Six Months Later

Feeling the weariness of the entire expanse of the United States etched into her bones, Anita rolled up to one of two lone gas pumps at a station with an attached diner in Harrowsburg, Connecticut. Her little green sedan, a faithful companion through miles of uncertain roads, sat quietly as it guzzled down much-needed fuel. Eyeing the buggy headlights, she wondered if she would ever get the goo, wings, and leg bits off or if they were now a permanent fixture of her cross-country journey.

The town itself seemed to be frozen in time by its quaint charm. A sign nearby boasted a population barely above 4,000. The end of August lingered in the air, teasing at the promise of autumn with just a hint of crimson touching the edges of the leaves.

Anita gazed down the sleepy New England town’s Main Street. It was untouched by the hustle and bustle of modernity. The buildings, predominantly constructed from weathered stone and aged brick, served as stoic witnesses to generations gone by. The post office, with its wooden sign creaking gently in the breeze, held steadfast at one end of the street, while the grade school, its red brick facade softened by ivy creeping up the walls, stood at the other. Between them, the pharmacy, clinic, and veterinarian's office catered to the needs of the townsfolk, their storefronts offering glimpses into a simpler era.

Despite the late summer sun casting a warm glow upon the cobblestone sidewalks, there was an undeniable aura of fatigue that permeated the air. The occasional resident shuffled along, their steps measured and unhurried, out for an evening stroll, adding to the town's tired rhythm.

At the heart of it all, the town square lay shaded by ancient oak trees whose broad branches would provide sanctuary from midday heat. Here, weathered stone benches offered respite for those inclined to linger. A fountain, perhaps once proud and mighty, sputtered intermittently, its water trickling lazily into a shallow basin adorned with pennies tossed in by hopefuls. The atmosphere was one of serene resignation, where time moved slowly and each day unfolded with the same unhurried cadence that had characterized the town for generations.

“What the hell have I gotten myself in to?” Anita muttered.

The gas station, worn like a forgotten relic of the past, greeted her with a sense of familiarity that only weary travelers understand. As she stepped away from her car, she could feel the curious eyes of the locals—two elderly men, their weathered faces telling tales of a lifetime spent here, glancing up with mild interest. Behind the counter stood a slightly younger man, eyeing her arrival with the cautious reserve of someone accustomed to the ebb and flow of transient visitors.

Ignoring the gazes that followed her, Anita stretched her tired limbs. The relentless drive from Los Angeles had taken its toll, but there was a steely determination in her eyes. Doreen ensured that the proceeds from the consignment sales of Anita's furniture back home awaited her in her bank account, though it wasn’t generating as much as she’d hoped. Her connection with Doreen was a lifeline, a tangible reminder that she was not alone.

The ancient gas pump clicked softly as it filled her tank, a mechanical heartbeat in the stillness of the evening. With a sigh of relief, Anita hung up the nozzle and took a slow stroll around the parking lot, gravel crunching underfoot. The air was crisp with the promise of a changing season, a subtle shift from the relentless heat she had experienced through the west and midwest to the gentler embrace of an East Coast late summer.

Completing her circuit around the lot, Anita walked slowly to the station entrance. The elderly men had resumed their conversation, their interest in her fleeting as they returned to the comfort of their routine. Shelves of candy, automotive cleaning supplies, and oil stood to the right. The smell of coffee and fried food meandered its way from the diner attached to the back of the station. The man behind the front counter offered her a brief nod of acknowledgment as Anita swiped her card to pay for the gas.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Sure thing, Ms. Miran,” the man said peering over his glasses at the small print on her receipt. He handed it over and she nodded, thinking it a tad creepy. But then again in a town this size, everyone probably knew everyone else. She’d never experienced small town life, but she’d heard the stories from coworkers who transplanted themselves to LA and from patients searching for specialized medical treatment not available in their rural communities.

Anita glanced at the man’s embroidered work shirt and decided to give one-for-one. “Take care, Chuck.”

Returning to her car, she started the ignition, and the engine purred to life, a reassuring sound amidst the quiet of the town. Glancing once more at old men in the gas station who were once again focused on her, she checked her map app. It showed an error, so she closed and restarted it, punching in the Hall’s address. The search crawled along but finally gave her a route. She breathed a sigh of relief at not having to ask the men at the gas station for directions.

Anita drove out of the lot, marveling at the lack of traffic. She was sure to follow the 20 mph speed limit. The last thing she needed was a ticket to start her time here. The subtle details of Harrowsburg unfolded before her: modest houses with neatly trimmed lawns, an occasional passerby whose friendly nod spoke of a community bound by more than mere geography. Here, amidst the quiet rustling of leaves and the distant hum of a tractor working a field, Anita felt a flicker of possibility. She squashed it. Hardcore. She was here to sell, collect the money, and go home.

