. “They were never supposed to see daylight. And they sure as hell were never supposed to be seen by my boy.” Slowly, she exhales, shaking her head.

I wait, letting her find the words.

She closes her eyes briefly, then looks at me with a haunted sort of defiance. “George never loved me. Hell, he barely noticed I existed. But I loved him—maybe from the moment I saw him on the schoolyard playground as a child. And when he cheated on Cecilia with that woman, thatbimbo, Theresa Bennett… I couldn’t stand it. I was so jealous I—” Her voice breaks. “I wrote those letters to comfort myself. A delusion to soothe the sting of being overlooked. They’re fiction. Every word.”

I’m rocked with a series of confusing emotions all in quick succession. My mother was just called a bimbo, which I suppose is fair when you sleep with a married man, but I still feel protective of her. Next, a huge wave of relief and vindication that it does sound like George Hawthorn was my biological father. And finally, intense nervousness that I now have the truth and need to confront Patrick with it. I think of his certainty when he arrived on my porch that first night here in Mount Dora, of the homemade letters he held close to his chest as proof. “So, to be clear, Patrick isnotGeorge Hawthorn’s son?” I ask quietly.

She shakes her head, tears returning. “No. His father was…some nameless drifter passing through town. I latched onto him one night out of sheer heartbreak. Patrick was born nine months later. That’s all. Those letters were just an escape, my own twisted fantasy. I never dreamed Patrick would find them.”

Her face crumples at the realization of the damage, and I can almost hear her mourning the fallout. After a heavy moment, I stand, the floor creaking beneath my feet. “Thank you,” I say, swallowing hard. “I appreciate your candor.”

She looks at me with a plea in her eyes. “Don’t tell him. Please. I’m begging you. Patrick has wanted a father his whole life—someone to claim him, to show him he mattered. If you strip that away, what will he have left?” Her voice cracks. “He’s a proud man, but he’s fragile in ways you can’t imagine.”

My thoughts reel. Patrick’s claim is false, which means Hawthorn Manor stays rightfully mine. But telling him the truth could break him. I nod slowly, the guilt knotting in my chest. “I understand” is all I can muster. It feels disingenuous to promise anything more knowing I need to confront Patrick at some point.

I slip out of the house into the cooling twilight, relief tempered by a pang of sympathy for Patrick. All that conviction he approached me with was fueled by a lie he never asked for. And now I hold the truth that could shatter him.

Back at my motel room, the night air is thick and quiet. I drop onto the stiff bed and pull out a notepad, the overhead light buzzing faintly.I have to deal with Patrick.Letting him keep believing a lie is cruel, but so is tearing his identity apart. So where does that leave me?

My phone buzzes with a text from Margot, likely checking in. She’s still at Hawthorn Manor, probably worried about me, about everything. A flush of shame spreads through me—I’ve lied so often it’s second nature now. But if I can resolve this without hurting anyone else, maybe I can salvage the fresh start Margot and I are clinging to.

Grabbing a pen, I start jotting down a plan. I’ll confront Patrick calmly, show him enough to make him let go of Hawthorn Manor without totally obliterating his sense of self. Maybe I can frame it so he doesn’t have to know the devastating truth that his mother faked it all. But how?

My pen hovers uncertainly above the paper. I realize I’m caught between two precarious choices—lie to Patrick to preserve his dignity or reveal the entire truth and risk seeing his potential, yet understandable, fury.

The longer I stare at the page, the more I feel the walls closing in. I tap my pen nervously against the notebook, swallowing a surge of dread. The storms in my life are converging from every angle: Patrick’s illusions, George’s secrets, Margot’s suspicions. Somehow, I need to navigate them all without losing the one thing I’ve been fighting for—my second chance to be a good man again.

51

The sun is dipping low in the sky when I return to Phyllis’s bungalow, a tight knot of dread coiling in my stomach. The letter in my coat pocket feels heavier than ever—a quiet bomb waiting to detonate. I know Patrick will be furious at what I’m about to show him. Still, I can’t see another way out. I’ve written and rewritten every word in an effort to break the truth gently.

When I knock, the door swings open to reveal Patrick standing there, confusion flickering across his features as he steps aside to let me in. Inside, the bungalow feels even more cramped than before—musty furniture, the faint smell of old perfume. My breath catches as I look at him.

“Patrick,” I begin, forcing a calm I don’t feel. “I just want to reiterate that I really appreciated your respect and patience as I worked through the bombshell you dropped on me when we first met.” I smile passively to try and break the tension.

“During my research, I found some information that I think you need to see.” My hand slips into my coat, pulling out the envelope. My palms are clammy with sweat, and I pass the letter over to him.

His expression hardens before he even reads a word. I can sense the wall going up, a mixture of mistrust and anger. He slides out the pages, scanning the opening lines.

I step onto the small front porch, wanting to give him space. But I only get a couple of steps away when I hear the letter tear in two, echoing like a gunshot in the still evening air. Spinning around, I find Patrick glaring at me, shreds of paper in his hands.

“You think I’m gonna buy this garbage?” he snarls. “You think I care what you wrote down? This doesn’t change a damn thing.”

I flinch at the raw fury in his voice. My mind whirls back to my promise to Phyllis—she begged me to protect him from the ugly truth, to keep him from discovering her secret. But I’ve just made it worse. Fighting the urge to defend myself, I raise both hands, palms out.

“Patrick,” I say quietly. “Easy. Listen, I’m not trying to shatter anything you believe. But it’s important for me to provide you with the truth so we can both move forward.”

“Fuck you!” he screams, spittle flying his mouth. I squint in a poor attempt to block some of the vile liquid spilling from his face.

“Okay, okay. We can’t do this here. Not in front of your mom. She doesn’t need to hear this.” I say gently, trying my best to de-escalate the situation.

He flicks a glance over his shoulder, clearly wary that Phyllis might emerge at any moment. His jaw tenses. “Fine. There’s a second house out on the Hawthorn property—it’s a shit hole, but no one will bother us there. Take the gravel drive, keep right through the trees. I’ll meet you there in twenty minutes.”