Page 58 of The House That Held Her

She drifts off again, her expression torn. I wait, letting her process, then gently slide my hand over hers, thumb brushing across her knuckles. “Hey, no pressure,” I add, keeping my tone easy. “Just think about it. We can look around, see what’s out there. If we find the right place, great. If we don’t, we stay put.”

She bites her lip and nods slowly. That little gesture tells me my seed of an idea is taking root. A flicker of hope sparks in her eyes, and it mirrors the relief swirling through my chest. If she’s open to leaving, then we’re one step closer to the escape I need.

I let a quiet moment pass before I lean forward again, lowering my voice like I’m revealing a hidden gem. “I’ve actually done some research,” I admit, keeping it casual. “There’s this town down in Florida—Mount Dora. Supposed to be beautiful, near some lakes, warm winters. People say it’s peaceful. Exactly the kind of place where nobody knows us.”

Margot’s eyes sharpen with a touch of curiosity. “Florida?” she echoes. “That’s…far.”

“It is,” I concede, layering sympathy into my words. “But maybe that distance is what we need. So, we’re not confronted with everything that’s happened here. The trial. Lila…” I pause deliberately, letting the name hit her with its full weight.

She flinches like I thought she would, her face etched with pain. I can almost feel her resolve weakening at the memory.

“I’ve been looking at houses there,” I say carefully, trying not to sound too eager. “Old ones with character—places that can be shaped into something new. Somewhere we could call ours.”

Margot’s eyes grow wet, the memory of Lila and the trial clearly tangled up in her mind. “You think…we could really leave it all behind?” she asks, her voice trembling.

“We can,” I answer firmly. “We’ll take it slow—make sure it’s right. But I believe in us, and I believe in giving ourselves the space to heal.”

She glances down, fingers clutching mine. “Okay,” she whispers. “Maybe…maybe it’s worth looking into.”

That single word—okay—thrums through me like a bolt of electricity. I manage a gentle smile, nodding as if I haven’t already planned half of this in my head. “Yeah,” I say. “We’ll see what’s out there.”

As I lean back, I notice a faint spark in her expression that wasn’t there a minute ago. I don’t let her see how triumphant it makes me feel. Instead, I press a soft kiss to the back of her hand and let the quiet settle again.

In the silence, my thoughts churn with the future I’m already constructing: Hawthorn Manor in Mount Dora, the warm sun on our shoulders, far from the creditors and mistakes chasing me. Margot can be free of her grief. I can rebuild our lives, finally provide for her again. I just need a chance, just a little luck on my side. I can be a good husband again, I know it.

For now, I keep my satisfaction tucked inside. I just squeeze her hand a little tighter, matching her weary gaze with a smile. But in my mind, I’m already gone, imagining the day we’ll pack our life into boxes and drive south to Florida, leaving every specter of this place in our rearview mirror.

46

The 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.”

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