The route took her through town and then merged onto a quiet country road. The sun dipped lower, a warm glow radiating over the changing leaves. The town dwindled behind her, a speck in her rearview mirror.

She had driven about three miles when the road came to a dead end. The route continued on her phone, on a nonexistent road. “Shit,” she muttered. There was nothing ahead of her but a tangle of weeds and a ROAD CLOSED sign, the once red paint faded to pink and the white tarnished with dirt and peeling. Across gulleys to her right and left, well-tended fields stood, blanketed by five-foot tall broad leaf plants of a crop she couldn’t identify. Rolling hills and trees beyond obscured the view of any buildings. Anita zoomed in on the map. There were no identifiable routes circumnavigating the field.

With a frustrated sigh, she decided to return to the gas station and ask for directions.

***

Anita pulled back into the dusty gravel lot. She glanced at the old neon sign flickering above the entrance, which had come to life in the lowering evening light. A sense of uncertainty hovered over her.

Stepping out of her car, Anita straightened her jacket and pushed open the gas station’s glass door for the second time that evening. The bell above tinkled softly, announcing her re-entrance. The soft hum of a 60s song she hadn’t noticed before played over speakers behind the counter.

“Hey, Chuck.” She approached the man at the counter who had moved very little from where he stood a half hour ago. “I’m trying to find Harrow Hall, and—” she clicked her tongue and waved her phone “—the map seems a bit off. Could you give me some directions?”

“Harrow Hall, you say?” Chuck shot a glance at the old men still seated along the wall. “Some might argue that the Hall’s what’s a bit off.”

“What business you got there?” One of the seated men piped in a high rasp. The skin folds on his scrawny neck jiggled with the words.

Anita forced a smile. “I just need to find it, guys. Can you help?”

They shared a loaded glance again. “Best go talk to Logan,” Chuck said. “He’s in the diner.”

“Thanks.” Anita stalked down the narrow hallway. Red booths and a young woman in an honest-to-goodness pink and white waitress uniform carrying trays emerged.

Anita approached a counter off to the side. A middle-aged woman with a greying bun and identical—if a few sizes larger and a bit less crisp—uniform stood rolling silverware into napkins. The woman offered a friendly but tired smile. “Hey, there. What can I get you?” She wiped her hands on a rag.

"Actually, I'm looking for someone named Logan?" Anita inquired, motioning with her head back toward the gas counter. “Chuck sent me.”

“Oh sure.” She pointed to a booth near the window where a man in flannel sat opposite a striking blond woman. “Logan!” the woman called out. “Someone’s looking for you.”

“Thanks,” Anita said through gritted teeth as all the diner guests turned to stare at her. She walked over to the booth, feeling the weight of their eyes on her. As she approached, Logan looked up, his expression curious. Anita stopped in her tracks about six feet from the table, dread punching her in the stomach.

“Can I help you?” he asked, his tone friendly.

At first glance, she thought she’d been looking at a more robust version of Vance. Even though the build was bolder on this man, they shared the same angular jaw, dark eyes, and golden-brown skin. Anita blinked a few times. The resemblance faded a bit with the man’s movement, but not entirely.

"Logan Emmerich," he introduced himself and stood, extending his hand. His smile held an intrinsic warmth that Vance’s never had, and it helped to dispel the similarity—as did the pure northeastern accent. Anita felt another internal punch as she realized she’d never hear her husband’s quiet southern drawl again.

"Hi…” She drew out the word unintentionally, took a few steps forward, and shook his hand. “I'm Anita Miran. I'm trying to find my way to Harrow Hall," she explained, noting how the gorgeous blonde next to him startled, microbladed brows arching, at the mention of the property.

“Anita, huh?” Logan said with surprise. “We expected you quite a while ago.”

“We?”

“Mr. Charleton at the law office. He said you’d be coming to take possession.” He looped a finger through his belt loop. “I manage the grounds there.”

“I, uh, I live in California. There were some things I needed to take care of first.”

“Sure. I can show you the way out there."

The blonde, still seated, did not mask her displeasure. Her lips thinned into a tight line, and her eyes darted between Logan and Anita with undisguised irritation. Logan, seemingly oblivious to the reaction, grabbed his jacket from a hook on the booth’s frame.

“I don’t want to interrupt your meal,” Anita said, scanning their plates. Logan’s was empty. The woman’s boasted the remnants of a salad with dressing on the side.

