Page 47 of The House That Held Her

46

T he first night in Hawthorn Manor is colder than I expected. A dampness clings to the air, and as soon as we step through the heavy front door, it feels like the house itself exhales—like it’s been waiting too long for anyone to return. An uneasy hush settles around us, broken only by the rustle of cardboard as Margot and I unpack the bare necessities.

Margot gently trails her hand along the banister, a look of wary awe on her face. The place is undeniably grand: carved moldings, built-in bookcases, even stained-glass accents in some windows. Beneath the dust and cobwebs, you can still feel its former grandeur. I watch Margot closely, relieved that, despite everything, she seems excited to be here.

After an hour of wrestling with boxes in awkward silence, she tells me she’s heading for a shower. I nod and watch her walk upstairs, her shoulders drooping with exhaustion. A second later, a sharp knock rings out from the front porch, echoing through the high ceilings. I freeze, heart kicking up a notch. I glance at the stairwell, hoping Margot’s already out of earshot, then make my way to the door. If some creditor already followed us here… My heart sinks at the thought.

Standing on the porch is a stranger—tall, muscular, and exuding a kind of confidence that instantly sets me on edge. He has tousled hair, a shadow of stubble, and eyes that appear to be sizing me up the moment I open the door

“Hey there,” he says, lifting a hand in a hesitant wave. “Sorry to bother you so late. I’m looking for… Nate Bennett?”

I hesitate, hand still on the doorknob. “That’s me. Can I help you?”

He shifts his weight, offers a tight sort of smile that doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Yeah, uh… I’m Patrick. Patrick Brendamore. I heard someone moved into Hawthorn Manor, and, well, I live nearby. Thought I’d introduce myself.” He rubs the back of his neck, glancing around the porch. “I know it’s late, so I apologize. It’s just… this might sound weird, but I think we have some things to talk about regarding this house—and George Hawthorn.”

My stomach twists at the mention of my father’s name. “Okay…” I say slowly, trying not to sound hostile.

Patrick breathes out, the exhale clouding in the chilly air. “All right. Look, I don’t want to ambush you. I know you just arrived, and I’m sorry for catching you off guard. But I have reason to believe George Hawthorn was my father, too.”

He glances past my shoulder, into the foyer where half-unpacked boxes line the walls. I can practically see him weighing whether he should push for an invitation inside. Before he can speak again, I step out onto the porch, pulling the door partially shut behind me.

“I see. Why do you think that?” I ask, folding my arms to ward off the cold and the tension crawling up my spine.

Patrick reaches into his coat pocket and pulls out a small bundle of yellowed letters. He keeps them close to his chest, not forcing them on me, but showing me they exist. “I believe George and my mother had an affair, many years ago before– before his actual wife passed away.” The tension on the porch makes every muscle in my face feel like it’s being pulled towards the back of my head.

“My mom, Phyllis, saved every letter George ever wrote her. During the affair, he promised her things… a life together… that he’d acknowledge me. Unfortunately, for me and my mom, none of that ever happened before George disappeared. But it does mean that if all this is true, I might be George’s oldest son.”

I stare at him, my mind spinning. First day in a new house, and here’s someone claiming we’re half-brothers. It feels surreal. The air is so cold, my breath mists in front of my face, but sweat prickles at my temple. “That’s… um, wow. That’s a lot to take in on my first night here,” I manage.

He nods, shuffling the letters carefully. “Trust me, I’m not thrilled about delivering this bombshell. But I figure you and I deserve a chance to talk before I go waving these around in court.” He lifts the letters slightly, then tucks them away again. “If I’m older, I might have a stronger legal claim to this place than you. As uncomfortable as the situation is, I’m hoping we can handle this ourselves without needing to make it a legal thing.”

He says it quietly, but I can sense an undercurrent of determination. I take a breath, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m sorry, but I’ve got paperwork showing George left the manor to me. I’ll be honest, I never knew him—didn’t even know he was alive until the inheritance stuff came up. I’m not sure what your letters say or what kind of validity they may have in any legal proceedings. All I know is, I have documents laying claim to this property.”

