Page 4 of The House That Held Her

3

T he morning sun struggles against the heavy clouds still clinging to the sky in the aftermath of the storm. Humid air presses down on me, thick with the scent of wet earth and sodden wood. I step onto the porch, squinting against the unexpected brightness, taking in the devastation left behind. The lawn is a battlefield of fallen branches, uprooted shrubs, and scattered debris. A small tool shed lies in pieces across the gravel driveway; it remains a casualty of the hurricane's fury.

Behind me, Hawthorn Manor looms, standing defiantly against the shifting sky. The once-imposing gothic structure bears new scars—streaks of rain-washed decay and fresh wounds where the storm has taken its toll. Ivy clings desperately to the stonework, stretching hungrily upward as if trying to reclaim the house entirely. The steeply pitched roof, framed by towering chimneys, seems to glare down at me in silent accusation. This house has survived worse. But today, it feels tired, battered, as if even it knows how close we came to ruin.

Hawthorn Manor sits atop the highest point in Mount Dora, a commanding presence at the crossroads of Sixth Avenue and Donnelly Street. From here, the entire town unfolds below—brick-lined streets winding through historic shops, cafes, and colorful buildings that have stood the test of time. The manor's vantage point offers an unobstructed view of Lake Dora, its vast, rippling waters stretching across 4,385 acres. The largest lake in the Harris Chain it dominates the landscape, hugging the town's edges like an ever-present guardian. Spanish moss drapes from the cypress trees along its banks, and in the morning, mist hovers just above the water's surface, lending the place an otherworldly calm.

From this height, I can see where the storm has left its mark—boats tossed haphazardly against the docks, debris floating along the shoreline, and the usually pristine lakefront park now littered with broken limbs and overturned benches. With its old-world charm and sleepy Southern elegance, Mount Dora wears the storm's scars like fresh bruises, but I know the town will recover. It always does.

I pull out my phone, hoping for a message from Nate. A simple text to say he made it to DC, maybe even an acknowledgment that he thought of me at all during the storm.

Nothing.

"Surprise, surprise," I mutter, turning the screen off. "Husband of the Year right here!"

With a dramatic flourish, I throw one hand in the air, the other pointing at my phone in mock celebration. I spin slowly, mimicking the cheers of an imaginary crowd, giving them the performance of a woman so very amused by her husband's disappearing act. But the moment passes, and the silence swallows me whole. The bitter humor fades, leaving behind only disappointment.

I scan the estate. Beyond the storm-torn yard, the land stretches endlessly—wild and unkempt, once a thriving citrus grove, now a tangle of weeds and forgotten trees. A crumbling fountain stands dry and useless near the drive, its basin filled with leaves instead of water. Further back, past the remnants of a greenhouse long past its prime, an old carriage house sags under its own neglect, doors barely clinging to their rusted hinges. My eyes land on a familiar figure beneath an ancient oak, methodically clearing away fallen limbs.

Walter.

He moves with the deliberate precision of a man who has done this a thousand times before, his pruning shears slicing effortlessly through tangled branches. The storm, the damage—it doesn't faze him. He's seen worse. He's always been here, like part of the foundation itself.

I watch him momentarily before making my way down the porch steps, my shoes crunching on the damp gravel. As I approach, he straightens, wiping sweat from his brow with the back of a weathered hand.

"Morning, Margot," he greets me, his voice carrying that familiar warmth. "Storm did quite a number on the old place, didn't it?"

I offer him a small, weary smile. "It really did. I don't know what we'd do without you, Walter."

He chuckles, a soft, knowing sound. "Well, I can't just let her fall apart now, can I? She's got good bones, this house. Worth every bit of care."

His words settle over me, stirring a pang of guilt for the rage I had unleashed on these very walls last night.

I glance back at the house. "You know, I've been thinking about the history of the place. I've heard stories, but… I don't really know much about the Hawthorn family. Do you?"

Walter pauses, considering my question. He pulls off his Yankees cap, running a hand through silver hair before settling it back in place. "Sure, I knew them, as did my father before me. Mr. Hawthorn was a good man, but after his wife passed… Well, he was never the same."

"How did she die?" I ask, watching as his gaze drifts toward the lake.

"Heart attack. Out on Lake Dora," he says quietly. "It was a tragedy. The whole town mourned her. After that, Mr. Hawthorn changed. He stopped attending town events, made fewer appearances, kept to himself. Folks would occasionally catch glimpses of him on his porch, staring down towards the lake, but over time, even those sightings became rare. One day, people realized they hadn't seen him at all in months. The town whispered about what might have happened—some say he left the town to escape the memories. Others think he took his own life. No one really knows."

Walter idly nudges a rock with the toe of his boot, lost in thought. "One day, I had a good, kind man that I worked for. The next, the city of Mount Dora labeled this house a historic site and started paying me to maintain it. The checks kept coming, so I kept showing up."

He exhales, shaking his head with a wry smile. "Truth is, I would've kept showing up with or without the money. I just love this old house too much to see her fall apart."

I study him; the deep lines on his forehead roll down to his thick gray beard, with unwavering dedication in his eyes. He means every word.

"It's safe to say the house and I are happy to have you here, Walter," I say, lowering my voice slightly. "And I'm also happy Nate isn't around to hear me say that, because he thinks I'm wasting my time trying to bring this place back to life."

Walter turns his gaze back to me, his expression soft but knowing. "Your husband is a practical man. But sometimes, history is what matters most. The things that connect us to a place, to each other. Don't let anyone make you feel like what you want isn't important."