“We’re finished up. Right, Vanessa?”

The blonde gave a forced smile, but her eyes still held daggers for Anita.

Logan bent and gave Vanessa, still seated, a quick kiss. Anita noticed neither wore a ring. He pulled his billfold out of the back pocket of his jeans and laid a couple of bills on the table next to the condiment and napkin tray. He smiled at Anita. "We can head over now if you're ready."

Anita nodded, feeling a surge of relief mixed with a new wave of anxiety about following this stranger. She returned to her car, watching as Logan strode over to a vintage turquoise and white pickup parked near the entrance.

They pulled out of the gas station, and he led her down the same route she had tried to take but then suddenly veered off onto a narrow, almost hidden two-track trail that Anita would have certainly missed on her own. Her heart thudded loudly in her chest as they drove deeper into the woods, the canopy of trees above making the twilight seem like full-on night.

Anita’s grip on the steering wheel tightened as her car bumped and jostled over the uneven path. She questioned her decision to follow this near-stranger into such isolation, her mind racing with every possible worst-case scenario.

After what felt like an eternity but was likely only fifteen minutes, the trees began to thin, and the dense forest opened up to reveal the sprawling grounds of the Harrow Hall estate. They triggered a mixed sense of awe and foreboding, grandeur and decay, its walls holding secrets of generations.

Logan parked his pickup near what looked like a gardener’s shed, and Anita pulled up beside him. They got out of their vehicles, and Logan turned to her with a smile that fully reached his eyes, perhaps sensing her unease. Anita wondered if serial killers were able to smile like that. If so, it was part of their success. She shook herself out of such musings, trying to convince her over-tired mind that this was just an easy-going, kind man. They did exist—didn’t they?

“There she is, Harrow Hall. I can give you a quick tour of the nearby grounds if you'd like,” he offered, his voice a blend of pride, as if he were custodian to its stories as much as to its land.

Anita nodded, taking a deep breath as she looked around her at the array of outbuildings and variety of landscaped spaces. “Yes, I’d like that very much.” She tried to sound more confident than she felt, her mind still reeling from the surrealness of her journey and the stark reality of her new inheritance. “Why is the road so primitive? You’d expect a place like this to have its own highway or something.”

“Well, Mrs. Harrow—” he glanced at her “—the last Mrs. Harrow that is, Hyacinth, she valued her privacy. Didn’t want any uninvited guests, I guess. Shortly after her husband died, she had the main road—where you probably found a ROAD CLOSED sign?” Anita nodded, and he continued, “She had that plowed over and fields planted. Ever since I was a kid, this little two-track has been the only way onto the property. Hyacinth’s room on the second floor,” Logan gestured toward the Hall, a good hundred yards away, “had a clear view of this road.”

Anita marveled at the sights around her as Logan spoke. To the west, a lush green meadow rolled gently towards a dense forest of ancient oaks and maples. Their massive trunks stood tall and proud, their branches reaching out like arms of wise sentinels guarding the estate. The forest floor was carpeted with wildflowers, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to the somber shades of the old Hall.

To the east, manicured gardens sprawled in intricate patterns of symmetry and grace. Flower beds burst with riot colors – crimson roses, azure delphiniums, and heavy clusters of blue and pink hydrangeas swayed gently in the breeze.

A winding gravel path meandered through the gardens, bordered by neatly trimmed hedges and fragrant lavender bushes. Stone benches were strategically placed along the route with an invitation to pause and soak in the surrounding beauty.

Near the gardens, an orchard stretched out in orderly rows, laden with fruit trees heavy with apples, pears, and plums. Anita could almost taste the sweetness of the ripe fruit, imagining the joy of harvesting and sharing the bounty with others.

As she walked along the path, she marveled at the contrast between the vibrant, thriving natural world and the aging, weathered facade of Harrow Hall itself. Ivy clung to the timeworn stones. The Hall seemed to loom over the landscape like a shadow, its once-grand columns and portico now weathered and worn, the immense windows dull and dusty, frames warped with age.

The grounds seemed to pour their vitality toward the house, as if trying to breathe life back into its weary bones. Yet, the more they gave, the more the Hall seemed to absorb, like a black hole sucking in all the goodness and light, leaving the boundary between the two muted and subdued.

Anita approached a large oak tree near the edge of the gardens, its gnarled branches reaching skyward in defiance of time. She sat down momentarily on the stone bench beneath it, running her fingers over the cool, smooth surface. From this vantage point, she could see the entire estate before her: the gardens, the orchard, the meadow, and beyond. Despite the stark contrast between the natural beauty and the declining Hall, Anita suddenly felt a deep sense of peace and belonging in this place, and she fought against it.

