Anita stepped out of Charlton and Dodd's Law Office feeling as though she were floating in a strange, disorienting fog. The revelations of the morning had been overwhelming. She clutched the thick files of documents to her chest, her mind racing with the implications of what she'd just learned.

Lost in her thoughts, she wandered down the main street of Harrowsburg, barely noticing the creative storefronts and the gentle hum of the small-town morning. It wasn't until she nearly bumped into Logan, who was exiting the hardware store, that she snapped back to reality.

“Oh, it's you.” Her disappointed tone struck him, and he flinched, adjusting the paper bag in his hands. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean that like it came out. I've just been to the law office and…”

He nodded, surveying the stack of folders. “A lot to take in, I imagine.”

“I… yes, I'm more than a bit overwhelmed,” she admitted, managing a weak smile.

He nodded, his eyes softening. “I had to come in for a few things and am just heading back to the Hall now. I can give you a ride.”

She hesitated for a moment, then remembered another errand she had meant to run. “Actually, I wanted to get some mouse traps before I go back. I could hear them scurrying around last night and…” She shuddered.

He grinned at her grimace, and it lightened her mood. “No problem,” Logan replied with a reassuring smile. “I'll grab them for you.”

“I wanted some cleaning products too.”

“Sure.” He set his paper bag on the wooden planks of the pickup's bed and walked around to the passenger door and opened it for her. She pushed back hard at the response in her gut, and instead took note of the vehicle. After finally coming to the end of her long journey last night and then their awkward meet-up this morning after the dream, she'd paid little attention to it before. The pickup stood out like a gem against the mundane backdrop of the parking lot. Its body was painted a vibrant, eye-catching turquoise, reminiscent of a summer sky, flawlessly maintained with a glossy sheen that caught the sunlight and made the whole vehicle gleam. The white roof provided a striking contrast, giving it a classic, yet timeless appeal. The chrome accents on the front grill and bumpers shone with a mirror-like finish, while the wide, polished wheels added a touch of ruggedness to the otherwise elegant demeanor of the truck.

Inside, the cabin was a seamless continuation of the exterior's color scheme, bathing the interior in a calming sea of turquoise and white. The bench seat, upholstered in a pristine combination of the two colors, was inviting with the promise of comfort and style. The dashboard, an homage to mid-century design, was equally divided between function and form. Simple, yet sophisticated, it boasted clean lines and an array of meticulously restored dials and switches that seemed to whisper stories of the open road. With its classic, unadorned design, the steering wheel hinted at a time when driving was an unhurried pleasure, a dance between man and machine.

“Logan, this is gorgeous,” she said, sliding onto the bench seat of the immaculate interior.

She regretted casting a glance his way as she said it. The ruddiness of his chiseled features increased as he actually blushed. Again, she shoved hard against the stirring inside of her.

“Just a project to keep me busy,” he said.

“You did all this?” She traced the ridges of the glove box, everything polished so much, it glowed.

He nodded. She was aware that the smile on his face was due to his enjoyment of her enjoyment, and she meant to put a stop to it. “Mouse traps?”

“Yes,” he said, “I'll be right back.” He closed her door and Anita refused to allow herself to watch him walk into the store.

The air inside the cab carried a hint of nostalgia, blending the scents of well-maintained leather and the faint aroma of gasoline—a reminder of the truck's storied past and the adventures it had seen. The manual gear shift stood tall between the seats, a silent invitation to take control and feel the road beneath. Every detail, from the gleaming radio to the polished air vents, spoke of a vehicle loved and cared for, ready to offer its owner and passenger not just a mode of transportation, but a piece of automotive history.

Anita felt unwelcome gratitude and curiosity about the man who seemed so entwined with her new circumstances. When Logan returned, he set the bag with the mouse traps and cleaning products on top of her stack of files as he slid into the driver's seat. She was happy for the barrier between them.

As they drove toward Harrow Hall, the engine hummed softly, and Anita's thoughts tumbled. Finally, she broke their silence. “Logan, did you know Vance?”

His grip on the steering wheel tightened slightly. “I knew him as Vic,” he corrected gently. “Yeah, he was four or five years ahead of me in school. It's a small town…we all knew each other one way or another.”

Anita absorbed this information, her heart aching a little. “What was he like as a kid?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

“He was…reserved, even back then. Smart, definitely. But he kept to himself a lot,” Logan replied, his tone reflective. “I always got the sense that he was waiting to get out of Harrowsburg. Never quite fit in, you know?”

Anita nodded, her eyes staring out the window at the passing scenery. It was strange to think of Vance, the man she had loved and mourned, as a boy in this small town, dreaming of escape.

“Oh!” she said, recalling the events of the morning that felt so long already. “I took your advice and visited The Steaming Bean. Your parents make a mean americano.”

“That shop is their pride and joy. I never figured they’d own anything like that as a kid. Dad worked as an electrician, and Mom was home with us, but when retirement hit, they wanted something new.”

