24. Accused
Courtney
Before my knuckles can even connect with the front door of the historic center Milo has it swung open, the swift movement startling me.
“Hello Courtney, what are you doing here? Where’s Finn?” He peeks his head out of the doorway, scanning for his adoptive brother. The historian seems more high-strung than normal; even his signature gold glasses hang haphazardly off his round nose.
“Finn’s still at the town meeting,” I answer distractedly, taking in his slightly disheveled appearance. I’ve never seen Milo anything less than stylish and on point; something has to be amiss, but whatever is agitating him will have to wait since saving Havenwood is my first priority at the moment.
“I want to use my skills to help Havenwood, so I figure I’ll write something. A guidebook, specifically. I got your mom’s account of all of the local folklore and I need you-.”
“You’re writing a guidebook? To Havenwood?” Milo raises a sculpted dark brow dismissively. A few noticeable unplucked strays further reinforce my suspicion that something is off with him. I cross my arms over my chest defensively.
“Well, when you say it like that..” I huff, knowing I should be used to Milo’s sass by now, even though I definitely am not.
Amused by my reaction, a wide smile breaks across his face as he opens his mouth to speak again but quickly snaps it shut. The words die on his tongue and the humored smile drops from his lips as a serious thought seems to cross his mind. Milo scratches at the small tuft of dark hair adorning his chin, peering at me thoughtfully behind his lenses.
I sigh, rolling my eyes in surrender, assuming he’s thought of a new way to insult my idea. “Look, it’s not that bad of a-.”
“What if I told you that you could save Havenwood single-handedly? Instantly.”
I crease my brow, feeling the furthest thing from wanting to play games right now. How can a transplant like me save the town from financial ruin not only by myself but also instantly?
“Milo, I’m really not in the mood to be fucked with. You know the severity of the town’s situation and I’m trying to help the only way I know how.” He ignores my remark, continuing his tirade of riddles.
“Do you remember when you first came to this center and I told you Salem’s historical guild was on our asses about wanting something from us?”
I nod with a sigh, knowing there will be no shortcut to getting answers out of him.
Milo’s eyes search behind me before his long arm darts out, grabbing my bicep and pulling me towards the building. “Let’s talk inside.” I stumble into the old church, dragged by my arm until Milo lets go and shuts the door behind him. “Ouch,” I remind him that I do, in fact, have pain receptors, but he pays my complaint no mind.
“Finn and I searched tirelessly for years to find the remains of the accused witch Martha Brant. Four months before you moved here, we found her.” Milo’s voice is serious, missing his normal whimsical tone. I remember the ghost story Finn had shared the first night he had stayed over, he had told about them finding Martha’s remains.
“She is what Salem wants so desperately. The Massachusetts State Historical Conservancy Foundation is of the mindset that Salem has better facilities and equipment to preserve her remains.” He crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, muttering an insult to the state of Massachusetts under his breath. “But they agree that under ideal circumstances, Martha’s bones should remain in Havenwood, where she was born and died.”
This conversation is hitting weirder and weirder curves and I’m suffering from whiplash attempting to follow Milo’s train of thought. I try to conjure up all the knowledge I have about Martha to understand why exactly he’s bringing her up here and now but I can’t find a connection between the accused witch and me saving Havenwood.
“Well, it’s great that the state’s historical foundation knows she belongs here; that will help draw in tourists,” I offer, raising my eyebrows in the hopes that that was the answer he was searching for.
“It would be great if the state’s historical foundation hadn’t tacked on a little clause.” Milo dots the air with his finger to emphasize his words.
“We have to find a descendant of Martha A. B. Brant and get that descendant to sign the remains over to Havenwood by Halloween in order for us to keep her here. If we don’t get that signature by then, Martha’s remains legally belong to Salem.”
“So we find a descendant and explain to them the issue and what’s at stake.” I reason, excitement bubbling in me at the prospect of finding this mysterious Brant heir. Forget my guidebook; if we find this heir, that would be our golden ticket to securing Havenwood’s future.
