Page 3 of The House That Held Her

"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.

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