“Strange how you hear of that happening. Just the phases of life, I guess.”

“What did your folks do once you flew the coop?”

She shoved a lock of hair behind her ear that had escaped her ponytail and gazed out the window. “My parents died in a boating accident when I was 17.”

“Wow. I am so sorry, Anita.”

She closed her eyes and refused to look at him. Her name in his voice sounded so agreeable, and she could feel the sincerity in his sentiment. “Would you say my name again?”

“Anita.”

“Everyone here keeps calling me Mrs. Harrow, and I find it aggravating. From that lawyer in particular.”

“Mr. Charlton is a bit of a stickler for formality. I doubt you'll get him to stop.” Their gazes met briefly. His focus returned the two-track in front of them, and she stared down at her hands. “But I won't use it again, okay?”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

The road now bordered a field of the same tall, broad leaf plants that Anita had seen blocking her route the evening before. “What is this crop?” she asked.

“It's tobacco. Once it's harvested in a few weeks, it will dry up to a golden brown and be sent off to a cigar factory in Windsor.”

Anita’s breath caught, imagining the broad leaves as golden foliage—just like on the woman's gown in her dream last night. Her heart began to race, and she switched to a topic that would be sure to get her mind off that dream.

“So, Vanessa…your parents said you two have a thing.”

He swallowed hard. “You talked to my parents about a lot, huh?”

“Not really. She came in for a coffee while I was there.”

“Oh. On her way to work. She's the vice president of the bank.”

“Mmm. I see.” That explains the clothing and hair, I suppose. “On the road to president, probably?”

“That's her plan.”

“Have you been together long?”

He seemed to hesitate and finally replied, “Off and on for the last few years.”

“She really didn't seem too happy about you helping me last night or that you had already gone out to the Hall this morning.”

He pulled up to park next to her car on the estate grounds. “Well for Vanessa, it's personal, I guess.”

Anita opened the door and then gathered her hardware store bag and the files into her arms. “In what way?”

Logan came around and held the door as she got out. She mumbled a thanks as he scrubbed a hand over his clean-shaven chin, apparently trying to formulate an answer to her question.

“It's complicated.”

“More complicated than a dead husband with an alias and hidden relations with millions? Because I doubt you'll beat that.”

“Unfortunately, I think I will.”

“Oh.” Anita wasn't so sure she wanted to hear it. She moved over to her car and popped the trunk, pulling out her suitcase with her free hand.

“Here, let me.” Logan took it from her, and she closed the trunk.

They walked toward the Hall. “Look,” he said, “why don't we get this stuff put away, and then we can sit down somewhere and talk. There are some things you need to know about Harrowsburg, and it looks like I'm going to be the one to tell you.”

The grimace on his face made Anita's stomach drop. It must have shown because he caught her elbow, as if to reassure her or support her, she wasn't sure which he intended. But the moment their flesh touched, they both shied away from one another. Anita quickened her pace.

“Okay, sure, that’d be fine,” she babbled. “You know what?” She took her suitcase back from Logan. “I'm a sweaty mess from my run this morning. Why don't you give me 20 minutes to freshen up, and we'll have some coffee or something?” She glanced behind her. Logan nodded and headed in the direction of the largest shop building a few hundred yards away.

***

Vanessa gripped the steering wheel so tightly that her knuckles turned white, making the polish of her gel nails seem even more blood red than usual. The road stretched out before her, a narrow ribbon of asphalt winding through the dense New England woods, but she barely noticed it. Her mind was a storm of fury, resentment, and bitter disappointment. Logan had ended it, just like that, with scarcely a word of explanation. He had the nerve to look almost relieved when he did it, as if he had been freed from some great burden. That thought only fueled her anger more.

She had invested too much time and effort into Logan to just let him go without a fight. But this wasn’t just about him—no, this was about her plan. Her meticulous, carefully laid-out plan to claim Harrow Hall, the sprawling estate that had captivated her imagination since she was a child. She had been so close, so damned close, to getting her hands on it, and now it felt like everything was slipping through her fingers.

Vanessa's foot pressed harder on the accelerator as she sped along the winding road, the Viper’s engine growling in response. She needed to clear her head, to think, to get away from Harrowsburg, away from the mess Logan had made. She’d drive the fifty miles out to the coast, to that desolate strip of shoreline where she had spent so many summer afternoons as a teenager, planning her future with Vic.

Victor Harrow. Just thinking his name made her jaw clench. The abandoned lighthouse would be there, standing tall and weather-beaten against the relentless Atlantic wind. She’d spun so many dreams in its shadows, and it still held a magnetic pull over her. She hadn’t been there in decades, but today, it seemed like the only place she could go.

The drive was a blur. Vanessa barely registered the passing of time until the scent of salt and seaweed began to permeate the air, pulling her back to reality. She turned off the main road and onto a gravel path that led down to the beach. The lighthouse loomed in the distance, its stone tower battered by decades of harsh weather, yet still standing defiant against the sky.

