Anita stepped out onto the country road, her breath forming small clouds of vapor in the crisp morning air. Her water bottle swung lightly from her fingers as she set off towards the quaint town of Harrowsburg. The path stretched ahead, lined with ancient oak trees whose gnarled branches arched overhead, casting dappled shadows on the two-track road below. Birds chirped in the distance, their songs a soothing backdrop to the morning solitude. Her face warmed with a blush when she thought of the outrageous dream that had filled her night. Her thoughts were still tangled with the remnants of it—so vivid, so unsettlingly real.

Guilt ate at her. What was the designated time frame for attraction to be appropriate after a spouse’s death? Vance had been gone from her life for eight months, and she’d fought against coming to Connecticut for six. The only reason she was here was because the proceeds from the sale of her California house had not gone as far as she’d hoped to pay their bills, especially after the cash she’d paid for Doreen’s month in rehab. She realized after Vance’s death that they really had lived above their means, and cutting two professional salaries down to one took a toll. The life insurance they’d always assumed would suffice was null and void due to the suicide. If she wanted to get off Doreen’s couch anytime soon, she needed to knock those bills out. After seeing the Hall and grounds, she believed its sale would easily do so and allow her to buy a new house outright. She should also be able to put away a nice cushion for the future.

That’s why she was here. That and only that. Logan was a nice guy, but he seemed to have a relationship with that blonde from the diner. Anita would stay as far away from him as possible during this process and get back to California as soon as the sale allowed. Then, she could figure out the attraction time frame. Doreen would help her to understand what was normal, if there was such a thing in these situations. Her subconscious and her body had pushed her there with Logan. It was just a dream and nothing to feel guilty about.

Huffing a sigh and shaking her arms and legs out, she shoved her ear buds in, gripped her water bottle more tightly, and started off at a brisk jog down the two-track road toward town. As she ran, lost in her thoughts, music volume raging, she missed the sound of the approaching vehicle. Only when the sun’s glare bounced off its windshield did Anita notice Logan's pickup rounding the bend in the road towards her. She moved off to the side of the track as he slowed to a stop beside her, the engine rumbling softly.

Logan rolled down the window. Anita had never been so grateful for the vintage of vehicle that truly required rolling as it gave her time to catch her huffing breath and set her expression to one she hoped was sufficiently neutral. Logan’s expression, on the contrary, was a mix of concern and something else that Anita couldn’t quite place. He seemed to hesitate for a moment before speaking. “Morning. How’d your first night go?”

Anita shifted uncomfortably, tearing her focus from the water bottle in her hands before meeting his gaze. “It was... fine,” she said, the word feeling inadequate for the delicious storm of emotions she had experienced. She was aware of the awkwardness seeping into the space between them, a stark contrast to the profound connection of their shared dream. Not real, Anita reminded herself, as she tugged at the sleeves of her activewear jacket. But even their interaction the evening before when he showed her to the estate had been warmer than this.

Logan searched her eyes and chuckled softly. “I half expected you to change your mind and book a hotel room in town instead.”

The comment stung. She straightened, her voice sharper than she intended. “I’m tougher than I look, you know.”

He caught her edginess, and his eyes widened slightly. “Hey, I didn’t mean it like that,” he said quickly, his gaze intense. “I just meant—” He paused, searching for the right words, his focus flickering over her face with what looked like a mix of admiration and something deeper. “I was just worried, is all.”

Anita felt a flush rise to her cheeks at the intensity of his look—a hungry, lingering glance that spoke volumes.

Logan seemed to realize how he’d come across and cleared his throat, looking away. “I’m sorry, that came out wrong.” He fumbled through his next words, his usual ease buried under a sudden and inexplicable awkwardness. “Can I offer you a lift into town? Maybe grab some coffee?”

It was tempting, not just for the promise of coffee but for the chance to understand what this tension between them meant. Yet, her body felt oddly weary, her muscles more fatigued than a simple night’s sleep should warrant. “Thanks, but I think I need to run. Clear my head a bit, stretch my legs.” she said, forcing a smile.