She surged to her feet. Logan, a few strides up the path caught her gaze after the sharp, unexpected movement. His silhouette was illuminated in soft rays of the dying sun’s golden kiss. Profiled as such, he looked less like Vance. She breathed a sigh of relief, but then her breath caught in her throat as he walked farther down the path. The man was gorgeous. Anita cussed in a quiet mumble under her breath.

He glanced back her way, a quizzical look on his swarthy Adonis face, and she shook her head. “Just, uh, talking to myself,” she mumbled, shoving her hair behind her ear and overtaking him on the path so she wouldn’t have to watch him ahead of her anymore.

The stars burgeoning now above seemed to whisper of old sorrows and secrets, and the nearer they came to the house, the sense of peace flowed quickly out of reach. She noticed the intricate detailing of the architecture, the carved trim around the windows, the sweeping lines of the staircase leading to the front door, and the faded but still elegant charm of the porch swing.

Vines snaked their way up weathered columns, clinging desperately to the cracked facade. Drawing closer, she could see the intricate woodwork that adorned the porch railing, now chipped and weather-worn, its former elegance a mere memory. Once solid and imposing, the front door now appeared warped, with a gap underneath she could throw a cat through. Anita swallowed hard, her imagination conjuring whispers of stories long forgotten, voices of bygone residents echoing faintly in the empty spaces.

“Why are the grounds so pristine, but the house so…” She searched for the right word. “So neglected?”

“The estate funds for the house improvements and maintenance can only be touched by the current beneficiary. The grounds are funded through a separate trust that the caretaker uses with the law firm’s oversight. Hyacinth died nearly a decade ago.”

“Seems a strange setup for the funds.”

Logan shrugged. “The mechanics of the whole thing were put into place even before Hyacinth was born. Who knows what they were thinking back then.”

The gravel crunched under their shoes as they came to the front steps. “Well, you do a magnificent job as grounds manager. It looks like it probably takes a lot of time. Is it a full-time?”

“Yes. I’m usually here five or six times a week. I also do a little carpentry work on the side.” He tugged at his ear lobe, and his similarity to Vance again struck Anita.

She looked away, taking in the peeling paint, missing shutters, and the sagging roofline of a side porch, its once-graceful arch now bowed downward. “Well, I imagine the new owners will keep you on and maybe give you some extra work fixing the house up.”

He gave her a confused look, and she ignored it. She was beginning to enjoy his company, so she felt a strong need to end the tour. “Are the water and electricity on?”

“Electricity should be good to go, though you might find quite a few bulbs that need replacing. I just need to turn on the main valve for the water supply.”

Anita nodded. “If you could do that before you go, I’d appreciate it.”

“Are you planning on staying here tonight?” He seemed surprised.

“I’ve spent every night of the last week in a different motel in a different state. I really don’t think I have it in me to check in to another.”

Logan nodded, and a strange look of concern crossed his face. “Sure. Well, let me give you my number if you need help. I’ll be by tomorrow morning also to do a few things on the grounds.”

“Thanks.” She opened a new text message and handed her phone to him. He typed in his number and hit send.

“Did the lawyers get you a key already?”

She nodded. “I’ll just grab my stuff if you want to turn on the water before you leave.” She strode back in the direction of her car, only paying half attention to the small utility shed into which Logan disappeared. Cash on the barrel head—she was selling this place. She didn’t need to learn its specifics.

Anita heaved her overnight bag out of the trunk, followed by a sleeping bag and a backpack filled with essentials: a flashlight, snacks, electronics, and chargers. She hesitated momentarily, a fleeting urge to jump back in her car and hit the road to return to California, then squared her shoulders and grabbed a couple bottles of water before shutting the trunk. She decided to leave her large suitcase for tomorrow. Even so, the weight of her partial luggage made her steps hesitant.

Logan appeared at her side, deftly tugging the straps of the heavier bags from her bicep where they had slipped and tossing them effortlessly over his shoulder. “Oh no,” she started to protest. “I don’t need—”

“It’s no problem.”

Anita rolled her eyes toward his back as he took the lead, approaching the towering main door of the colonial manor. Freed from the bulk of the bags, she dug in the cargo pocket of her pants for the key. A few yardlights, either through motion detection or timing she wasn’t sure, switched on.

She took a deep breath. “Here goes nothing,” she muttered. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught another smile on Logan’s face. As she inserted the key into the oversized lock, she considered again that there had to be something wrong with a man who was both so seemingly happy and good-looking.