Vanessa parked the car and stepped out, the cool ocean breeze pulling her blond hair from her bun and whipping it around her face. The rhythmic crashing of the waves on the shore was a familiar sound, but today it did little to soothe her turbulent thoughts. She started walking toward the lighthouse, the heels of her shoes sinking so far into the sand that, with a shriek, she reached down and plucked them off.

The door to the lighthouse was unlocked, as she knew it would be. It creaked on its hinges as she pushed it open, the sound echoing eerily in the empty tower. Inside, the air was damp and smelled of salt and decay. Dust motes danced in the dim light that filtered through the grimy windows. Vanessa made her way up the narrow spiral staircase in her stockinged feet.

When she reached the top, she paused, leaning against the wall as she caught her breath. The small room was just as she remembered it—bare, cold, and uninviting. But it was the wooden beam in the center of the room that drew her attention. She walked over to it and ran her fingers over the rough surface, tracing the double V carving she and Victor had made so many years ago.

She could still remember the day they had whittled their names into the beam. They had been so young, so full of dreams. Back then, it had all seemed so simple. She would marry Vic after college, and together, they would claim Harrow Hall and all the power and prestige that came with it. He had been everything she had ever desired—handsome, charming, with that air of mystery that kept her on her toes. He had a natural knack for manipulating people and getting them to do what he wanted, and she had loved him for it. He didn’t have the heart to get the full use out of his charisma, though. That she would have helped him with. They had been perfect for each other.

But then, Vic had died—at least, that’s what she had been led to believe. Vanessa clenched her fists as she recalled the shock of seeing him last October at the tech convention in Las Vegas. She had been certain it was him, even though he was going by the name Vance Miran. When she finally caught up to him and cornered him, the way he had looked at her with such cold detachment had left her reeling. He had told her off, demanded she leave him alone and forget she saw him, and then he had disappeared again, leaving her more enraged and confused than ever.

Victor had lied to her, lied about his death to escape the responsibilities of Harrow Hall. How dare he? She had been counting on him, planning on him. And then all of a sudden, he was just gone, living some new life while she was left to pick up the pieces of her shattered dreams.

She turned away from the beam, her anger boiling over. The lighthouse, once a symbol of her dreams, now felt like a tomb, a monument to everything she had lost. Control was slipping through her fingers like handfuls of sand.

Logan had been a poor substitute for Vic, but he was all she had left. As the grounds manager of Harrow Hall, he was the closest she could get to the information she needed about the strange power that fueled the Harrow legacy. She had been so sure that she was on the verge of uncovering the secret. But then this Anita woman had shown up, and everything had gone to hell.

Vanessa felt a surge of frustration and rage. How had everything gone so wrong? She had thought she had it all figured out, but now it seemed like every move she made was being thwarted. Anita was just another roadblock in her path, another obstacle to overcome. She should have had Doreen take care of both Anita and Vic when she had the chance. But no, Vanessa had been too cautious, too afraid that Doreen wouldn’t have the guts to go through with it, no matter how much money or coke she waved in her face.

She kicked at the base of the wooden beam, her bare foot connecting with a dull thud. The pain that shot through her toes only fueled her anger. Vanessa stood there, breathing heavily, as the reality of her situation settled over her. She had nothing left. No plan, no backup, no way to salvage what she had lost.

But Vanessa wasn’t one to give up easily. She hadn’t come this far to be defeated now. She would find a way to turn things around. Harrow Hall was more than just an estate; it was power, prestige, a legacy. And she would stop at nothing to make it hers. She would find a way to claim it, no matter what it took.

***

Anita hurried up the front steps and into the house. She set the paperwork and mousetraps on a half-moon table in the foyer. The weight of her luggage seemed to mirror the day's revelations as she ascended the grand staircase of Harrow Hall. Each step creaked under her burden, the echo bouncing off the ornate walls, reminding her just how alone she felt in the vast Hall. She maneuvered her way through the corridors, her pace quickening with a mix of eagerness and anxiety to freshen up after the morning’s hard run.

Once inside her room—which she now saw in the full light of morning had a spectacular view of the gardens—Anita set her belongings down with a huff. She wasted no time unpacking the cleaning supplies and heading straight for the bathroom. The state of disrepair that the estate had fallen into was evident even here, but she was determined to make the best of it. Scrubbing the tub and shower head vigorously, she managed to erase layers of grime, her actions fueled by a mix of determination and the need to stop thinking about all the decisions that she had to make. The task gave her a brief, satisfying sense of control, something she had felt steadily slipping away ever since Vance’s death.

The shower she took afterward was less rejuvenating than she had hoped; the water was lukewarm, teasing the edge of comfort. Still, it felt good to wash away the sweat and dust. Anita's next challenge was finding something suitable to wear. She rummaged through her suitcase, which seemed to contain nothing but wrinkled clothes that screamed of long days and thousands of miles. Her frustration grew along with irritation at herself for caring so much. She finally settled on a gray summer halter dress with a few peach stripes across the middle. It was definitely better suited to a California afternoon, but its polyester fabric made it one of the most presentable options. She found a white shrug that she would normally wear outside by the beach and threw that on over her shoulders and then pulled floppy sandals on her feet. They wouldn’t work well outside, but the carpets and floors all needed some serious cleaning.