Logan nodded, his expression understanding yet filled with a hint of disappointment. She caught him glancing down the slender, long line of her yoga pants from hip to ankle. He coughed and looked away, out the windshield again. “Sure thing. If you’re looking for coffee, though, try The Steaming Bean down on Main. Can’t miss it.”

“Thanks, I will,” Anita said, her mind still racing with thoughts of their dream. Logan hesitated, as if wanting to say more but unsure of himself.

They parted with a lingering, awkward silence that spoke louder than words. Anita watched as Logan’s pickup disappeared down the road toward the estate, her heart a confusing mix of disappointment and relief. As she fell into her jog again, the dream replayed in her mind, the surreal meeting with Logan beneath the swirling blue mist feeling more like a memory than a figment of her imagination.

It was madness, she thought, to feel such a connection so quickly, especially based on a dream. But as she ran, the fatigue in her muscles kept pulling her back to the reality of that experience. The dream had felt so real, so tangible. Was it just a product of her anxious mind, or had something truly inexplicable happened between them? No. Ridiculous.

Her rational mind battled the part of her that yearned to understand the mysterious bond that seemed to have formed between her and Logan. The line separating reality and dreams blurred a little more, leaving Anita to wonder where this path would ultimately lead.

***

Anita emerged out of the forest, leaving the two-track behind and continued her run on the main road for a few miles more, winding beside fields dotted with wildflowers and bordered by wooden fences that leaned slightly askew. Harrowsburg appeared ahead, its small collection of buildings nestled cozily against the backdrop of rolling hills. She quickened her pace, now eager for a coffee shop’s warmth and some caffeine.

Entering the town square, she spotted the coffee shop Logan had mentioned, its sign swinging gently in the breeze. She gave herself a quick cool-down walk around the block and then pushed open the door. Coffee and the sweetness of baked goods met her head-on. The interior was cozy, with cleverly mismatched tables and chairs that still somehow made sense together. A few were occupied by locals chatting over their morning cups.

An elderly couple behind the counter smiled warmly at Anita as she approached. "Morning, dear," a woman with salt and pepper hair in her mid-60s greeted her cheerfully. "What can we get for you today?"

"An americano," Anita replied with a grateful smile. "And one of those cinnamon rolls, please."

The woman nodded, bustling about to fill Anita's order while her husband struck up conversation. "You must be the one who inherited the Hall. Quite a sight, isn't it?"

Anita nodded, realizing news traveled fast in a small town. She wondered if he’d heard about her from the old men at the gas station or someone else. "Yes, that's me. It's certainly... impressive."

"Well, you'll find the best coffee in town right here," the elderly man chuckled, handing her a steaming mug and a bright blue plate with the thick roll, dripping with icing. With fluffy gray muttonchops that continued right into a remarkable mustache, he looked like a Union Civil War general. The tan apron with cutesy illustrations of pastries just did not fit. Anita hid a smile as he rang her order up, and she tapped her phone on the payment tower. "If you need anything else,” the man said, “just give a holler."

Settling into a small corner table, Anita watched the townsfolk come and go. She made mental notes of things she needed to do. First up was finding the law office to prepare for the sale of the estate. With such a huge property, she was sure there were a million documents to sign. From what Logan said the previous evening, there was an extensive history of litigation surrounding the estate. She hoped the process wouldn’t take too long.

Before she returned to the Hall, she was definitely getting some rodent traps and cleaning products. This morning, she’d heard nothing but scurrying and scuffling above her as she changed clothes and brushed her teeth. The clawfoot bathtub in her room needed a good scrubbing before it or the shower could be used.

Anita pulled out her phone and placed a video call to Doreen, who took her sweet time picking up. Her face filled the screen sans makeup and hair in tangles.

“Time zones, girl,” Doreen growled, rubbing a fist against her eyes.

“Sorry! I wasn’t thinking.” Anita quickly did the math—her phone showed 8:27 am which meant 5:27 am on the west coast.