Patrick’s jaw tenses. “I get it. And, hey, we certainly live in a world nowadays where some crazy person could fabricate these letters to try and scam you. It’s understandable you’re apprehensive. That’s why I’m here, face to face.” He glances toward the front door. “Look, I don’t want to intrude on your evening, especially if you and your wife just got in. But I also don’t want to blindside you with a lawsuit down the road. This place means something to me—and if George really intended it for one of us, I want to make sure the rightful person ends up with it.”

A draft cuts through the porch, and I shift on my feet. The entire conversation feels surreal and way too big for this late hour. “Listen,” I say carefully, “I appreciate your approach here, I do. But you’re right, my wife and I just got here. She’s exhausted. I’m exhausted. I need time to figure out what you’re saying… Right now, I can’t just?—”

He lifts a hand in a calming gesture. “I understand. Look, let me leave you my number.” He fishes in his pocket and hands me a plain white card with his name scrawled on it, plus a phone number. “I’m not some scam artist, Nate. I’d rather resolve this civilly than launch a full-blown legal fight. But I do want you to know I’m serious. So, I’m hoping we can come to an agreement like adults—figure out what George really intended here.”

I hold the card, feeling a tremor in my fingers. “Sure thing. Give me some time and I’ll be in touch.”

Patrick nods once, the tension in his face easing a fraction. “Good. Sorry again for dropping by without warning. I live just outside the historic district, so just… reach out whenever you can.” He hesitates a moment, searching my face. Then, with a small incline of his head, he steps off the porch and disappears into the night.

I wait, letting the cold wind rattle the porch swing, before I finally step back inside. The warmth of the foyer hits me, but I can’t shake the chill clinging to my bones. I lock the door with unsteady hands, listening for any sign Margot might’ve heard something. Silence.

As I make my way down the hall, I’m already planning how to keep this from her—at least until I figure out what’s real and what’s just bluster. Because if Patrick’s claim holds any water, my entire plan to start over here falls apart. I’ve staked everything on this manor. The idea that it could vanish from under me, or that I might have to share it with a stranger who calls himself my brother, makes my pulse thunder.

Heading toward the flicker of light in the living room, I pull out my phone. I aimlessly scroll socials as my mind works. I need to do a deep dive on this guy and maybe his mother. Are they legitimate or maybe just a pair of vagabonds or scam artists making their way through the town, looking to exploit our recent arrival? I open up a browser on my phone and type in his name: “Patrick Brendamore” followed by “Mount Dora, FL”. No real hits. No socials, no LinkedIn, not even a mention of him in any local news article.

While that doesn’t prove he’s my half-brother, it also doesn’t disprove that he’s a scam artist trying to exploit my lack of knowledge regarding this town. I need time and opportunity to do a deep dive here. I need to put feet on the ground, ask around town about this guy, see what people can tell me.

I hear the shower turn off and my mind flips trying to figure out how to explain this to Margot. She’s always been observant. If I’m out for hours asking questions about a random stranger, she’ll poke and prod until she figures out what just took place on our porch. And then, eventually, she’d find out I didn’t actually purchase this place with our savings like I told her but rather inherited it from my long-lost dead father. It’s all so absurd. But with her in this fragile state of mind and my mile high list of lies and manipulations, she can’t know. She can never know.

I run through possible scenarios in my head. A work trip—yes, that might buy me the time and opportunity I need. Margot still believes I’m employed and work from home. If I tell Margot CirroSystems needs me in DC for a customer meeting, I can slip away, do some digging into Patrick’s story, maybe find a way to protect our claim to Hawthorn Manor. Yes, this could work. I used to travel all the time. She’ll buy it.

I open a browser and start hunting for nearby hotels, my thoughts a chaotic swirl. The pressure closes in around me again, suffocating. I’ve lied this long; I can keep lying until I figure out how to deal with Patrick Brendamore. Because there’s no way I’m letting him—or anyone else—take this house from me. Not when it’s the one lifeline I have left.