All the while, her mind raced with thoughts of Logan and Vanessa and what the dynamics between them could mean. How could Anita’s situation be “personal” to Vanessa? She tried to shove these thoughts aside, focusing instead on the tangible—her clothes, the cleanliness of her space, the simple act of getting dressed. But as hard as she tried, the questions about Logan’s serious information about Harrowsburg lingered in the back of her mind, casting a shadow over her.

Finally ready, Anita took a deep breath and opened her bedroom door, stepping out into the corridor. Her footsteps were soft on the carpet runner as she descended the stairs to the foyer. There, she saw Logan waiting for her, looking unexpectedly vulnerable. He sat on one of the antique chairs, his leg bouncing with nervous energy, his fingers running through his hair, and occasionally checking the time on his phone. As Anita approached, the reality of their impending conversation settled in, filling her with a mix of anticipation and apprehension.

Logan surged to his feet when he saw her coming down the stairs. She pretended very much not to notice a hungry look in his eyes. He tore his gaze off of her and strode to the side table. “I brought the coffee and coffee maker from the shop. I figured anything you found in the kitchen would be pretty out of date.”

“Great.” Anita gathered up the files from the law office. “Um, where is the kitchen?” she asked with a laugh. “I haven’t explored that far yet.”

Logan smiled. “Follow me.”

They curved around the north end of the foyer. Anita couldn’t believe all the rooms that spread off of their route.

She dropped all of the files with a sudden scream.

“What?!” Logan whirled around, baubling the coffee maker and canister of grounds.

Anita stared transfixed into the open door of a study. On the far wall above a fireplace mantle, hung a full-length painting of a woman. Not just any woman, but the first woman from her dream—the one in the blue silk gown with the brocade golden tobacco leaves. Anita walked cautiously into the study.

Logan stared from Anita to the painting. “That’s Victoria Harrow. Oswald Harrow’s wife. They built this place.”

Anita shook her head. “No, that’s the woman from my dream last night.” The smile and gaze of the woman in the painting was an exact likeness.

“Maybe you saw the painting before you went to sleep and—”

“—No. I never came in this direction. I only looked into the rooms directly off the foyer and then went upstairs. I’ve never seen this painting before. I met her in the dream last night before…”

“Before what?” Logan’s tone was cautious.

Anita couldn’t keep her eyes off the painting. Despite the airy enchantment of her dream, the connection to the woman was so strong, her likeness so true.

“Anita, you need to see this.” Logan sounded apprehensive despite the positive affirmation of his word choice. He had set down the coffee maker and canister on a sofa table and was peering closely at a shelf on a half-empty bookcase. A collection of small, framed pictures arranged by size filled it, layers of dust creating a film over the daguerreotypes.

She approached the shelf and recognized what concerned him without the need for an explanation. In the third photograph from the left stood a young woman in a wedding dress…waist cinched tight…pearls…lace…and Anita would wager a guess that she also wore the silk stockings, lace garters, and kid boots beneath the full skirt. The same gown that Victoria Harrow had dressed Anita in during her dream last night…and from the shocked look on Logan’s face, the same gown he had eagerly removed from her body.

It hadn’t been a dream.

***

Anita sat on the edge of the chair, Logan on the sofa. The furniture still held the dust covers with years of grime, but neither one felt steady enough to stand. She rubbed her thumb over the detailed silver frame containing the picture in her hands. Victoria Harrow and an elderly man stood behind the unidentified bride.

“Logan, what does this mean?”

“I think it means that you and I…”

“We couldn’t have.”

“In the apple orchard?” He sounded stunned.

Anita felt her cheeks flame. The sweet smell of blossoms would forever be linked to him for her. She shook her head with the incredulity of it all. “Maybe there’s a logical explanation.” She dug for it, trying to convince herself and him as he held his head in his hands. “How about this?” She realized she was gesturing needlessly with her hands and arms, and she quieted them down in her lap. “We had just met. There was a little bit of attraction, maybe, —” she chanced a glance at him for confirmation. He was looking at her over his fingertips, his hands rubbing the lower half of his face with frustration. He gave her a nod. “Okay,” she continued. “The attraction just kind of got into our subconsciouses, and it mixed with this crazy house. I’m sure you may have seen this picture before, being from Harrowsburg and working here, and this dress…Maybe I saw something online…or maybe in the file the PI gave me…maybe…”

Logan groaned with frustration and shoved his fisted hands against his thighs. “Anita, you have a tattoo of a raven on your lower left ribcage, and a birthmark on the inside of your right thigh…uh…very high up… that looks like a broken heart.”

Anita froze, her breath caught. He was right.