The door creaked open reluctantly, revealing a cavernous foyer beyond. Her slender fingers brushed the antique wood, feeling insignificant against its weathered grandeur. The foyer stretched before her, dominated by a sweeping staircase that ascended gracefully to the upper floors, mirroring the imposing scale of the entrance itself. “Whoa,” she breathed.

“Mmmhmm,” Logan replied. “It’s been years since I was inside.”

Anita’s eyes were drawn to a chandelier that still hung from the high ceiling, though now dim and dusty, its once twinkling lights long extinguished. She couldn't help but wonder about the light fixture’s structural integrity after so many years of neglect. She stepped cautiously onto the carpet below it. The woven pattern was obscured by years of grime, dirt, and dead leaves that crunched softly underfoot in the low light.

The echoes of their slow footsteps mingled with the musty, forgotten air that filled the massive room. The glow from the yard light outside filtered through the stained glass above the entryway, casting colorful patterns on the floor and highlighting Logan’s features—features Anita found uncomfortably compelling.

Logan glanced around the foyer with a sigh that seemed to carry a mixture of respect and reluctance. He set her bags down gently and walked over to a push-button light switch. Several of the wall sconces illuminated with a soft orange glow. “Well, here you are. Harrow Hall in all its... splendor.”

Anita crossed her arms, her gaze drifting over the grand staircase and the portraits of long-gone Harrows staring down at them. “It’s a lot,” she admitted, her voice echoing in the vast space.

Logan nodded, his hands sliding into his pockets as he stepped toward the door. He paused, turning back to look at her. There was a curiosity there, held back by a polite restraint. “It’s a big place for one person. If you need something, or if there’s anything you want to know about the house or the estate—give me a call or text.”

There was a kindness in his offer, a protective edge that Anita found both sweet and suffocating. “I think I can manage,” she replied, her tone sharper than she intended as she bent down to nab her flashlight out of her backpack. “I’m not completely helpless.”

Logan’s expression faltered momentarily, but he quickly masked it with a polite nod. “Of course, I didn’t mean to imply—”

“It’s just a house,” Anita cut in, her words brisk. “A big, old, dirty house.”

He studied her for a moment, his eyes thoughtful. Then, with a slight smile, he said, “Well, then, Mrs. Harrow, I’ll leave you to it.”

Anita’s brow furrowed at the name. “It’s Miran. Anita Miran, I told you that.”

Logan’s handsome smile didn’t waver. “Around here, anyone in your position is Mrs. Harrow. But, noted.” His tone was gentle, almost teasing. He opened the door, the nearest yard light casting his silhouette in a long shadow across the floor. “Remember, I’m just a phone call away if you need anything. Anything at all.”

With that, he stepped out, closing the door softly behind him, leaving Anita alone in the echoing silence of the foyer. She stood there for a moment, torn between irritation and loneliness. Logan’s charm was undeniable, and his departure left a surprising chill in the air.

Turning away from the door, she sighed deeply, the weight of everything pressing down on her. “Just a big, old, dirty house,” she muttered again, unsure if she was trying to convince herself or the ghosts of Harrows past.

Curiosity pulled her deeper into the shadows, and Anita loaded her bags onto her shoulders. She peered into the first room off the foyer, sweeping the beam of her flashlight. It was dark and musty, the furnishings barely discernible in the dim light filtering through grimy windows. A movement caught her eye—a mouse darting across the floor and disappearing into a crack in the wall. She shuddered involuntarily and moved on to the next room, finding it similarly cloaked in shadows and neglect, the air thick with dust motes dancing in the faint light.

Headlights skimmed the windows, and she heard the crunch of Logan’s pickup tires turning around in the gravel drive. The bright white was replaced with the dim red of tail lights, and she knew she was now truly alone.

Deciding to explore further, Anita ascended the staircase, her hand trailing along the banister, which left streaks of dust and grime on her fingertips. She wiped her hand absently on her thigh. Each step felt like an echo of time past, resonating through the silent corridors and abandoned rooms that whispered of forgotten stories.

At the top of the grand staircase, Anita turned slowly, her breath catching as she took in the panorama of the mansion’s rundown first floor below. The vast foyer stretched before her, its once-elegant features now marred by neglect and decay. Moths and other insects danced in the shafts of muted light filtering through cracked windows, casting eerie shadows on the worn carpet. The chandelier now at eye level hung like a silent sentinel, its crystals dulled with age, starkly contrasting the opulence it once exuded.

The weight of thousands of miles driven to reach this place pressed upon Anita's shoulders and mingled with the overwhelming reality of her unexpected inheritance. Tears welled up in her eyes, unchecked emotions spilling over as she stood alone in the silence of the mansion. It was a mixture of disbelief, grief, and a yearning ache for Vance. A profound sense of solitude engulfed her in that moment.