“Fah-get-ah-bout-it,” Doreen mimicked. “Isn’t that how they say it out there?” She yawned widely.

Anita laughed. “Not so far, no. But I haven’t talked with too many people yet.”

“Any opportunities for syrup catching?” They both laughed. “I have no idea what they really call it.”

“No not yet.” Anita felt her thoughts drift to her dream with Logan and she fought to change the subject. “Harrow Hall is huge and old, just like I expected. It’s got a lot of features that will definitely interest buyers—original woodwork, a grand staircase, fruit orchards, and a botanical garden. The grounds are pristine. The house needs work though."

Doreen’s face grew thoughtful. "What does it feel like living there? Has it grown on you at all? And, more importantly, have you met anyone interesting?"

“Jeez. It’s only been one night. You’re expecting a lot.” Anita hesitated, her gaze flickering away for a moment before returning to the screen. "It’s...overwhelming, honestly. The house is massive and full of all this amazing furniture. I feel more like an intruder than anything." She paused, taking a sip of her coffee before continuing, "And, well, there’s Logan."

Doreen’s eyebrows shot up. "Logan? Who’s this now?"

"He manages the estate grounds. He’s been...helpful," Anita said, the corners of her mouth turning up slightly despite her attempts to remain neutral.

"Spill the tea, girl." Doreen teased, bringing the camera up close and personal to her nose. “There’s something there. I can smell it.”

Before Anita could formulate a response, the bell above the coffee shop door jingled. She glanced over and saw the blond woman from the diner, Vanessa. She was dressed impeccably in a designer suit and high heels—utterly out of place in the casual atmosphere of the shop.

"Listen, Doreen, I’ve got to go," Anita said abruptly, her attention still partly on the new arrival.

"Ooh, got more important things to do? Go on then. But check a damn clock before you call next time." Doreen winked. “JK. Love you.”

“Love you, too.” Anita ended the call.

She sipped her drink and observed as Vanessa ordered her coffee. Her poised demeanor, perfect makeup and hair didn’t escape Anita’s notice nor did the deferential treatment she received from the elderly couple behind the counter. Leaning back, Anita picked up snippets of conversation.

In response to something Vanessa said, the woman responded, "I wouldn’t worry. He already left this morning.”

The set of Vanessa’s shoulders indicated a certain amount of irritation.

“He's just doing his job," the man behind the counter responded, his tone slightly abrupt as Vanessa swiped a rewards card and then a debit card.

Vanessa turned on her heel. “Well, it’s not right, is all I’m saying.” She stopped in her tracks when she spotted Anita in the corner. Anita gave a small wave. Vanessa heaved a frustrated sigh, shoving sunglasses onto her nose, and stomped out of the coffee shop.

Anita noticed the couple behind the counter exchanging a look that mixed embarrassment with a touch of exasperation.

The man caught Anita’s eye and offered a warm, apologetic smile. His voice gentled from the tone he had used with Vanessa. “She’s got strong opinions about things. Especially before she’s had her morning coffee.” He laughed.

The woman, her hair a soft halo of curls, nodded in agreement. “Yes, dear, we’re so sorry if she seemed a bit rude. She’s very protective of Logan, you see. They grew up together, and they…well, I guess, as you youngsters say, they go together now.”

“I met them together at the diner last night,” Anita replied, her curiosity piqued. “So, you must be related to Logan then?”

“I s’pose we’ll claim him,” the man said with a proud nod.

“He’s the youngest of our five.” The woman bustled over and sat herself down on the chair across from Anita. “Do you have any?”

It took Anita a moment to realize the woman was asking about children. The question from a complete stranger left her a little flustered. “Uh, no. We didn’t really plan to—nursing schedules and—What I mean is I’m a nurse, and Vance worked in the tech sector. We just never found the time.”

“Women in today’s world do get the chance for the career thing first, now don’t they? In my day we did it backwards. Kids first, and now this little shop here. I love it though. If I knew then what I know now, I might have done things differently.” The woman’s kind tone boasted no judgment, just a genuineness that Anita found welcoming. “George, there,” she gestured to the man in the apron, “could have been home with a baby on his hip and a spoon in his hand. I’d have been out in the work world.”

