Page 5 of The House That Held Her

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.

4

The heavy wooden door of the Mount Dora Historical Museum creaks as I push it open, the faint scent of black tea and old wood curling into my nose. Cool air sweeps over me, a welcome relief from the sticky Florida humidity clinging to my skin like a second layer. The building, once the town jail, carries an eerie charm. Three of the original jail cells stand intact, their iron bars stretching like skeletal fingers, now housing relics of the past. The other three have been demolished to make way for storage, a restroom, and more display space.

The museum is small, almost cozy, but its walls brim with the town's layered history. To my right, a wooden bookcase holds local history books and glossy Mount Dora Historical Museum merchandise. Opposite, a glass display case showcases keychains, postcards, and more books about the town's past. I step forward, my shoes scuffing softly against the worn floorboards.

Behind a small desk, a woman shuffles through a stack of papers. She looks up as I approach—short, likely in her late sixties, with a gray bob and thick, black-rimmed glasses perched on her nose. A kind smile deepens the soft lines of her face.

"Hi there, sweetie. Welcome to the Mount Dora Historical Museum," she greets, her voice lilting with a honeyed Southern accent. "Unless you're a student, it'll be $2 today. Anything you're interested in learning about?"

I fish two crumpled bills from my pocket and place them on the counter. "Just thought I'd check out the museum and maybe learn a bit more about the town's history."

Paula's eyes light up as she slides a blue photocopied leaflet across the desk toward me. "Well, you're in for a treat. This here's our little scavenger hunt—walks you through the town's past using artifacts around the room. Although they change things on me all the time; someone donates something new, and all the numbers get screwed up. If you need help, just ask. Oh, and if you need the restroom, we finally got one put in. Big deal for us, you know?"

I chuckle, clutching the leaflet. "Good to know. Thanks."

Paula steps out from behind the counter, gesturing for me to follow."Now, take your time, but I'll hover a bit. Can't help myself," she says with a grin.

The first artifact is a cracked headstone propped against a wall, its engraving half-erased by time. Black-and-white photos line the walls, capturing snapshots of Mount Dora's earliest days. A horse-drawn fire hose sits in one corner, its giant red wheels rusted but still intact. Nearby, an assortment of hand-powdered tools sits on display: a sausage maker, an orange cleaner—bristles stiff with age—and a juice press, all reminders of the town's agricultural roots.

I wander deeper into the space, pausing at a full display case of Mount Dora police and fire patches, their vibrant colors dimmed by the glass. Paula drifts nearby, occasionally adding a tidbit about the town's history—who donated the artifacts, which families still live in town—but it's her familiarity with the place that fills the room with life.

Following the scavenger hunt's numbers, I weave my way to the museum's back left corner. Three jail cells, bars still intact, have been repurposed into mini-exhibits, each packed with dusty boards and relics from past displays. I step inside one, feeling the heavy air of its former purpose, then move toward the back wall.

A large glass display case dominates the space and inside is a meticulously crafted model of Hawthorn Manor. Every gabled rooftop and tiny shutter is there. My chest tightens. Next to it, old polaroids show the house mid-construction—its skeletal frame rising from the dirt, scaffolding clinging to its sides. A yellowed newspaper clipping sits beneath the photos, its headline bold: "Ballooning Lumber Prices Double Cost of Hawthorn Estate."

"Biggest project Mount Dora ever saw," Paula's voice floats over my shoulder. "George Hawthorn spared no expense. They say the whole town stopped to watch it go up. Still one of the largest and most expensive projects 'round here."

I stare at the photographs. Filthy laborers stand with the house behind them, working away on a dream that Nate and I now own. It's an odd, surreal feeling that fills me with a surprising sense of pride. Our house is important, and by proxy, we could be too.

"They planned to fill it with kids, you know," Paula adds, her voice softening. "Didn't quite work out that way."

A lump forms in my throat, but I swallow it down. "Do you have anything about what happened? To them, I mean?"

She hesitates before answering. "Not much on the official record. But folks talk. You should?—"

The museum door opens with a gust of warm air and a tall man steps inside. His silver hair gleams under the overhead lights, streaks of dark gray cutting through the silver. His sharp gray eyes sweep the room before settling on me.

"Well hello there!," Paula whispers before pausing, her eyes narrowing slightly as if realizing something. "You know, I didn't even get your name."

"Margot," I reply. "Margot Bennett."

The moment my name leaves my lips, something shifts. Recognition flickers across Paula's face. "Doctor, this is Margot Bennett. Margot, this is Doctor Raymond Whitfield, he owns a practice right here in town."

The man closes the distance with a kind smile on his face and an extended hand."So, you're the new owner of the beloved Hawthorn Manor, huh? Congratulations. Beautiful home."

I shake his hand, the grip firm, almost clinical. "Thank you so much. The wild part is my husband and I actually bought Hawthorn Manor without ever stepping foot inside. We found the listing online while still in Maryland. We needed a fresh start, so we called the realtor and made an offer. Honestly, I didn't know much about the house—certainly not how beloved it seems to be here."

Paula beams. "Well, it's wonderful to have someone new in town, especially someone willing to take care of that house. The way things ended for the Hawthorns was sudden and tragic, but we're all pretty excited to see it lived in again."

Dr. Whitfield nods. "It's a part of the town's soul, in a way. Seeing it empty for so long was hard on folks."

Paula leans closer, pointing to a small window in the museum's front door. "You can even see it from here—up on that hill."

I step closer to the glass and, sure enough, through the trees and over rooftops, I spot Hawthorn Manor's steep gables rising above the town.

Turning back, I ask, "Did either of you know the Hawthorns well? Like I said, I don't know much about them or the house when we purchased it, and clearly—" I point to the display case featuring a model of my new home. “I should better understand the history we've inherited."

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