Chapter 2
1115 Words
Elara didn’t sleep much that night.
She tried — she made tea, she unpacked a few things, she even opened the old book of crossword puzzles her grandmother used to leave by the bedside. But her mind kept circling back to the bundle of letters on the kitchen table, as if they had a heartbeat of their own.
By morning, she was still turning over the same question: Who were James and Marigold?
After breakfast — a cup of coffee and half a stale granola bar — she tucked the letters into a cloth bag and headed into town. The streets of Windmere looked like something from an old postcard. Flower boxes under shop windows, a clock tower that chimed in the hour, and a bakery that still handwrote its specials in chalk. The familiarity was comforting and strange all at once.
She pulled open the door to the Windmere Historical Society, and a small brass bell jingled overhead. The room smelled of paper, cedar, and time. Shelves lined the walls, filled with old photographs, books, and documents yellowed with age. In the far corner sat a man behind a desk, scribbling something in a ledger.
He didn’t look up.
“Excuse me,” Elara said, voice soft.
The man glanced over the top of his glasses. His hair was dark and a little unruly, like he hadn’t bothered taming it in the morning. He wore a simple navy button-up with sleeves rolled to the elbows and a look that suggested interruptions were not part of his daily routine.
“Can I help you?” he asked, voice low and even.
“I hope so. I’m looking for some information. About a couple of names.” She stepped closer. “My name’s Elara Bennett. My grandmother was Rose Bennett. I just inherited her house on Lakeview Road.”
At the sound of her grandmother’s name, his brow lifted slightly.
“I remember Rose,” he said. “Quiet lady. Used to bring blueberry muffins to the Founders’ Day bake sale.”
Elara smiled faintly. “That sounds like her.”
He closed the ledger and gestured to a wooden chair across the desk. “Have a seat. I’m Rowan Clarke. I manage most of the archives here.”
She sat down, setting the cloth bag on the desk between them.
“I found something yesterday,” she said, untying the bag. “At the base of the old oak tree behind the house.”
Rowan leaned forward, watching as she placed the bundle of letters on the desk.
“They’re dated from the 1950s,” she continued. “All of them were addressed to someone named Marigold. Written by someone named James. I think they were love letters — but they were never sent. Or at least, never delivered.”
Rowan reached out, gently picking up the top letter as if it were a delicate artifact.
“May I?”
“Of course.”
He read a few lines, eyes moving slowly across the page. His expression shifted — from mild curiosity to something more thoughtful. A furrow appeared between his brows.
“This is... poetic,” he said softly. “Whoever James was, he wasn’t just scribbling quick notes. He was in love. Deeply.”
“That’s what I thought too,” Elara said. “But I don’t recognize either name. And I don’t know why the letters were hidden there.”
Rowan set the letter down and looked at her fully for the first time. “Do you mind if I hold onto these for a few days? I can check census records, property deeds, marriage announcements. Maybe even school registries. It’s a small town. People leave traces.”
Elara hesitated, then nodded. “Just be careful with them. They feel… personal.”
“I’ll treat them like glass,” he said.
A silence stretched between them — not uncomfortable, but heavy with the weight of the past they’d both just stepped into.
“You said you don’t recognize the names,” Rowan continued. “But it’s possible ‘Marigold’ was a nickname.”
Elara blinked. “That never occurred to me.”
“People used flower names sometimes, especially in writing. If James couldn’t confess openly, maybe he used a name only they understood.”
Elara felt a small shiver run through her. “Do you think my grandmother could’ve been Marigold?”
Rowan leaned back in his chair. “Maybe. Or maybe someone close to her. It wouldn’t be the first time this town hid a love story.”
“What do you mean?”
He offered a half-smile. “Let’s just say Windmere has a long history of polite silences.”
Elara filed that phrase away. It sounded like something her grandmother would’ve said with a tight-lipped smile and a deflecting comment about the weather.
Rowan stood and crossed to a large cabinet against the wall. He pulled open a drawer and flipped through several folders before pulling out a thin binder.
“Here,” he said, placing it on the table. “Windmere High Yearbooks. 1950 to 1960. Might be worth flipping through, see if any faces or names feel familiar.”
Elara took the binder and opened to the first page. Grainy black-and-white photos stared back at her — young faces frozen in time.
“I’ll get started on these letters today,” Rowan said. “Feel free to come back anytime. I’m usually here until four.”
She looked up. “Thank you. I wasn’t sure anyone would take this seriously.”
He gave her a small nod. “Some stories wait years to be heard. You’re just the one who happened to find it.”
Elara left the historical society with the binder pressed against her chest and a strange flutter in her stomach — not just from the mystery unfolding, but from something else.
Something about Rowan Clarke’s quiet intensity lingered in her mind.
Back at the house, she set the yearbook on the dining table and flipped through it for over an hour. Names like “James Whitmore,” “James Cole,” and “James Harding” stood out, but none felt right. And not a single girl was listed as “Marigold.” But her grandmother, Rose, appeared in the class of 1956 — smiling in a neat white collar, hair pinned back just so.
She stared at the photo longer than she meant to.
“Did you love someone no one knew about?” she asked aloud.
The oak tree outside swayed in the wind as if answering.
And Elara realized something — she wasn’t just curious anymore.
She was invested.
- Writer