The man came over to the table. “You’ll have to excuse my wife. She’s a born talker. We’re the Emmerichs. This is my wife, Martha. And you’re Anita, aren’t you? Logan mentioned you.”

So that was how they’d recognized her as connected to Harrow Hall. Anita wondered what else he might have mentioned, but she responded with a polite smile. “Yes, that’s me.”

Martha leaned forward, her eyes twinkling with interest. “And how do you find it here? It must be a big change from where you came from.”

Caught off guard again by the boldness, Anita found herself sharing more than she had intended. “It’s beautiful, but quite overwhelming. I’m from LA actually. The quiet in Harrowsburg is... different.”

George chuckled. “I can imagine it’s quite the adjustment. But you’ll find we have our own charm once you get to know us, Mrs. Harrow.”

Anita bristled and downed the last of her americano. “It’s Miran, Anita Miran, and I don’t really plan to be here for that long.”

“Did any other family make the trip with you?” Martha removed Anita’s empty plate and fork and bustled away as Anita stood. She quickly worked up a second americano, this time in a to-go cup, handing it to Anita as she passed the counter.

Anita fished her phone from her pocket intending to pay, but Martha waved it off.

“No, it’s just me,” Anita said. “My husband... he passed away, so I’m sort of figuring things out on my own now.”

“Goodness, yes! Let me tell you, the news that Victor Harrow was still alive after all these years and then all of sudden gone again—it sure set Harrowsburg abuzz! But you poor thing. So young,” Martha said, her voice laced with genuine sympathy. “Well, you’re not alone here. If you ever need anything, George and I are always around.”

Appreciating their kindness but wary of divulging too much to Logan’s parents, Anita quickly steered the conversation away. “Thank you, that’s kind of you. Actually, I’m trying to find the law office that handles the estate. Do you know where it is?”

George pointed down the street. “It’s just a few of blocks away. Only one in town. Charlton and Dodd’s, can’t miss it. Take a left after the post office.”

“Thank you both so much,” Anita said. She offered a smile, feeling grateful for their kindness but a little relieved to be moving on. “It was nice meeting you.”

“Have a good day, Mrs. Harrow,” Martha called, busy behind the counter. Anita couldn’t imagine she meant offense by the name, but it aggravated her nonetheless.

As she left The Steaming Bean, Anita felt a mix of emotions. George and Martha were undeniably warm and welcoming, and yet she hoped her personal details wouldn’t find their way around town through Logan’s well-meaning parents. Her life, still wrapped in the shadow of grief and change, felt too fragile to share fully, even with the friendliest of faces.

***

Logan parked his pickup in front of the bank and caught sight of Anita leaving The Steaming Bean in his rearview mirror. Her expression was a blend of warmth and hesitation. His parents were always good at making people feel welcome, but he understood any reservations Anita might have. Her life had been upended, and she was still grappling with the aftershocks of her husband's death. The last thing she needed was for her personal struggles to become the town's latest gossip.

He sighed. Logan felt a sense of urgency pulling him away from the familiar comfort of the café. He needed to talk to Vanessa.

Their relationship had been a roller coaster for years, filled with euphoric highs and lows that left him questioning everything. But after that strange dream last night, Logan had felt a shift within himself. His heart was obviously no longer in his relationship with Vanessa at all. He’d felt it coming on for a long time. Few would put the same stock he did in the dream he’d had, but only a handful of people would understand the power the Harrow estate held. He was wary enough to know that his attraction to Anita was most likely not mutual, but he wasn’t going to ignore it completely. He was a patient man, and he would see what developed.

Logan’s mind switched to the conversation ahead. The buzzer sounded to mark his entry into the bank. He threw a wave at Jedadiah Atkins, the security guard. Atkins tossed him a chin lift and returned to scrolling on his phone. The placard on Vanessa’s doorframe denoting her status as vice president gleamed as usual. Logan knew she had a habit of buffing the brass every morning. As he approached, he steeled himself for the confrontation, knowing it wouldn't be easy.