Turning away from the staircase, Anita sought refuge in the first bedroom she came across. Pushing open the heavy door more fully, she entered a room enveloped in a nostalgic charm that momentarily eased her troubled mind. A quick fumble of fingers found the button for the lights which brought to life the wallpaper—a tapestry of green ferns and vines, faded but still retaining a hint of its former vibrancy. Against one wall stood a deep mahogany four-poster bed, its intricately carved posts adorned with dusty peacocks, their feathers frozen in perpetual splendor.

Matching bookcases flanked the bed, their shelves filled with musty volumes that spoke of another era. A small round table occupied a corner, its surface adorned with a delicate lace doily and an empty porcelain vase. Anita thought of the varieties of flowers outside. A different bloom could occupy the vase for weeks on end without repeating. A bureau and vanity gleamed dully in the dim light, their surfaces enhanced with fine etchings and aged silver-backed mirrors that reflected ghostly images of a bygone elegance.

Anita unrolled her sleeping bag atop the bed. She lay down fully clothed, staring at the empty half of the mattress beside her. A pang of loss stabbed her heart as she thought of Vance. Tears trickled down her cheeks, mingling with memories of his gentle humor, his deep creativity, and the enigmatic part of him that would remain forever shrouded.

She thought back to their honeymoon in Oregon’s Cascade Mountains, during a simpler time when they had explored each other’s body and soul within the cozy confines of a room a quarter the size of this one. It had been more than enough for them then, their love blossoming amidst the mountain vistas and whispered promises of forever. Now, in this cavernous mansion that reverberated with emptiness and secrets, Anita clung to those memories like lifelines, seeking solace in the echoes of love.

How could she have missed the pieces that sat so poorly in her husband’s soul? How could she not have known that he couldn’t go forward?

As dusk deepened into night outside the windows, Anita’s tears and breathing gradually slowed, the weight of exhaustion pulling her into a fitful sleep. Dreams mingled with reality, memories intertwined with hopes for what lay ahead in this forgotten mansion that now held the key to her uncertain future.

***

Logan’s hands tightened on the steering wheel of his restored pickup as he navigated the winding road away from the Harrow estate. The moon cast a pale glow over the landscape, the ancient trees casting long shadows that danced in the night breeze. The pickup’s engine purred smoothly, a testament to the hours he had spent under its hood, coaxing life back into the old machine. Tonight, the familiar hum of the motor and the rhythmic crunch of gravel under the tires were not enough to quiet his thoughts.

Anita. The name repeated itself in his mind, mingling with the image of her standing in the dimly lit foyer, her eyes wide with wonder and something else he couldn’t quite place. Sadness? Uncertainty? It was only their first meeting, and yet he felt a pull towards her, a desire to understand the layers beneath her calm exterior.

Logan wondered if she was the type to stay. The Harrow estate had a way of enveloping people, making them a part of its history, but it could also be an isolating place, its grandeur suffocating to those unprepared for its silent demands.

Anita didn’t seem like the kind to be easily overwhelmed. There was a strength in her, a resilience that shone through despite her evident sorrow. But there was also a softness. Logan thought it seemed to be a broken kindness that set her apart. He found himself comparing her to Vanessa.

Vanessa. Polished, high-class, and high-maintenance. Their relationship had always been a roller coaster, thrilling at times but more often exhausting. She had a way of commanding attention, of demanding the best, and Logan had always fallen a step behind, trying to keep up with her relentless pace. She was beautiful, sophisticated, and, when she wanted to be, incredibly charming. But there was a hardness to her, a layer of impenetrability that had always left him feeling a little cold. Kindness, broken or not, was never a description he would have equated with her.

Anita seemed different, even after a short introduction. She was more down-to-earth, definitely a bit more scattered, but it added to her charm. There was a genuineness about her, a warmth that drew him in. He remembered the way she had looked at him when she complimented his work on the grounds. It had been a long time since someone had looked at him like that, with such openness and sweetness.

He was attracted to her, no doubt about it. But he and Vanessa were trying to make it work again, after years of being off and on. She had seemed more committed this time, more willing to put in the effort. He didn’t know why. Maybe she had realized that there was no one else who would tolerate her whims and moods as he did. Or maybe she genuinely wanted to make it work. Logan really wasn’t sure.

The road stretched out before him, a dark ribbon leading him back to the small cottage he called home. It was modest compared to Harrow Hall of course, but it was his. The nights were quiet there, and he often found solace in the simplicity of his surroundings. But tonight, the thought of going home filled him with a strange sense of restlessness.

