28. The Letter
Finn
Isit with my elbows resting on the sticky bar. My red, stinging eyes glued to the small front screen of my flip phone, hoping, praying, begging whatever Gods are out there to see it light up with a call or text from Courtney.
I take a deep inhale as the tiny square remains black, indicating no activity, just as it has for the past several hours. No response from Courtney. She’s done with me and I know it. That’s why I agreed to let Milo drag me back out to the Grumpy Lobster and allowed him to supply me with round after round of beer and pump my body full of alcohol. All in the hopes of a distraction, desperate for some sort of relief from the ache in my chest and the guilt that weighed heavily on me.
I’d be lying if I said the half dozen bottles of cheap beer had helped to dull any of it. Nothing helps. Even if my head is too fuzzy to remember why I’m hurting, I can still feel the pain, and, to add insult to injury, Milo is celebrating.
“To my brother!” Milo lifts his pint of cider high above his head, slightly slurring his words of praise. Milo is a few drinks ahead of me yet somehow less drunk. The rest of the bar follows suit, raising their drinks and awaiting a speech.
“For saving Havenwood! You are a hero, Finn. Even if you don’t realize it tonight.” Milo’s hazel eyes stare down at me, half full of admiration, half full of pity. He knows what I lost to make our plan a reality, and even though he played a part in speeding up the process, I don’t blame him. Milo’s decision to act has saved Havenwood, his career, and - in all honesty - my own career. I’m the selfish one for trying to drag the process out, I tried to buy time that didn’t exist in order to think of a way to justify my actions to Courtney. I tried to keep us in the blissful limbo that was truly the calm before the storm.
“TO FINN!” The bar chants in unison, downing their respective drinks. We are several towns away, no one in this bar knows me, and no one here probably even knows where Havenwood is on the map. They are all just drunk and in want of something to toast. I roll my eyes and finish off my beer, slamming the empty mug back down onto the bar. As I do, the blue square on my phone lights up. I snatch the device from its resting spot on the disgusting bar top and hastily flip it open.
A rumbling mix of a disappointed sigh and an annoyed growl escapes me when I realize the call isn’t from Courtney but from Sheriff Dean Cotton. I press the phone to my ear and plug the other to drown out the increasingly loud bar. “Mayor Abernathy.”
“Hey, Finn,” Cotton greets, his voice old and gruff, much like himself. The hesitation in his tone, however, notifies me that something important is clearly on his mind—that and the fact that he’s calling at ten o’clock at night.
“There’s a situation at the old witch’s house,” he informs me before clearing his throat. “I’ve got it secured for now. Could you meet me here in the morning to assess the damage?”
“Sure, Dean.” I drag my hand down my sweaty face, an undesired side effect from the alcohol. Milo notices my phone call and motions for me to hang up as he orders us another round of beers.
“I’ll be there as early as I can,” I promise, not wanting to nail down a specific time in anticipation of the hangover I’ll be suffering from tomorrow. Mayoral duties don’t stop, even when your heart is broken.
Courtney
Olive observes us curiously from the security of the rafters, her big brown eyes encouraging us as Elsie and I sit on the attic floor staring at the trunk, neither of us making a move.
I look over at Elsie, only to find her hesitant stare already on me. I wonder if she can tell I’m attempting to scrape together whatever courage I have left in me and use it to open this box.
After we fled Martha’s house, Elsie had hypothesized close to a hundred ominous things that might occur upon opening the trunk. Amongst her most colorful ideas were curses, poisonous gas, booby traps, voodoo dolls, and the Bubonic plague. I don’t believe any of those things are likely to be inside, nor probably even possible, but I intentionally did not tell Elsie about my earlier supernatural encounter back at the witch’s house. I figure if Elsie hears anything confirming her belief in the paranormal, she might bust into that Scooby Doo run, where your legs move in circles, but you don’t actually get anywhere and shoot off in a cloud of dust. Never to be seen again.
Despite not wanting to share my encounter, the experience had shaken me up and now left me wondering if I would be invoking some bad juju by opening the old trunk. Or worse juju, I should say, considering how my love life is looking at the moment.