“It was real.” He shoved to his feet and began to pace in front of the fireplace. “Damn,” he muttered, “It was too good not to be real.”

“Oh God. Don’t say things like that.”

“Why? Wasn’t it for you?”

“Well, of course, but—” She sighed angrily “—I don’t even know you, Logan.”

He crossed his arms over his chest and stared out the window. His voice was speculative as if testing a theory. “Look, people supposedly have one-night stands all the time with someone they don’t know, and it all seems to work out fine for them.”

“Is that how this feels to you?” she asked cautiously.

He shook his head, casting a glance her way.

“Me neither. But I don’t know what to do with this. I don’t know how to act around you. I don’t know what this means. I just don’t know!” She stood, brushing the dust off the back of her dress.

“I feel the same way.” Logan turned to face her.

“At least it’s out in the open now. We can figure it out.”

He nodded but still looked shaken.

“I don’t know about you, but I would really like a strong cup of coffee and maybe something else with it.” Anita strode out of the room and continued down the hall, looking for the kitchen and leaving the strewn legal files for now. She muttered to herself. “Alcohol only gets better with age, right? Maybe old Hyacinth was a lush.”

The room took her breath away like the rest of the Hall. The kitchen was a harmonious blend of elegance and rustic charm, bathed in soft, natural light that poured in through the tall paned windows. The walls were adorned with white subway tiles that when cleaned of the grime of time would create a pristine backdrop that accentuated the darker, richer hues of the furnishings. At the heart of the kitchen stood a grand island with a wooden butcherblock countertop, a testament to craftsmanship and utility. Surrounding the island were high-backed black chairs that invited one to sit and partake in delicious culinary creations that surely emerged from this space for generations.

Logan turned on the lights and made his way over to a counter to plug in the coffee pot. Anita started looking through the cabinetry. She couldn’t help but appreciate the sophisticated mix of white and gray. The brass fixtures and hardware, though needing buffing, added a touch of vintage elegance, completing the look with a subtle, yet unmistakable, nod to the past.

Anita shoved one of the island chairs over to a set of high cabinets and climbed up on it, next to the farmhouse sink where Logan was filling the coffee pot. “Ah ha! I knew it.” She pulled a dusty green bottle of scotch from the back of a cupboard. “There’s a few open ones in here, but this one’s still sealed.”

As she attempted to climb down, the seat of the rusty chair twisted. Logan caught her as she came down, the coffee pot clattering into the deep sink. She clutched the bottle to her chest just as he clutched her to his. He was so close, hands and arms wrapped across the open back of her sundress. Her heartbeat sped to a gallop as her breathing increased, lips parting. Gazing into each other’s eyes, something changed in his face, and a pleasurable grin replaced the earlier apprehension.

“I saved the scotch,” she breathed. The sound of the running faucet was loud in her ears.

“That’s the important thing,” he said, shifting focus from her eyes to her lips.

Suddenly, he righted them from their jumbled stance against the chair and counter and let go of her. “I’ll get the coffee going.” She stared after him and leaned against the cupboard, weak-kneed.

He grabbed two glasses from a shelf and rinsed them thoroughly, shaking the majority of the water off. “Will this do?”

She opened the scotch, poured a heavy splash into each with a shaky hand, and took hers like a shot. The liquor burned a hot trail down her throat but lent some strength to her knees. Logan picked up his glass and swirled the warm honey-colored liquor. “Here’s to dreams,” he said quietly, a frank gaze meeting hers. He lifted his glass to her before he downed it.

“Another?” she asked.

“I’ll wait for the coffee.”

She poured herself two fingers but drank more slowly this time.

Above the island hung a trio of pendant lights, their warm glow casting a welcoming ambiance across the room. Beneath a giant wrought iron clock that would have dwarfed any other place, an array of grimy pots and pans hung neatly from tarnished brass rails.

Opposite the island, a series of open shelves showcased an eclectic collection of crockery and kitchenware, each piece seemingly chosen with care. Above white marble countertops, tall windows offered a picturesque view of the flourishing herb and vegetable garden beyond. The growth must have been a labor of love for Logan. She would have a hard time keeping a cactus alive in a desert.

Anita brushed a swath of counter off with her hand and lifted herself up onto it, her sandaled feet swinging. She grabbed her glass and sipped. After a swallow, she said, “So what is it about Vanessa and Harrowsburg that you need to tell me?”

Logan perched on one of the old high-back chairs, watching the coffee brew. His face once again serious. “It involves Vic, uh, your Vance.”

She nodded.

“Vic and Vanessa were high school sweethearts.”

“Of course they were,” Anita growled. She took another sip. Her stomach was doing flips. She couldn’t believe she had shared not just one but two men with that woman.

“After they graduated, Vic joined the Navy, and Vanessa went to Yale, but they still kept in touch. To hear Vanessa tell it, she was all about Vic.”

Anita rolled her eyes. “I’m sure.”

