Maeve Higgins adjusted the lapel mic on Julian Thorne’s suit jacket, her fingers brushing the fine wool. “Tight enough for you?”
“Perfect, friend.” Julian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I always appreciate your attention to detail.”
She stepped back and surveyed the west lawn of the Oakhaven Heritage Gardens. A hundred white chairs faced the temporary stage, each draped with a sprig of boxwood. The morning had broken clear, the dogwoods in full bloom, their petals drifting onto the gravel paths like confetti. She’d stopped at Sheetz on Route 11 for a large black coffee, which now sat cold on her desk. The price was $2.79, and she’d paid with exact change.
Leo Ramirez jogged over, his boots caked with damp mulch. “The east gate banner’s sagging again. I need two volunteers to re-bury the stakes.”
“Pull Mike and Tessa from registration,” Maeve said. “And check the microphone feedback — I heard a buzz during the sound check.”
“On it.” He darted away, hands already gesturing.
The crowd swelled. Clara Bellweather took her seat in the front row, her white bun quivering as she waved. Sam Cole nodded from beneath the old sugar maple, a cup of lemonade in his calloused hand. Maeve caught his eye and lifted her chin in greeting. He lifted his cup in reply.
Julian mounted the stage at ten o’clock sharp. Maeve stood near the soundboard, arms folded. The applause was polite, expectant. Julian gripped the podium with both hands and leaned into the mic.
“One hundred years ago,” he said, “my great-great-aunt Elspeth Thorne had a vision. She saw these fifty acres not as farmland or forest, but as a sanctuary. A place where beauty could grow.”
He paused for a ripple of clapping. Maeve watched the faces in the audience. Pride, nostalgia, a little hunger.
“But a sanctuary needs more than vision,” Julian continued. “It needs a firm foundation. Financially speaking.” He let the words settle. “The Gardens have given this town a century of joy. Now it’s our turn to ensure the next century is just as bright. I’m exploring ways to secure that future — practical, forward-thinking ways that honor Elspeth’s legacy while addressing the needs of today. The undeveloped acreage behind the old conservatory, for instance, offers some intriguing possibilities.”
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. Clara leaned toward her neighbor, lips pursed. Maeve’s jaw tightened.
Julian spread his hands. “I’m not proposing anything today. Merely planting a seed.” He flashed the smile again. “Happy centennial, Oakhaven.”
After the speech, the reception bloomed with chatter and the clink of iced tea glasses. A long table sagged under platters of Virginia ham biscuits and deviled eggs. Maeve circulated, thanking donors, deflecting questions about finances with nods and non-answers.
Julian found her near the tiered fountain. “Quite a turnout.”
“The Gardens have a lot of friends.” She kept her tone even.
“Friends who want it to thrive.” He swirled the ice in his glass. “And to thrive, it needs resources. Real resources.”
“The back acreage is part of the Gardens’ trust, Julian. It’s not for sale.”
“I’m not talking about a sale. Just thoughtful development. A partnership. Condos that blend with the landscape, a new revenue stream.” He tilted his head. “I’ve asked David to run some preliminary numbers. No harm in looking.”
Maeve met his eyes. “You’ve asked David Chen to run numbers on land that doesn’t belong to you.”
“Belongs to the trust. And I care about the trust.” He placed a hand on her shoulder, light and brief. “We all want the same thing. Let’s not get prickly.” He walked away.
Maeve exhaled slowly and counted the quarters in the fountain until her pulse steadied.
Clara intercepted her an hour later, clutching a cloth-wrapped object. “Maeve, I need a moment.”
“Can it wait until after the last guest leaves?”
“It won’t take long.” Clara peeled back the cloth to reveal a worn leather-bound book with a cracked spine. “Estate sale out past Winchester. I spotted the library mark — it belonged to a family that lived here in the 1910s. It’s a 1912 edition of Gray’s New Manual of Botany. I thought you’d want it for the archives.”
Maeve took the book. The leather was dry and flaking, the spine nearly detached. “This is a find, Clara. Thank you.”
“There’s an inscription on the flyleaf, but the ink’s too faded to read. I didn’t want to damage it by forcing the pages. It needs a careful hand.” Clara peered over her glasses. “I imagine you have the right touch.”
“I’ll take a look tonight.”
“Good. And don’t let Julian upset you. His kind of talk can wilt a person if you let it.” Clara patted her arm and bustled off.
By four o’clock the last folding chair was stacked, the last ham biscuit eaten. Maeve locked the event gate and trudged to her office in the old carriage house. The room smelled of coffee and potting soil. She set the botany book on her cluttered desk and sat down, rolling the stiffness from her shoulders.
She worked a butter knife carefully under the torn spine lining. Something wasn’t right. The spine was too thick for the number of pages, as if it carried a secret between its layers. The leather peeled back with a soft crack. Inside, pressed flat against the binding, lay a slim oilskin packet.
Maeve lifted it out. The oilskin was brittle, yellowed with age. She unfolded it and found a stack of letters, tied with a faded blue ribbon. The paper was thin and soft. The top sheet had jagged edges where it had been torn from a journal.
She untied the ribbon. The handwriting was elegant but unsteady, the loops trembling as if the hand that guided the pen shook badly. She carried the letter to the window, where the late-afternoon light fell strongest.
The first line read: *My Dearest Abigail, I write to you from the asylum where they have put me, though my only madness is to be the true Elspeth Thorne.*
Comments
Loading the conversation…