Page 8 of Falling for the Grumpy Stranger

I wrote back. “That makes one of us.”

“Rhett, I think we just need to talk things through. We can’t ruin a good thing because of one mistake.”

“One big mistake,” I wrote back. “It’s over. Let the lawyers figure things out and then we never have to speak again.”

She didn’t respond. I dropped the phone onto the table. The kitchen table, along with a sofa, chair and guest room bed, were all I took with me when I left the house. I told Christine the rest was hers. I wanted nothing more to do with any of it.

I picked up a third cookie and let my mind wander back to the girl with the buttermilk hair.

Chapter Eight

ELLA

My face was numb from the cold as I stepped into the library. I must have entered with a burst of energy because Verna took the time to look up from the books she was stamping to shush me. The woman always loved a good shush.

My hands had been kept warm in my pockets. I pressed them against my cheeks to warm my face as I headed over to the research section. I took off my coat and scarf and hung them on the back of one of the chairs at the table I’d always used as a teenager. Isla and I both had a crush on the same senior, Josh Hadley, and he usually sat with his big, important senior friends at the table opposite, so we were able to spy on him over the edges of our textbooks. Sometimes, on stressful days like this, I longed to be back at that table giggling with Isla and getting shushed by Verna. Back then we all but ignored her no food rule as we snacked on chips and pretzels behind the shields we made with our books. Verna was younger then and more tolerant of our teenage antics. She’d grown stricter in her old age. Which was probably why the library was mostly empty after school. Of course, the internet made the library somewhat obsolete, too. It was sad to think that kids weren’t hanging out at the library,pretending to get their studies done and at the same time having fun with their friends.

I knew there were a couple of books about the history of Whisper Cove. They looked neglected on the shelf. It seemed no one had checked them out for years. I browsed the table of contents in both books. There was no mention of Grimstone Manor or Margaret Grimstone. I browsed the section of architecture books, specifically the ones that contained references to the Arts and Crafts movement. While there was plenty of information about the movement and photos of famous houses in the style, there was no mention of Margaret’s home.

I put the books back on the shelf. This was going much worse than I expected, and now, it seemed, I was going to have to approach Ms. Denton to see if she knew of any resources about Margaret Grimstone and her cursed house. It was silly, really. I was an adult now. Verna and I were on equal footing as grown-ups. I was no longer the giggling teen who left cookie crumbs on the tables. Still, the old case of nerves was back as I walked across to her desk. I stood over her like a child waiting to be acknowledged as she stamped the last three books. She adjusted her silver-framed glasses and smiled weakly.

“Well, well, Ella Lovely. I don’t believe I’ve seen you in the library in months.”

“Yes, well, busy and all that.”

“How are the rest of the Lovely sisters?”

“They’re all fine. Ms. Denton, do you happen to know if there are any resources or books available about Margaret Grimstone?”

She adjusted the glasses again and pursed her lips. “Well, that’s not one many people ask about anymore. I understand the house has been purchased. If the new owners are smart, they’ll tear it down. Then maybe those ridiculous rumors about the curse will die with it.”

“The house looks far better than I realized. Sturdy, good construction back then, I guess. And I don’t think the new owner is planning to tear it down but then I don’t know him so you might be right. Anyhow, Margaret Grimstone?” I reminded her.

“Right.”

She stood up from the chair. In my teenage mind she was much taller and more imposing. She used to stand over the table reprimanding us for not putting a book back on the proper shelf or talking too loudly. She was at least a half head shorter than me, and I was not tall.

I followed her to a side room that was filled with old microfiche machines. It was hard to believe we used to use them for homework research. It was even harder to believe they’d survived this long. It seemed the less complex a machine, the longer its shelf life.

“Wow, this brings back memories,” I said with a chuckle.

Verna pursed her lips again. We used to call her Miss Lemon because of those lips. Not to her face, of course, although one time Becky Simmons forgot and called her Miss Lemon. We all dove behind our books to stifle the laughter. Ms. Denton didn’t seem to realize it was a nickname and merely corrected Becky.

Verna stood at the metal cabinets, opened a drawer and within seconds pulled out a microfiche disc. “This is the local paper that mentions Margaret Grimstone’s death. It’s the only one I know of. Back then, women, even those with means and important societal standing, didn’t merit articles in the newspaper.”

“I suppose that makes sense. We’ve come a long way … sort of,” I added.

“Yes, sort of,” she said with a sly smile. After all these years, I’d connected with Verna Denton on, of all topics, feminism.

“That one on the end works the best. I assume you still know how to use it?” She lifted a brow.

“Like riding a bicycle, I’m sure.”

“Same rules apply,” she started.

“Don’t put the disc away yourself. Just leave it on top in the return basket,” I recited the rule that we’d heard many times.

Another slight smile before she walked out of the room.

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