“After she graduated, she moved to Charleston to be closer to him at the naval base. She would come back home for holidays, but he rarely did. Vanessa always said they were still going strong. Mrs. Harrow—Hyacinth—she was still in touch with him at that time, and she never spoke much about their relationship. I know she and Vic wrote to one another pretty regular, but maybe he didn’t talk about Vanessa. I do know that his grandmother was not a fan of her, even back in high school.”

“How do you know that?” The coffee pot had reached about half, and Anita hopped down off the counter to get it. She filled Logan’s cup and then hers, mixing it with the remnants of her scotch. Logan took the bottle and poured a splash into his while Anita returned the pot to the warmer.

“I worked summers out here through high school and college. That’s how I ended up with the full-time position before she died. Sometimes, toward the last years of her life, Mrs. Harrow would make me lunch. I think she was just lonely, but in conversation before Vic died—or before we thought he’d died—she would say she wished Vic had made another choice. She called Vanessa a weak-willed woman, and she always said she’d find any way she could to stop Vanessa from becoming the next Mrs. Harrow.”

Chalk one up for Hyacinth, Anita thought.

“I was three years out of college, I think, when Vanessa showed up here at the Hall unannounced one afternoon. She marched her way in and told Mrs. Harrow that Vic was dead. Just bluntly, cruelly. I thought Mrs. Harrow was going to collapse. Vanessa said he’d died of a drug overdose on leave in Florida.”

“But he hadn’t.”

“It sure seemed real. I helped Mrs. Harrow with the phone calls to the funeral home in Florida. We even called the medical examiner once because Mrs. Harrow insisted it couldn’t have been him. The doctor took a lot of time to review the report with her over the phone, and by the end, she finally acknowledged that it was him.”

Anita leaned against the counter, warming her hands around the cup. “Why?”

“He apparently had gotten a tattoo of a snake down one arm during high school. There was something special about it that really struck Mrs. Harrow, something the doctor said to prove it was Vic.”

“Do you remember which arm?”

“The right one, I think.”

“It was a phoenix when I…when I knew him.” She pictured it—intricate details etched in shades of black and grey that imbued a haunting elegance. The bird spread its wings wide across Vance’s upper arm and shoulder, feathers drawn with painstaking precision. Each plume seemed to ripple with an otherworldly energy, as if caught in an eternal gust of wind. The body curved gracefully, head proud, eyes glinting with a fierce determination. The flames that surrounded the creature were subtly suggested through the fluidity of the lines, merging seamlessly into the skin, creating a dynamic and deeply rooted image.

The curving body of a snake would have been the perfect canvas for it. The bird’s wings would have extended over the areas where the snake’s scales were most prominent, the intricate feather work effectively masking the underlying reptilian pattern. The swirling feathers and smoke at the base of the phoenix would have enveloped the snake's coiling form, using the dark shading to obscure the first tattoo’s outline. The natural curvature of the phoenix’s body, along with the fluid lines of its feathers, would blend seamlessly over the snake’s shape, transforming the previous design into a symbol of rebirth and transformation.

“Well, the tattoo was the integral piece for Mrs. Harrow. She finally believed. According to the funeral home, he—” Logan stopped. “Anita, I don’t want to say this to you. Mr. Charlton briefed me about your situation when you were located, and I don’t want to—”

She knew what was coming. She’d lived it. She’d seen what they called “not viewable.” She wiped tears away with her palm and took a long swallow of her coffee. “Say it.”

“He shouldn’t be seen, they said. It was summertime in Florida, and it was a few days before anyone found him in the hotel room.”

“Bastard,” Anita mumbled through a sob she tried to hold back. “Why would he do that? Why would he put his own grandmother through that? Through those thoughts? Why did he put me—”

Before she knew it, Logan’s arms were around her, holding her close. She gave up strength and leaned into him. A wave of conflicting emotions washed over her, and her body trembled with mixed relief and sorrow. Logan's presence offered a sense of stability in the swirling chaos of her grief, and for the first time since her husband's death, she felt a glimmer of safety, a momentary reprieve from the relentless storm of her emotions. Anita was profoundly grateful for Logan’s kindness; it was a balm to her aching soul, soothing her in ways she hadn’t realized she needed. His understanding and patience seemed boundless, and in that moment, his support was an anchor she desperately clung to.

Still, a deep-seated anger simmered, directed at Vance for leaving her so abruptly, without warning, without a chance for a final goodbye or an explanation. Each kind gesture from Logan, each moment of understanding, only highlighted the void Vance had left behind. How could he have departed without considering the shattered world he would leave her to navigate alone? The pain of his absence was a constant ache, exacerbated by the responsibilities and revelations his death had thrust upon her. Anita wrestled with these tumultuous feelings, entangled, torn between the warmth of Logan’s kindness and the cold, lingering resentment toward her husband, outlined in a hard, sour shell of guilt.

Anita lifted her head. She wiped ineffectually at the wet patches her tears had soaked into Logan’s shirt. He chuckled lightly. “It’s alright.”