Vanessa looked up from behind her laptop, her perfectly manicured nails tapping away on the keyboard. She smiled when she saw him, but it didn't reach her eyes.

"Logan, what a surprise," she said, her voice dripping with a mix of charm and annoyance.

"Hey, Vanessa," he replied, his tone steady. "Can we talk?"

"Sure, what's on your mind?" She raised an eyebrow as he slowly closed the door.

He took a deep breath. "I think we both know this isn't working anymore. We've been trying to force something that's just not there."

Her eyes narrowed. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying we should break up. It's not fair to either of us to keep pretending this is going somewhere."

For a moment, there was silence. Then Vanessa's expression shifted from confusion to anger. "You're breaking up with me? Just like that?"

He nodded. "It's better for both of us. We want different things."

Her face twisted with fury. "Different things? What do you even want, Logan? To be a gardener for the rest of your life?"

He held her gaze, refusing to let her words sting. "I love what I do. It makes me happy."

"Happy?" she scoffed. "You think happiness pays the bills? You think it gives you a future? You're delusional."

He remained calm, his voice steady. "I don't need a lot to be happy, Vanessa. I just need to be true to myself."

"True to yourself?" she mocked. "You're pathetic. You're never going to be more than a small-town loser. I'm going places, and you could never keep up with me."

He felt a sense of relief wash over him, her words confirming what he had known deep down. "Maybe you're right. Maybe I can't keep up with you. But I don't want to. I want a life that's meaningful to me, not one where I'm constantly trying to prove myself to someone else."

Her eyes blazed with anger. "You'll regret this. You'll see."

He shook his head. "No, Vanessa. I won't."

He left the office door open as he exited, leaving her fuming behind him. As he stepped outside the bank into the fresh air, a weight lifted from his shoulders. Breaking up with Vanessa had been long overdue, and now that it was done, he felt a newfound sense of freedom.

He wandered down Main Street, his thoughts drifting to Anita. She had come into his life unexpectedly. He knew she was still healing, still finding her way, but he couldn't help but feel a connection to her.

He decided to take a walk through the park before making his hardware store supply run, hoping the tranquility would help clear his mind. The park was a haven of peace, with its winding paths and blooming flowers. He found a metal bench under a large oak tree and sat down, letting the serenity of the surroundings wash over him.

As he sat there, Logan thought about the future. For the first time in a long while, it didn't feel uncertain or scary. Instead, it felt like a blank canvas, ready for him to paint his own story. He knew it wouldn't be easy, and there would be challenges along the way, but he felt ready to face them.

***

Anita let herself walk casually along the quiet, cobblestone streets of the small New England town, sipping her coffee refill and enjoying the fresh air, even if it was a little chilly. She spotted the Charlton and Dodd Law Office. Stately, wrought iron lettering identified the weathered brick building. She took a deep breath and pushed open the door.

Inside, the office was dimly lit and smelled faintly of old books and polished wood. A receptionist's desk sat empty, but the sounds of shuffling papers and file cabinet drawers closing came from a room beyond. Anita approached the desk and tapped the small bell sitting on its edge.

“Just a moment,” called a pinched voice from the back. A man emerged. His hair, a distinguished shade of silver, framed his face in gentle waves that suggested a life seasoned with wisdom and experience. His light complexion bore the lines of age.

He was impeccably dressed, exuding an air of dignified professionalism. His suit, tailored to perfection, spoke of a man who took pride in his appearance. The patterned vest he wore added a touch of elegance to his ensemble, complementing the crisp white shirt beneath. A black bow tie, fashioned with precision, completed his attire, emphasizing the meticulous attention he paid to even the smallest of details. Anita felt extremely out of place in her sweaty lavender activewear.

“Mr. Charlton?” Anita asked, trying to mask her discomfort.

“Yes, indeed. And you must be Mrs. Harrow,” he replied, a polite smile stretching his lips though there was a flicker of something in his beady eyes beneath his thick glasses—disdain, perhaps, or at the very least apprehension.

