Page 51 of The House That Held Her

50

I pull my car onto the cracked shoulder of the two-lane road, the old engine ticking in the afternoon heat. The address from Chief Miller led me here—a faded, sagging house on the outskirts of Mount Dora. Its shutters hang askew, and the paint is so peeled it’s almost colorless. A single, gnarled oak stands in the yard, its branches creaking in the breeze.

For a long time, I just watch from behind my steering wheel, waiting. I don’t know for certain if Patrick currently lives here, but everything I’ve gleaned suggests he does. If he is here, I can’t just stroll up and knock on the door. I’m not eager for a direct confrontation until I’m fully equipped with the necessary facts. So I sit, engine off, perspiration collecting in the stale air of the car, as the sun slides toward the horizon.

Eventually, the front door groans open, and I spot Patrick stepping out. Even from a distance, his tall frame is unmistakable. He hops into a battered pickup, the engine sputters, then he’s gone in a cloud of dust. My pulse quickens. This is my opening.

I ease out of the car, scanning the yard for movement. No dogs bark; no curtains shift in the windows. Still, I approach slowly. At the door, I knock, and my heartbeat thuds in my ears when I hear footsteps approach.

An elderly woman appears, a red hair bob hangs close to her shoulders, her face etched by lines of weariness and something else—maybe a restless pride. She eyes me with open suspicion.

“Ma’am,” I begin, offering a polite nod. “I’m sorry to bother you. My name is John Hayes. I’m researching the Hawthorn family for a cold-case podcast I produce. I wondered if you might help me.”

Her eyes narrow, but she’s not slamming the door in my face. “Sweetie, you’re handsome which is the only reason I opened the door in the first place. But if you want me to understand what the hay you just said, you’re going to have too speak slower. What in the world is a cold cast?”

I smile warmly. “No, no, ma’am. A cold case podcast. It’s essentially a news program on the radio that tries to uncover new clues around old mysteries. I produce the program and was hoping to ask you some questions about the Hawthorn family, George and Cecilia?”

She hesitates, glancing past me at the empty yard, then gives a small sigh. Her gaze shifts, and a wry curve tugs at her lips—like she’s about to play a part. She adjusts a vivid purple shawl draped over her shoulders, stepping back from the threshold. “Well, I can’t say no to a radio show asking questions!” she says, an air of resignation coloring her tone. “Come on in.”

Inside, the house smells like old incense and heavy perfume. Bright, mismatched furniture crowds the living room, dust lingering in corners. Framed photographs are everywhere—faded Polaroids, decades-old certificates, newspaper clippings. It feels like a museum dedicated to a life she’s determined not to forget. Purple seems to dominate the décor, from the curtains to the cushions. She sinks onto a flower-patterned chair and gestures for me to sit across from her.

I settle gingerly, trying not to send up too much dust into the air with my weight. “Thank you for speaking with me. As I said, I’m diving into the Hawthorns and while it feels like I have a pretty decent understanding of Cecilia, I must admit, George is a harder character to nail down.”

“Ah yes, George was somewhat of an enigma, you see. I think in times like these, he would have been considered odd, maybe even weird. But back in the day,” she stares off, eyes glossing over, clearly deep in memory. “Phew, back in the day, George was the epitome of perfection. He had drive and class. He was book smart and didn’t take crap from anyone. He was a giver and provider for everyone in this town.” She looks back to me now before dropping her head towards her lap. Tears begin to fall and as she wipes them away, clumps of thick, clumpy foundation cling her hand. “I miss him very much.”

I lean forward, my nerves on fire. I don’t like the way this sounds.

“It seems as though many folks I’ve spoken with share your sentiment, ma’am. George Hawthorn sounds like a good man.” I say as a surprising new emotion bubbles inside my chest: pride. If this man was my biological father, sure he did leave me abandoned which is pretty shitty, but… it also appears like he was a really good man later in life.

The woman looks at me and nods with a humble, gentle smile, but says nothing more.

I’m close, this is my opportunity to get what I came for. But I also need to press gently.

“So, of the many folks I talked to in town, your son, Patrick was one of them.” I say causally, trying to monitor her response.

She stiffens a bit, her chin lifting. “Ah yes, Patrick is my boy. I’m sure he gave you a mouth full. He’s an opinionated one.”

I laugh to appease the joke and then draw a breath, bracing myself. “He, uh– he showed me some letters that he had found. Letters that he found… here.”

“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, that bimbo , 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 is not George 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.