I stare at the chest, chewing on the inside of my cheek, when a calming aura washes over me. I can tell instinctually that it isn’t my own, but it is familiar. I recognize it as the same sense of calm that overcame me when I was struggling with the decision to allow myself to date Finn or not. It’s so peaceful I can physically feel my shoulders relaxing and my jaw unclenching.
“Open it.” A calm voice reassures me from somewhere within my head. I whip my head around, looking for the owner of the voice.
“What?!” Elsie freaks, scooting away from the direction I just looked in.
“Nothing, nothing.” I shake my head, attempting to keep us both calm. “I just think we should open the trunk. I don’t think anything bad will happen.” The voice sounded feminine, motherly, and encouraging. I know it was Martha helping me for the second time tonight. Her presence is a strong one, making her easy to recognize and for no good reason at all, I trust her. She had helped me find the key, after all.
I retrieve the rusted key from my pocket and insert it into the trunk’s lock. With a steadying breath, I turn the key to the left and a distinct click tells me the locking mechanism has been disengaged. I nibble on my lower lip as I grasp either side of the trunk’s lid, slowly raising it as it groans and its hinges bend to reveal its contents.
“You did it,” Elsie praises. She’s still sitting a cautious few feet back from the trunk, probably to make her escape easier if poisonous gas had begun to escape.
“What’s inside?”
I reach into the trunk and retrieve the single item that makes up its contents: a yellowed, crispy folded piece of parchment—a letter.
“That’s it?” The barista raises an underwhelmed eyebrow, folding her arms at the sight of the parchment. I give her a look and unfold the delicate paper.
“This is hard to read,” I remark, trying to decipher the swirly, faded handwriting. “Hand me the flashlight, Els.” She does so hesitantly, not eager to let go of her protective ray of light. I shine the beam just off to the side of the letter so that the stream doesn’t shine through the thin paper.
“Read it out loud,” Elsie requests, scooting closer to me. “Unless it’s an incantation or a spell or something. Then.. just read it in your head.” I chuckle and shoot a questioning eyebrow up in her direction.
“What? You’re Martha’s great, great, great whatever. That probably makes you .005% witch, too. You could be casting a spell and not even know it.” Elsie’s stare proves that she believes what she’s saying is 100 percent factual. I smile at her expense before beginning to read the letter out loud. Even Olive adjusts her position from above to hear us more closely.
“I have beene accused by mine husband, John Brant, of an offense that be anything but truth. For much time now, I have known it to be true that John beene engaging in impropriety with ye Smith’s young daughter. Even on death’s cold step I do not dare speak ill of my husband, yet it is of much convince to him that these accusations of witchery befall my name as he indulges in fantasies with the maiden. I am blameless. Let thyne letter expose my truths and man’s falsehood against me. Convey onto mine children mine enduring love. Let mine truths be recounted at a more fitting hour. Martha A. Berrycloth.”
Elsie’s wide eyes meet mine, her jaw resting almost entirely on the floor by the time I finish the letter.
“This is a piece of history, Elsie. This is amazing; this letter could clear Martha’s name.” I scoff in disbelief, rereading the words on the page for a second time. Even Olive lets out a squeak of excitement, the shrill sound causing Elsie to jump.
“You need to get this to a professional. Ooh, Milo is gonna be PISSED!” She comes to a full stop. Her freckled face droops with regret as soon as Milo’s name leaves her mouth. Suddenly, my short-lived joy and excitement evaporate, replaced only by the reminder of Milo and Finn’s deceit. The feeling of betrayal and emptiness once again smack me in the face.
“I’ll drive it to the Massachusetts Historical Conservancy Foundation tomorrow; that’s where I have to sign the documents to relinquish Martha’s remains to Havenwood. They’ll know what to do with the letter. The Historical Foundation is in Boston, so I should get some rest tonight.” I look down at my overgrown acrylics, avoiding her gaze as I gently queue her into an exit. I feel bad trying to get rid of my only friend in town but I’d really rather be alone right now, I’m tired of crying in front of others. I’m tired of crying in general but it’s inevitable and I’d rather do it without an audience. My excuse is true, too. I do plan on going to Boston early tomorrow morning but I don’t even believe myself when it comes to getting rest.