“Actually, my last name is Miran, not Harrow. I was just out looking for coffee and thought I’d stop by. I apologize for not making an appointment.”

“That’s quite all right, Mrs. Harrow.” He blatantly ignored her correction. “Thank you for coming in. I’m always happy to get files in order.” He motioned her through the doorway into his office. “Right this way, please.”

They entered a small, cluttered space filled with stacks of papers and old leather-bound books. Mr. Charlton settled behind his desk and gestured for Anita to sit.

“Now, you’ve inherited Harrow Hall and the grounds,” he began, shuffling through a stack of papers until he found the right file. “In addition—”

“Maybe I can save you some time, Mr. Charlton. I want to sell it.”

He blinked his beady eyes.

“All of it,” she added to fill the ensuing silence.

He burst out laughing. “Oh, you westerners. Such a sense of humor. Now, in addition—”

“—I assure you, I’m quite serious. I want to sell and go home.”

He regarded her with a puzzled expression and picked his glasses off his face. “You can’t, Mrs. Harrow.”

“It’s Anita, and what do you mean I can’t.”

“The property cannot be sold. If you don’t take ownership as beneficiary, it will be held in line for the next Harrow. To the best of our knowledge, your late husband was the last blooded Harrow remaining, and you, ma’am are the last Harrow spouse.”

“There must be something that can be done.”

“God Himself could not break the bonds of this estate, Mrs. Harrow.” He returned his glasses back to his face and continued on as if the exchange hadn’t even occurred. “Now in addition to the property, you have full access to the spouse’s portion of the estate’s legacy account, which Mrs. Hyacinth Harrow built to quite a tidy sum. It’s more than enough to maintain the estate and its operations comfortably. Here,” he said, handing her a bank statement, “this will give you a detailed overview.”

She set the paper on her lap without looking at it. “But I don’t want it. My husband—”

“My condolences to you, ma’am. The private investigative firm informed me of the details.”

“Thank you.”

“As you and Mr. Harrow had no children, after you pass, the estate will go—”

“—You’re not hearing me. I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it.” Anita sat back against the chair, crossing her arms over her chest.

In the twilight of his years in such a position, Anita was sure Mr. Charlton remained a figure of respect and admiration in the community. His presence was a reminder of a bygone era, where integrity and honor were the cornerstones of a man's character. Though time had etched its mark upon him, it had only served to enhance the aura of venerable wisdom that surrounded him. As it was, she meant to meet the measure of his wisdom with the measure of her bullheadedness.

“Look, Mr. Charlton. I am not a Harrow. My husband was not a Harrow. He apparently went to great lengths to ensure that, or so your private investigator indicated. We were married for seven years, and I know nothing about his parents—”

“His mother was Collette, the late Mrs. Hyacinth Harrow’s only daughter. She never disclosed his paternity to our knowledge and his mother’s maiden name was used on his birth certificate. He was born in New Orleans and lived there until his mother died of a narcotics overdose when he was seven. After that, he came to reside at the Hall with his grandmother until the age of 18, when he joined the Navy. His grandmother was in regular communication with him for the next six years, but then he was reported to have died of an overdose. She believed him to be plagued by the same addictions as his mother, and despite her best efforts, she was unable to help him. It was, I would venture to say, her greatest regret.”

Anita was speechless. It took her more than a moment to respond, during which the lawyer shuffled his papers on the desk, sliding out a folder and handing it across to her. “That wasn’t Vance,” she insisted. “He did not have a drug problem. I’m a nurse in LA, for heaven's sake. I know what that looks like.”

“Regardless, that was Mrs. Harrow’s conclusion at the time.”

Anita shook her head as she opened the file folder. “This is all just a case of mistaken identity. Vance did not—” Anita caught her breath. There he was. Her husband, younger but definitely him, in a sailor’s uniform, the cap at a jaunty angle that was just like him. She flipped through the pictures, and they were all him—graduation, a red and gold cap and gown with honor braids; a picture at the beach playing volleyball, broad smile on his teenage face, muscles developing, limbs still gangly on the cusp of manhood; as a child of eight or nine, in a professional photograph, forced smile, despite boyish roundness of his face, eyes and hair distinctive; in a suit as a young man with a distinguishably dressed seventy-something woman next to him, neither smiling.