Something in my chest tightens. "Thank you, Walter. That means a lot."

He nods, smiling once more. "Anytime, Margot. Old houses tend to reflect their owners. Might be a little rough around the edges now, but give it time. She'll shine again. Just you wait and see."

I turn back toward the house, Walter's words lingering in my mind. He's right. This house is more than just rotting wood and broken dreams. There's something here—something waiting to be uncovered.

A sense of determination surfaces as I step back into the house, my mind buzzing with questions. Who was Mr. Hawthorn? What had happened to him after his wife's death? And why the hell was there a treasure map hidden under my floorboards? The curiousness of it all pushed me to dig deeper.

I head straight for my laptop, typing in every variation of "Hawthorn Manor," "original owner," and "Lake Dora tragedy" I can think of, yet the search results are infuriatingly sparse. It's like the man had been erased from history—vanished into the folds of forgotten time.

"Come on," I mutter, slamming the laptop shut. Leaning back in the creaky wooden chair, I try to steady my breathing, but frustration claws at me.

I stand up, stretching until my back pops. The satisfying release does little to calm the storm in my head. With a pencil dangling between my teeth, I start to pace, but then—movement. A flicker across the sitting room. I freeze, my heart pounding.

I stare hard, waiting. Was it my imagination? Probably. But then, a shadow sweeps past the window.

My pulse jumps, my throat tightening. Logic whispers it was just Walter moving around the house, but something about it doesn't sit right.

I creep toward the window, my footsteps feeling ridiculously loud against the old boards. Pressing my hands against the glass, I cup them around my eyes, leaning in until my forehead touches the cool pane. Nothing. Just condensation diffusing the afternoon sun. I let out a breath, fogging the glass.

"You're losing it, Margot," I whisper, beginning to turn away.

That's when the face appears. Squashed against the glass, its nose flattened comically, wide eyes blinking straight at me.

I gasp, stumbling backward with a strangled yelp.

"Hello!" the woman calls out, her voice muffled but sharp enough to make me flinch. She jabs a finger toward the back door before disappearing from view.

A knock rattles the doorframe a heartbeat later.

"What the-" I breathe, my pulse still racing as I hesitate, then yank open the door.

There she stands—an explosion of bright purple and chaos. She has to be pushing seventy, her stiff bob dyed a harsh red, lips smeared in a shade of violet that bled onto her teeth. A cigarette dangles from her fingers, a thin ribbon of smoke curling up into the humid air.

"Well! Aren't you a sight?" she practically shouts before brushing past me like she owns the place. Her heels click across the old tiles.

"I—wait, who?—"

"Phyllis Brendamore. You must be Margot. Heard you bought this old place." She waves her hand dismissively, her sharp eyes scanning the dusty corners of the house with something close to disgust. "Oh, it's worse than I thought."

"Nice to meet you, Phyllis," I said dryly, still reeling. "Can I help you with something?"

"Oh, I just had to see the new owner," she chirps, pausing to finger a dusty drape. "George and Cecilia Hawthorn were practically family. I was in and out of this house constantly. Well, not literally, but close enough."

Something about her feels off—too bold, too intrusive—but there appears to be some history in her words, and I'm looking for information.

"You knew them well?"

"Oh, darling, of course. The Hawthorns practically ran Mount Dora. They were the biggest donors for the Mount Dora Winter Gala—thirty grand every year." She pauses, eyeing me with a grin that was all teeth. "And now that you're here, maybe you'd like to keep that tradition alive?"

I blink. "Thirty thousand dollars? Yeah, that's not exactly in the budget."

Her smile falters for a second before snapping back into place. "Oh, I get it, I do. Times are tough. But maybe we could host the gala here? Since Georgie left, we've had to use the community building off Baker St. Can you imagine anything more depressing? I'm sure we could spruce the ol' girl up a bit. It'd be perfect!"

Before I can respond, she's already gesturing wildly. "We'll need new drapes, of course. And the floor, what happened to the beautiful oak? Hate this new color, much too dark. And a deep clean. God, the dust in here could kill someone."

"Seriously, Phyllis, that's not—" I cut in, but her voice bulldozes over mine.

"Phyllis, please!" I snap louder this time, but it's like yelling into the wind.

Finally, my patience wholly unravels, and I step directly in front of the woman, unloading a barrel of a yell. "Phyllis!"

She freezes mid-gesture, turning back to me with wide eyes.

"I'm not hosting a gala. I'm not making a donation. And I need you to leave. Please."

The words hang in the air, heavier than I intended, but happy to have paused the rude onslaught nonethesame.

Phyllis's expression doesn't crack. Instead, she chuckles, patting my arm, and mutters, "No harm done, dear."

She makes her way toward the door, and my pulse begins to return to its normal rate. But I can't stop myself.

"Wait– since you knew the Hawthorns… would you mind sharing some insight? I'm trying to learn more about them myself. Feels a bit odd to own a house with so much history without knowing much about the people who built and lived in it."

Phyllis brightens immediately. "Oh, darling, I could tell you stories all day, but for the real dirt? Talk to Paula Hastings. She knows this place inside and out—unappointed town historian; probably has files on files."

"Paula Hastings?"

"Mount Dora Historical Museum. Can't miss her."

With a dramatic wave, she disappears through the doorway, leaving nothing but smoke and the faint scent of menthol in her wake.

I lock the door behind her while my mind races with possibilities. At least now I have a lead—Paula Hastings. Maybe she can shed some light on the mysteries surrounding this place.