“Exactly!” Milo claps once, showing his normal colors for the first time this evening. “I’ve been doing some research.” He gives me his back, thumbing through old leather-bound books on a bookshelf. Carefully selecting a particularly dusty one, he places it on the table between us, particles of dust drifting away as he swipes quickly through the pages. He hands me the book, its pages splayed open to one in particular that seems to be some sort of old roster. I give him a displeased look before relenting and examining the page more closely. Getting a better view of the yellowing page I can now interpret it as a list of names, attendees for a Havenwood town hall meeting dated in September of 1689. One attendee’s name, in particular, is highlighted. My eyes freeze on the name as Milo reads it out loud.
“Martha Abigail Berrycloth Brant.”
“Woah,” I breathe, physically recoiling from the page as if the coincidence might reach out and slap me in the face.
“Getting the picture?” Milo twirls his finger in the air in a sassy motion.
I scrunch my brows, searching for a different answer because the one in front of me isn’t computing.
“I’m a descendant of Martha Brant?”
“She was a Brant by marriage but a Berrycloth by blood. So, potentially, yes. We’d need a DNA test to be sure.”
“I-I’m not sure about this, Milo,” I warn as my stomach begins a contortionist act, slapping nausea across my face. Something about this situation feels far from organic and more like a booby trap. I try to remind myself that Milo is Finn’s brother and has been a good friend to me; he has no reason to lie to me. I fight to swallow the feelings of deceit that continue to claw their way up my throat in the form of acid reflux.
“Okay,” He closes the book with one hand. “I just thought you wanted to save Havenwood. What questions do you need answered for your little guidebook?” He lazily leans over the table, resting his bored face in his palm as he looks up at me through his dark lashes. He’s attempting to gaslight me right now, I can recognize the manipulative tactic but in all honesty, it’s working.
If I truly am a descendant of Martha and I don’t even agree to get my DNA tested, I’d personally be signing Havenwood’s death warrant.
“That’s not fair, Milo. This is a lot on me all at once,” I advocate for myself as best as I can. I scrutinize his features, trying to sort out the myriad of emotions I feel colliding inside me. This feels wrong. I know there is some puzzle piece that is being intentionally hidden from me. I can feel it.
Finding out that I could be the key to saving Havenwood couldn’t have been this simple or have worked out this perfectly in just the nick of time, this had to have been a premeditated plot. I take a steadying breath, trying to clear the fear that I might be the victim of some scheme Milo had thought up and focus on the things I do know for certain. I know I’m in love with Finn, I know I love Havenwood and I know I might have the only opportunity to rescue it. The rest I will have to figure out later and I will figure it out.
“What kind of DNA test?”
Finn
The town hall went as well as one could expect when telling residents that the town they know and love is going broke and is essentially counting down to extinction. It was depressing, to say the least. Actually admitting out loud how dire our circumstances had become felt like acid on my tongue, I had fought desperately to save my home and I had failed. It seems as if Havenwood’s fate is sealed.
I had hoped to be with Courtney immediately after delivering the blow, to get lost in her sweet perfume and forget everything for just a few seconds but once the crowd had dispersed she was nowhere to be found. I had searched the gardens for any hint of caramel hair or warm brown eyes, and in their absence, I felt the dark, empty feeling of loneliness pooling in my chest. The nasty feeling made itself home there as I reminded myself that this was a grim glimpse into my future. This is what each day will feel like when Courtney inevitably returns to California.
Her absence will leave a stark crater in my heart and I know I won’t be able to fill it with anything, not duties nor hobbies nor alcohol. No other woman will be able to mend the Courtney-sized gap left in my chest and no one will ever be able to measure up to her in any capacity. I’m in love with Courtney Berrycloth. I knew it from the moment I met her in the coffee house but I had been too much of a coward to admit it until right now and now that I had, I want to tell her.
But first, I have to find her.
I keep my expression neutral while still in view of the townspeople but survey the remaining group of gardeners until I find the flash of auburn I’m looking for.
“Hey, Elsie,” I call out to her retreating figure as she strolls towards the stone archway. The barista glances at me over her shoulder before coming to a gradual stop. She doesn’t appear concerned by my announcement but rather something else, some other unplaceable emotion.
“Are you okay? Given the news?” I decide to check on her before berating her with questions about Courtney’s whereabouts. She shrugs, her red hair scrunching as her shoulders rise.