“What happened next?” Anita asked through sniffles, resting her hands against his chest.

“Mrs. Harrow gave permission for him to be cremated, and then she and I buried his urn in their family cemetery here on the grounds. Vanessa wanted to hold a memorial service in town, but Mrs. Harrow put a stop to that. More than anything, I think she was upset because there was no one left to take over the estate. Vic was the last. This property was everything to her.”

“How would he have pulled that off? The funeral home? The medical examiner? How would he have gotten all of them involved?”

“After the law office got the tip last year that Vic was still alive, I tried to figure that out. If Vic was anything, he was resourceful. Maybe the Navy or government had something to do with it. I never figured it out. Neither did Charlton.”

“But to whose benefit would that have been?” Anita eased back out of Logan’s embrace, and he released her. They sat down at the island on the high back chairs next to one another with their drinks. Their knees brushed beneath the overhang.

Logan shrugged. “Who knows? The government might have used him for some top-secret job. That would have been right up his alley.” He swigged the last of his coffee.

“Vance worked in the tech sector in LA. He didn’t…I would have known if…” Anita thought back. Seven years. Wouldn’t she have known if her husband was doing some top-secret or covert work? They each had their careers. She taken on a variety of nursing shifts over the years that overlapped and coincided with his workdays. They spent their time off together as couples do. Sometimes at home, sometimes with friends. Their vacations were spent traveling to new places. She had met a few of his coworkers over the years, but he’d never associated with them as friends. Anita’s best friend Doreen was also a nurse, but the rest of her social circle was composed of people in all different types of careers.

She had spoken of the events of her day in vague terms due to the medical privacy of the patients, and while Vance talked a little about some of his projects, it was in a vague sense as well. The tech sector was competitive, and she didn’t understand most of the development processes he worked with anyway. She really had had no interest in it, just as he had no interest in the medical procedures she assisted with or the diseases and conditions she helped to treat. He went on business trips, but that was nothing out of the ordinary for his industry.

“Did I know him at all?” Anita asked rhetorically, and Logan let her process her thoughts, pouring himself another cup of coffee.

But she had known Vance. In the quiet corners of their shared existence, they had woven a tapestry of love that was as delicate as it was profound. Their work lives ran on parallel tracks, seldom intersecting, each immersed in their own professional worlds.

When they were alone together, it was as if the universe conspired to carve out moments of pure, unfiltered connection. Vance’s eyes would soften from the intensity of his usual character, any guarded demeanor melting away in the warmth of Anita’s presence. They would sit on their back patio, the stars above bearing silent witness to whispered confessions and dreams shared over cups of coffee during lazy mornings or wine for late nights. The mundane and the extraordinary blurred in those times, and the weight of unspoken truths momentarily lifted by the simple act of being together. In those precious hours, they were not just two individuals, but a singular entity bound by a timeless and unassailable love.

Yet, Anita would sometimes glimpse a faraway look in Vance’s eyes, a silent echo of a past she could never fully reach. He didn’t want to talk of it, and she respected that. She knew what it felt like to have to talk of difficult times. She avoided conversations about her parents and their deadly boating accident as often as she could, and so it was within their variety of normal to not touch on the subjects of the past.

“Who gave Mr. Charlton the tip that he was alive? Why did they start looking for him?”

Logan shrugged. “It came in anonymously through the mail, but with multiple photos of Vic and proof of the time, date, and location the photos had been taken. Even so, it took a while to track him down. But by then it was too late. The only one left…”

“Was me.” Anita finished for him. She stood, running her fingers along the butcher block. She thought of the woodwork that adorned the walls and the sweeping grand staircase that spiraled upward with timeless grace. The Hall exuded a sense of history, its craftsmanship a testament to an era where artisans poured their souls into every detail. Each room seemed to whisper stories of the past, of grand gatherings and quiet moments alike. The weight of its legacy pressed upon her; this wasn’t just a house, but a cornerstone of Harrowsburg’s history and a crucial chapter in Vance’s family saga. The Harrows had built this place with care and intention, and now, with Vance gone, it rested on her shoulders to decide its fate. Could she really leave it to rot if there was truly no one else to take it? Why would Vance have gone to such lengths to cut ties with his family and their legacy? Was that his intention or was he forced to do it?

Anita’s thoughts and gaze drifted to Logan, the caretaker who had become an unexpected anchor in this storm of uncertainty. The thought of being so close to him, day in and day out, filled her with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. What was this thing between them? How could they ever explain what had happened the previous night? Their undeniable attraction could either blossom into something beautiful or become an awkward tension that complicated their interactions.

And then there was the Vanessa of it all. Why did she have to connect on both sides, to Vance and to Logan? What was it about the woman that set Anita’s teeth on edge and her skin crawling? She’d not spoken a word directly to her, and yet, it was just something about her that made Anita want to be on full guard at all times.