He wanted to know more about Anita. There was something about her that intrigued him, a complexity that he wanted to unravel. She would technically be his boss, the new Mrs. Harrow, overseeing the estate grounds, but he couldn’t help but feel that their relationship could be more than just professional. He wanted to hear her laugh, to see her eyes light up with joy instead of shadowed by grief. He wanted to know what she loved, what she feared, what dreams she held close to her heart.

Logan shook his head to clear his thoughts. He had to remind himself that he was with Vanessa, that they were trying to make it work. But as the pickup rumbled down the lonely road, he couldn’t shake the feeling that meeting Anita had changed something in him. She had stirred a longing that he hadn’t felt in a long time, a desire for connection that went beyond the physical.

What did he really want? A life with Vanessa, filled with its familiar ups and downs? Or something new, something uncertain but potentially beautiful?

Logan pulled into his driveway and turned off the engine. He sat for a moment in the silence. The night was still, the only sound the distant hoot of an owl. He leaned back in his seat and let the memories of the evening wash over him. Anita’s voice, soft and melodic, her eyes, so full of emotion, and the hint of her smile, with such potential warmth.

He didn’t know what the future held, but for the first time in a long while, he felt a spark of hope. Hope that Anita would find a reason to stay. Hope that he would get the chance to know her better. Hope that, maybe, this was the beginning of something new and wonderful.

With a deep breath, Logan opened the door and stepped out into the cool night air. The journey home had given him much to think about, and he knew that the days ahead would be filled with decisions and discoveries. But as he made his way to his front door, he couldn’t help but smile.

***

**Anita**

Hey, Doreen! Just wanted to let you know I’ve finally arrived at Harrow Hall.

**Doreen**

How did it go? How's the house?

**Anita**

It’s beyond anything we imagined. Huge, old, full of character... and dust. Lots and lots of dust.

**Doreen**

Wow, sounds amazing! And a bit of a nightmare? How much work does it need?

**Anita**

A ton. Seriously, it’s going to need a lot of cleaning and fixing up. But I’m hopeful it’ll sell fast, so not all of it will be on me.

**Doreen**

Houses like that have a certain charm that people love. You might even enjoy working on it a bit.

**Anita**

I guess. But honestly, I just want to get it done and get home as fast as possible. How are you doing-REALLY?

**Doreen**

Great. Honestly. You don’t need to worry about me.

**Anita**

Are you keeping in contact with your sponsor? She called me as I was going through Illinois.

**Doreen**

Oh yeah, I caught up with her. It was just phone tag.

**Anita**

She said you missed two meetings.

**Doreen**

I just took on a couple of extra shifts in ED is all.

**Anita**

Really?

**Doreen**

Really. I’m going to pay you back.

**Anita**

I told you that’s not necessary. But you have to make rehab stick this time. Not because of the cost but for your own good.

**Doreen**

Stop worrying. You’re in New England during fall! You should take some time to enjoy it. There are so many new things to find and experiences to have.

**Anita**

Yeah, yeah. I’ll see. Maybe if I get some free time. But right now, it’s all about getting this house in shape.

**Doreen**

Don’t work yourself too hard. Try to enjoy it a little, okay? This could be a really good experience for you.

**Anita**

I’ll try.

**Doreen**

Seriously. Like if you go apple picking or syrup catching, you never know what kind of hottie you might stumble on.

**Anita**

Syrup catching??? LOL

**Doreen**

You know what I mean…some sexy lumberjack in flannel.

**Anita**

I’m not ready for that.

**Doreen**

You’ll never know unless you try.

**Anita**

We’ll see. Thanks for the suggestions.

**Doreen**

Always here for you. Goodnight and good luck with everything. Check in again soon, okay?

**Anita**

Will do. Goodnight!

***

Anita drifted through the corridors of Harrow Hall, the air around her tinged with a soft, ethereal glow. The walls and floors seemed more like wisps of cloud than wood and plaster. The Hall, so imposing and shadowy, now felt airy and almost insubstantial, as if built fully from the stuff of dreams.

A woman dressed in an elegant gown of brocade blue silk met Anita on the landing of the grand staircase. Golden leaves, shapes reminiscent of those in the nearby fields, flowed freely over the gown’s sumptuous fabric, lifted and rounded by a hoop skirt. Her dark hair was styled in a graceful updo that framed her delicate features. There was something familiar about the woman, a warmth that drew Anita closer.

“Come with me.” The woman’s voice was as wispy as the air around them. She led Anita up to the attic. Gentle, warm light streamed through the windows, casting lacy shadows on the wooden floor.