“I’ve dealt with worse, I always find my way. Coffee is my passion and although Havenwood is my home, every city needs caffeine.” I laugh at her statement, acknowledging the truth in her words. “Besides, dad and grandmother won’t ever leave so maybe this is my out, ya know, my chance to get away from them and start my own coffee house someplace else. Maybe I could follow Courtney back to California.” She doesn’t mean to but her words slice me like thousands of little paper cuts, causing me to wince in pain. I clear my throat, physically feeling my expression harden.
“Have you seen Courtney? I’m not sure where she went.”
“I remember her saying she needed to see Milo to help her with her guidebook. Maybe she’s there?”
I nod, remembering Courtney telling me the same thing yesterday when we had discussed our plans for today but I hadn’t expected her to be there right now. Why had she left so suddenly? I decide not to dwell any longer in my own dark thoughts and to ask Courtney for myself.
I give a gloomy goodbye to Elsie and thank her for the information before heading in the direction of the historic society. I spend the entire walk contemplating how I’m going to tell Courtney I’m in love with her. Should I just come out and say it? Should I lead into it with some smooth pickup line? I had never told a woman that I loved her before and I’m petrified that I’ll mess it up.
How had Mr. Sweatpants told her?However he had done it I certainly want to top it. My thoughts keep me preoccupied for the duration of the walk. I approach the building and don’t bother to knock, instead opting to swing open the heavy door of the old church and let myself in. My eyes widen as I observe the scene before me.
“Milo.. What are you doing with my girlfriend’s mouth?”
Courtney turns her attention from Milo, who is holding some sort of swab that he’d been using to scrape the inside of her cheek, to glance at me. Her warm eyes round as I refer to her as my girlfriend. Nice move, Finn; what kind of weirdo publicly calls a woman his girlfriend without having a prior conversation about said relationship status? I feel the tip of my ears redden.
“Milo discovered something kind of… Crazy, hard to believe, actually.” Courtney stares Milo down with an untrusting leer. I suck in a sharp breath, my heart picking up pace as I anticipate my response. What exactly had my asshole of a brother told her?
“What’s that?” I ask cautiously.
Now it’s my turn to stare Milo down, knowing the answer has something to do with Courtney and her relation to Martha Brant. Something I’m not ready to address. I silently question him on how much he’s told her about our plan, wondering how much blame he absorbed to keep me innocent, how many more lies he told her to protect my name. Or worse, wondering just how much of the truth he told her.
I cross the room and wrap a protective arm around Courtney’s waist, relief washing over me when she doesn’t pull away.
Milo’s hazel eyes flick to mine, the emotion behind them is a combination of apologetic and stoic as he bottles the swab that he just took from Courtney’s mouth. He had made a decision he knew I wouldn’t approve of but one that we both know needed to be made. He pulled the trigger when I wasn’t willing to and, in doing so, effectively killed any chance Courtney and I had.
“I might be related to the accused witch, Martha Brant.” She says with a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “If my DNA is a partial match to the remains you and Milo found, then I can sign to keep her here in Havenwood. Tourists would almost have to stop here in order to get the full history of the witch trials, Martha is an important part of that story. This could potentially save Havenwood.” Her tone is optimistic as she explains to me a plan I’m already very familiar with. But there is an aura of hesitation as she recites it, twisting my stomach into an even tighter knot.
“I wouldn’t ask you to do that,” I reassure her, peeling my eyes from my brother to look down at her. Her own gaze trained on her hands.
“I know, and luckily, you don’t have to. I want to.”
I’m not sure what to say or do. I came here to tell Courtney that I love her but instead, I walked into a mess that I had created, one I tried to avoid for as long as I could. Courtney turns to face me and her eyes meet mine. I give her a look to tell her I’m not sold on this situation.
“Havenwood is important to you but it’s also important to me.” She raises a dainty hand to my cheek, her thumb mindlessly passing over my stubble as her warm eyes gaze up at me. They’re looking for something, searching for an answer to a question she isn’t asking.
God damn it, I did not want things to go down like this!I lament inside my own head. I wanted to lay everything out in the open, tell Courtney the truth about how I lured her here with those emails, and be completely honest with her when the time was right, way before even considering asking her to sign over those remains. But now I’m out of time and it’s clear that Courtney is suspicious.
How can I possibly hope for her forgiveness now?