As Anita stood there, caught between the allure of the Hall, the mysterious history of Vance and the complexity of her feelings for Logan, she knew she wasn’t ready to make any decision yet. She could only ponder the possibilities, allowing the grandeur of the hall and the potential of her new life to weigh against the uncertainty of what the future might hold.

***

While Logan went to retrieve the rodent traps from the foyer, Anita placed the bottle of scotch in a lower cabinet than its previous home. The buzz she was feeling would have to do. Despite an urge to get sloppy and check out, she knew she needed to keep a semi-clear head about her. Surveying the kitchen, she couldn’t help but think about how the combination of updated appliances with the existing classic design elements would create a kitchen that was both functional and beautiful, a true heart of the home where memories could be made and cherished.

Still though there was something about this place. A void that the life outside didn’t quite touch. Something she felt not all the cleaning and scrubbing in the world would wash out.

“Ready to tackle this together?” Logan asked when he returned, with a friendly smile that didn't quite hide his concern for her.

Anita nodded, grateful not just for the help, but for the company. As they walked through the expansive hallways of the Hall, each room they entered seemed to echo with the whispers of the past. Logan pointed out the peculiarities and histories of each space as they set up traps—a narrative thread that wove itself through the fabric of the Hall’s grandeur and mystery.

In the lounge, with its grand fireplace and portraits of stern-looking ancestors, Anita felt a chill that wasn’t from the drafty windows. Logan noticed and quickly joked about the family’s severe expressions, making her laugh and momentarily lightening the atmosphere. The dining room was a grand affair, with a table long enough to seat thirty guests and intricate tapestries that told tales of the Harrow family’s exploits both in Europe and after they immigrated to America.

On the second floor, the series of guest bedrooms each decorated in the styles of different eras, showcased the evolution of interior design over the decades. Logan shared anecdotes about the notable guests who had once slept there, while carefully placing traps in inconspicuous corners. The library was next, a room lined with towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound books, some as old as the Hall itself. Anita ran her fingers over the spines, feeling the weight of knowledge and time in her hands, while Logan secured the area against the less literary types of visitors.

As they ventured up to the third floor and into the servants’ quarters, Anita saw the stark contrast between the luxury of the family areas and the simplicity of the spaces where the staff had lived and worked. It was a humbling insight, and she appreciated Logan’s respectful tone as he shared stories of the people who had kept the Hall running through the years.

Finally, they climbed the narrow stairs to the attic. The air grew cooler as they ascended, and the space was a treasure trove of forgotten items: trunks, clothes, toys, and countless documents. While a few empty dress forms dotted the space, she was relieved to see none contained the wedding gown.

As Logan set a trap near an old chest, Anita peered inside and found a stack of letters tied with a ribbon, faded by time. She wondered if they might include correspondence between Vance and his grandmother. The musty scent of paper and wood filled the air, a reminder of all that had passed under this roof.

“It would be a lot, wouldn’t it?” Logan said softly, watching her as she carefully thumbed the edges of the letters. “Taking on this place.”

Anita nodded, feeling overwhelmed yet strangely connected to the history around her. “But seeing all of this... I feel like it’s worth preserving. Worth the effort, but I don’t know if I’m the person for it.”

Logan smiled, his expression gentle. “I’d be here to help. Not just with the mice.”

They made their way back down to the main floor. It was mid-afternoon now, and the sunlight streamed through the stained glass, casting colorful patterns on the carpet. “I think I’ll rest for a bit,” Anita said, feeling the weight of the day pressing down on her shoulders.

Logan nodded. “I have some work to do on the grounds. But before I go,” he paused, hesitating as he looked at her. “I know there’s a lot on your plate right now. Whatever happened between us last night, we can set it aside. You don’t need that kind of distraction. There may never be an explanation for it anyway. This place…” He looked around slowly. “…It has more than just history. Things I’m not sure we’ll ever understand.”

Anita was touched by his consideration, but suddenly, she frowned. She didn’t want to put aside the one thing that had brought her some comfort. As if reading her thoughts, Logan turned back to face her, stepping closer. His hands gently framed her face, and he leaned in, their lips meeting in a kiss that was both a promise and a pause, filled with all the tension and tenderness of unspoken feelings.

Pulling back slightly, Logan looked into her eyes. “Please don’t make any hasty decisions where I’m concerned, Anita. I’ll keep.”

The words hung between them, heavy yet hopeful, as Logan left her standing in the foyer, the echo of his steps a counterpoint to the rapid beating of her heart. Alone, Anita touched her lips, the kiss lingering like a warm imprint. Maybe, just maybe, she could navigate the complexities of Harrow Hall and what it meant to be a Mrs. Harrow—with Logan nearby.

***

**Vanessa**

You were supposed to convince her to stay in LA.

**Doreen**

I did my best. You had six months before she showed up. Why didn’t you do something?

**Vanessa**

These things take time, idiot. Find some way to make her leave Connecticut or else.

**Doreen**

Or else what?

**Vanessa**

You don’t want to find out.