And more, so many more. Hidden parts of Vance’s life that he never shared with her. That for some reason he completely left behind. That he attempted to erase before starting over with her, on the opposite end of the country.

At the very back of the file was a recent printout of Vance’s obituary from the funeral home, with a favorite picture Anita had chosen. It was one she had snapped during a lazy morning with coffee on the back patio. In the photograph, his hair was slightly tousled, a carefree hint of rebellion that contrasted with the composed man she knew. His smile was subtle, just enough to suggest a secret he was unwilling to share with the world, but it was his eyes that had captured her. They were dark and deep, like the midnight sky, hinting at mysteries and depths she could never fully uncover but felt irresistibly drawn to.

She remembered teasing him lightheartedly about that enigmatic gaze, a teasing that ended with his charm enveloping her like a warm blanket. His response had been swift and effortless, his voice a velvet caress that left her weak in the knees. They had laughed, hearts light and free, and the day had melted away as they explored each other with an intimacy that needed no words. In those moments, everything else faded to black save for the crash of the ocean surf outside their bedroom window, a constant rhythm that mirrored the beating of their hearts.

Nothing else had ever mattered when she’d been in Vance’s arms. She hadn’t needed to know about his past to understand the essence of his being. His confidence was a silent testament to his strength, his empathy a gentle whisper of his soul’s kindness. He loved her with a quiet intensity that spoke louder than any proclamation. She knew it, inside and out, a truth as unshakeable as the tides that marked the passage of their days together. In his embrace, she had found a sanctuary, a place where the world ceased to exist and only their love remained.

Anita could not stop the tears streaming down her face. “Vance was here.” She felt it as a confession and as a failure of her defenses. “He really lived here, at Harrow Hall?”

Mr. Charlton, unshaken by her emotion, fished a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. Anita laughed breathlessly at the anachronism and wiped the tears from her face with the pressed, monogrammed square. “We knew him as Victor,” the lawyer said.

“You knew him?”

“You’ll find most of the residents here did. He was a steady part of Harrowsburg and the Hall for more than a decade.”

Anita closed the folder and shuffled it under the paper on her lap. She hadn’t meant to read it, but just a glance revealed seven-figure columns. “This—” her voice squeaked. “This is the money I would have access to?”

“Indeed, Mrs. Harrow. The spouse’s portion of the legacy account has just shy of 17.8 million dollars in it. The grounds, of course, are funded separately. You needn’t worry about those financials. If you’re interested, though, I do have the—”

Anita held up her hand. “Seven—” she was breathless “—seventeen million dollars?”

“Seventeen point eight.”

“And what’s the catch?”

“As the current Mrs. Harrow, it is your duty to maintain the Hall for future generations.”

“So, this money can only be spent on the house?”

“It is at your discretion, ma’am. A woman must live after all, but I am sure, just as the caretakers in generations before you, you will do all you can to maintain the Harrow legacy for the future.”

The weight of the decision to be made pressed down on her. The Hall, with its imposing structure and the seventeen million dollars tied to it, was an unexpected inheritance that held the promise of a secure future. But more than the monetary value, it was the history and memories intertwined with Vance’s childhood that tugged at her heart. The townspeople would have stories of him as a boy, clues to paint vivid details of the man she loved in a place she never knew.

Would it also give her the answers to understand why he made the decision to take his own life? Wracking her brain repeatedly over every conversation they’d had before it happened, over every action they had taken, every person they’d come in contact with those weeks beforehand—none of it led to even a hint. There were bills, yes, some she didn’t know about, but mostly debts that they had shared. Together though, they were making it.

After two months had passed, she’d set a boundary for her own sanity. She called it her veil line. The things on the other side—the reason behind Vance’s suicide, why he’d changed his name, and why he never liked to talk about his past—the edges were there, but they would never be seen clearly. She would never know.