“Thanks for breaking the law with me tonight, Els.”
“Anytime,” she jokes, offering an understanding smile as we stand and make our way out of the attic. “Just do me a favor; when you publish your guidebook, don’t include tonight’s activities. My grandmother would kill me if she knew what I was up to.”
“Okay, I promise.” I offer her a gracious smile. She hugs me before making her departure into the night, now far less afraid of a witch attack.
Once Elsie disappears down the road my smile plummets. I had completely forgotten about the guidebook until Elsie mentioned it; my motivation to finish it almost nonexistent. I had been drawn to write the guidebook to help save a town that Finn loves so dearly because I love Finn. But now, I’ll finish it for no reason other than because I’ve fallen in love with the small, rustic town I have called home over the last several months. Regardless of where Finn and I’s relationship stands, I will go to Boston tomorrow morning to fulfill a duty to Havenwood and to fulfill a duty to Martha because I want to. Because saving her reputation and Havenwood is important to me. I sit down on my couch and fire up my laptop, retrieving the notebook full of Agnes’ tales as I do.
The rest of the night is spent typing away, documenting the truths, fables, and hot spots of Havenwood, USA. I had been lured here under false pretenses and lied to repeatedly by the people I trusted for the small possibility that I could save Havenwood. As I sit with my laptop in my lap, writing about the most quaint and adorable coffee house staffed by a red-haired barista, I know I will do just that.
* * *
I wrote until the sun peaked in at me through the living room window and only then did I realize I’d worked on my guidebook the entire night through. I had been fueled by the unrelenting image of Finn’s face that plagued me when I dared to close my eyes and oat milk chai lattes alone. When 6 a.m. rolled around, I decided it was time to start my road trip to the south side of the state; if I left now, then I could make it to Boston around 8 a.m., right when the state’s Historical Conservancy Foundation was set to open. I had had all night to sit with my thoughts and emotions, so by the time I got into my car and headed towards Boston in silence, I felt next to nothing. I’d spent hours last night feeling every and any emotion possible, I’d phased through each stage of grief and was now left with emptiness, numbness. I was tired of hurting, tired of feeling betrayed, and tired of being used.
Each fiery orange sugar maple leaf reminded me of Finn, and I saw him in each cobblestone that made up Havenwood’s historic roads; I wanted to leave. Go far away, somewhere without reminders of Finn Abernathy and the agony he had put me through. Deep down, I know no matter how far I run, the pain will persist, but putting distance between me and Havenwood is a good start to some sort of healing.
I had left California to escape men and their manipulation, only to cross the country and fall back into the same trap once again. It’s time to remind myself that no one could truly love me; they could only use me for their own personal gain. And this time, I won’t forget it.
When I arrive at the Massachusetts Conservancy Foundation, I give the petite blonde receptionist my name, and within minutes, I’m having my hand shaken by several gray-haired men, most of whom wear bulky glasses and suspenders. The bigwigs of the Conservancy Foundation, I quickly come to find out. They have been in conversation with Milo and know exactly who I am. After presenting them with Martha’s letter, they each take turns trying to convince me to allow them to keep the letter at their foundation. I decline each time, citing that it belongs in Havenwood right beside Martha’s bones, clearing her name for the rest of forever. I do, however, allow them to make copies for their records and I make certain that my name is listed as the person responsible for discovering it. I can already imagine the jealous shriek Milo will let out once he finds out and honestly, karma feels good.
After much more schmoozing on their end, the older men finally sit me down with the infamous document, the very thing that has been the cause of all my misery. I sign my name on the dotted line, allocating my ancestor’s body to remain in Havenwood indefinitely. I expected to feel lighter, or maybe different, but as I watch the ink dry, I’m still left feeling empty.
The bigwigs spend an unnecessary amount of time chatting with me about “the miracle” it is that a descendant of Martha Brant’s was discovered just in time to meet the October 31st deadline. A true miracle, indeed. I say my goodbyes and head back out to the main lobby, grateful to finally be leaving.
“Happy Halloween!” The blonde receptionist calls to me. I pause, my hand resting on the door handle. I didn’t even notice that today is Halloween. What better way to mark my last day in Havenwood?