In the center of the room stood a dress form, draped with a stunning antique bridal gown. The fabric shimmered with a subtle radiance. Its intricate lace and delicate beading glimmered. “Try it on,” the woman encouraged, her smile gentle and inviting.

Anita approached the gown, her fingers tracing the fine details. Despite the surreal quality of the dream, the material felt incredibly real under her touch—the coolness of the pearls and the lace's flat filigree. With a sense of wonder, she slipped out of her cargo pants and t-shirt. The woman lifted the dress over Anita’s head, the fabric falling perfectly around her, as if it had been made just for her. The woman fastened the tiny buttons along the back, and then gathered silk stockings, lace garters and white kid boots to match from a nearby chest.

Once dressed, Anita followed the woman back down the attic stairs. As they reached the ground floor, the front door of the Hall swung open on its own, revealing a landscape transformed. The gardens and orchards of Harrow Hall burst with vibrant colors and lush greenery, more vivid and alive than should have been possible on the cusp of autumn. A dark blue mist with luminescent edges, curled around the steps leading down into the gardens.

The woman nodded, encouraging Anita to step into the mist. “Go on,” she whispered. “See where it leads you.”

Anita stepped forward and the mist enveloped her like a cool, gentle shroud. It guided her down a path that began to darken. Huge charter oaks formed an archway above. Anita squinted into the mist as she walked. Suddenly, the shapes of headstones bordered by a fence coalesced ahead.

She paused and caught a movement to the right. A younger woman in a sequined flapper dress eased her way out from behind an oak tree’s broad trunk. “Psst,” she said with a wink. The feathers and pearls on her headband moved in the breeze. She smiled sadly with haunted dark eyes. “Follow me,” she whispered.

Anita looked toward the cemetery where the mist was leading her and then back to the woman. A warm light glowed behind her, and Anita chose to follow her. The woman led her quickly over fallen branches and through the thick growth of the forest floor, all the while tossing glances behind them where slow tendrils of mist sought to catch up to them.

She led Anita deep into the apple orchard, twisting and turning until stepping out in a small clearing. In the center stood a man, his back to her. As he turned around, Anita’s heart leaped. For a moment in the dream’s soft light, she thought it was Vance. But as he stepped closer, the features defined, and she realized it was Logan, hair askance as if woken from a deep sleep, shirt buttons incorrectly fastened, his jeans barely on his hips, belt unfastened. He even lacked a shoe.

The woman beside her gave Anita a gentle shove forward and then disappeared in a quiet shimmer. Logan looked as dazed and enchanted as she felt, his eyes wide with the same mix of confusion and awe.

“Anita, what…” His voice trailed off as he took her in, the wedding dress swirling around her. The mist suddenly caught up, encircling her. Anita and Logan moved toward each other almost magnetically, and the mist shied away.

Logan reached out, his fingers skimming her cheek, and Anita felt a jolt of electricity, a connection so profound it seemed to transcend the dream. They stared into each other's eyes, the world around them fading into a backdrop of roiling blue mist and whispering leaves.

The dream massaged their connection, molding it into a deeper bond between them, crafted in the surreal tapestry of the unconscious. The blue mist danced and twirled, a visual echo of burgeoning emotions swirling within them. In this moment, in this dream, nothing else existed but the two of them, connected by an inexplicable force that felt both new and as old as time itself.

Logan’s strong arms slid around her waist, holding her tightly. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, as if on the cusp of sleep and wake. “I can’t stop thinking about you.”

“Why is this so real?” She breathed the words out through a sigh of intense pleasure at the touch of his lips on the curve of her neck. Anita felt her whole body flush at his touch. She slid her fingers under the hem of his shirt, skimming the warm flesh of his muscled abdomen.

“Thank God for dreams,” Logan murmured against her earlobe as he nipped it. Anita threaded her fingers through his thick, dark hair. They lay down in a rolling dreamscape, soft as velvet.

No self-effacement, anxiety, or embarrassment touched either of them. They gave in fully to their attraction. Every touch, caress, and taste was fair game, empty of reality’s judgment.

Each time they took one another, the sweeter their connection became, until finally they both collapsed, compellingly sated, fully exhausted. They held one another in a tangle of naked limbs and sweet apple blossoms.

As the dream began to fade, Anita sought the look in Logan’s rich brown eyes, clear and deep—a reflection of her own feelings, the realization of something profound and shifting between them. The blue mist thickened, obscuring everything until all that was left was the feeling of Logan’s hand in hers, grounding her, as the dream dissolved into the ether.