Slowly, this strategy had been working. She’d returned to work, kept on living with Doreen, waiting for her house to sell to pay their debts.

“Now, Mrs. Harrow, it seems you have quite a few things to consider before making a decision. I respect that. Perhaps you should take some of this information with you, and when you are ready to define your beneficiary status, please return to see me.”

He picked up an expandable file and handed it to her. Anita stood, accepting the packet and adding it to what she already held, feeling the weight of it all in her hands and on her mind.

The lawyer extended a hand, and Anita slid the bundle into the crook of her elbow, so that she could shake it. “Thank you, Mr. Charlton.”

“If you have any questions, don’t hesitate to contact me. You’ll find my information enclosed.”

In a daze, Anita turned to leave, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that Mr. Charlton’s eyes were following her every step as he escorted her to the front door. It seemed to shut behind her more forcefully than necessary.

***

Hyacinth Harrow’s Diary

March 15, 1943

Today has been another tumultuous day in a string of many, and I find myself seeking solace in these pages once more. I am but a young woman, yet the burdens and suspicions cast upon my family weigh heavily on my heart. Harrowsburg, our quiet little town, has turned cold and hostile towards us, and the atmosphere within Harrow Hall is strained beyond measure.

The trouble began a fortnight ago when Mrs. Eliza Whitmore, a young widow, and her son, Timothy, vanished without a trace. The townsfolk, ever ready to point fingers and whisper behind closed doors, have turned their suspicions towards us. The Harrows have long been subjects of town gossip, and our reclusive nature and the privacy of our home make us convenient targets. But this time, the accusations are more pointed, more venomous.

I walked through the town square today, feeling the eyes of every passerby on me. Their gazes were hard and accusatory, their whispers like knives cutting through the air. Children whom I used to play with shunned me, and old friends turned their backs. The disappearance of Mrs. Whitmore and Timothy has ignited a fire of fear and mistrust, and we are caught in the flames.

I overheard Mrs. Lawrence at the market, her voice loud and shrill, proclaiming that Harrow Hall is a place of dark secrets and that no good could come from our family. Her words stung, not because they were new, but because they were believed so readily by those around her. I wanted to shout, to defend us, but what good would it do? The townsfolk have already made up their minds, and nothing I say will change that.

But what troubles me most is not the town's judgment, but the rift it has caused within our family. Aunt Melusine, who has always been an enigma, has taken the side of the town. She has been vocal in her belief that something is amiss at Harrow Hall, that our family is hiding something. This has led to fierce arguments with my parents, the likes of which I have never seen before.

Last night, the shouting echoed through the halls, a cacophony of anger and betrayal. I stood outside the drawing-room, my heart pounding, as Aunt Melusine and my parents hurled accusations at each other.

"You must see reason, Melusine!" my father bellowed. "We have done nothing wrong! That poor widow had no future and her son, even less. Her cad of a husband was shot for desertion!"

Aunt Melusine's voice was cold and sharp. "It’s not ours to judge them or their futures. You cannot ignore the truth forever, Charles. The Harrow name is tainted, and the town has every right to be suspicious. You have secrets, and those secrets will destroy us all."

My mother, usually so calm and composed, was in tears. "Please, Melusine, you are tearing this family apart. We need to stand together, not fight amongst ourselves."

But Aunt Melusine was unmoved. "I will not be complicit in your lies, Rose. The truth must come out, whatever the cost."

The argument raged on, and I could bear it no longer. I fled to my room, my mind a whirlwind of confusion and sorrow. How could Aunt Melusine betray us like this? What did she mean by secrets? I have always known there were things unspoken in our family, shadows that lurked just out of sight, but I never imagined they could lead to this.

Today, the house is eerily quiet, the calm after the storm. Aunt Melusine has retreated to her rooms, and my parents are withdrawn, their faces pale and haggard. I feel like I am caught in the middle of a nightmare, unable to wake up.

Hyacinth Harrow