Chapter 3 — Whispers at the Cottage

Clara Wilde

The distant call of seabirds echoed faintly as Clara trudged back into town, her polished heels scuffed from the uneven path down the hill. The locket in her pocket felt heavier with every step, its cold metal a reminder of the unsettling encounter with Max Sterling. The man had been as impenetrable as the mansion itself, his sharp blue eyes brimming with both defiance and something else—pain, maybe. Clara couldn’t decide which had unnerved her more: the decayed grandeur of the house or the man who seemed so fiercely tethered to it.

By the time she reached The Seabreeze Inn, her coat was damp from the fine drizzle that had begun to settle over the town. The tang of salt in the air mixed with the earthy scent of rain, sharpening the cool evening. Mrs. Thompson, the innkeeper, glanced up from her crossword puzzle behind the front desk, her brow arching slightly in question. Clara offered a tight smile, brushing off the silent inquiry as she made her way upstairs. She paused outside her room, letting the weight of the day settle over her. The image of Max’s steely gaze flickered in her mind as the sound of distant waves rose faintly above the drizzle.

Inside her room, she slipped off her damp coat, draping it over the back of the chair. She had barely sunk onto the edge of her bed when her phone buzzed insistently in her bag, breaking the thread of her thoughts. She sighed and fished it out, already bracing herself.

“Clara,” barked Mr. Daniels’ voice as soon as she picked up. His clipped tone was as familiar as it was grating. “I trust you’ve made progress?”

Clara pinched the bridge of her nose. “I met with the owner,” she began cautiously. “Max Sterling. He’s… resistant.”

“Resistant?” Daniels repeated, his voice taut with impatience. “Clara, this isn’t a negotiation where you can afford to leave empty-handed. Do I need to remind you what’s at stake here? We need that deal.”

“I’m aware of the stakes,” she replied, keeping her voice measured despite the simmering frustration. “But Max Sterling isn’t your average seller. He’s emotionally attached to the property. It's going to take time.”

“Time is a luxury you don’t have,” Daniels snapped. “You’re not there to indulge someone’s sentimental nonsense. This isn’t a counseling session—do whatever it takes to get him to sign. Or find another way to make it happen. I expect results, Clara, not excuses.”

The line went dead before she could respond. For a long moment, she sat frozen, the phone still in her hand. The weight in her chest grew heavier, pressing against the fragile mask of composure she wore. Daniels’ impatient demands weren’t new, but each call left a deeper crack. She shoved the phone into her bag and stood, pacing the small room as her thoughts churned. The locket in her pocket pressed against her hand. Its etched initials, the faded photograph inside—it was a clue, a thread to pull. But was it enough?

A name surfaced in her thoughts, unbidden but welcome: June Harper. Clara hadn’t seen her old mentor in years, but if anyone could shed light on the mansion, its history, and perhaps even Max Sterling, it was June. The thought gave Clara a flicker of purpose. She grabbed her coat again, ignoring the damp fabric, and headed out into the misty streets.

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June Harper’s cottage sat at the edge of town, a bright, inviting contrast to the gloomy weather. Ivy crept along its stone walls, framing windows that glowed softly with golden light. The scent of seaweed mingled with lavender from the riot of flowers spilling out of planters and garden beds. Clara hesitated at the gate, brushing damp strands of hair from her face. The sight of the cottage stirred old memories of late-night conversations and cups of herbal tea, of advice that had once come so freely when Clara was new to her career. Those days felt distant now. So did the version of herself who had believed success was inevitable.

Gathering herself, she knocked briskly on the wooden door. It wasn’t long before it swung open, revealing June’s familiar figure. Her silver hair was swept into a chic bob, and her warm brown eyes lit up with recognition as she took in Clara’s face.

“Clara Wilde,” June said, her voice wrapping around the name like an embrace. “Well, this is a surprise.”

“Hi, June,” Clara replied, managing a faint smile. “I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all,” June said, stepping aside to usher her in. “Come in, come in. You look as though the mist has gotten the better of you.”

Clara stepped into the cozy warmth of the cottage. The scent of lavender and fresh-brewed tea enveloped her, soothing the edges of her frayed nerves. She took in the overstuffed bookshelves, the colorful scarves draped over chairs, the framed photographs of bygone days. It was as though nothing had changed, as though this space—and June—existed outside the wear and tear of time. June motioned for her to sit by the small, round table near the window, where two steaming cups of tea already waited.

“Serendipity,” June said with a wink as she sat across from Clara. “I was just thinking about you the other day. You’ve been keeping busy, I hope?”

Clara let out a small laugh, though it lacked humor. “Busy would be one way to put it. I’m here on a job—trying to broker a deal for the mansion on the hill.”

June’s eyes sparkled with interest, though her expression remained measured. “Ah, the Wilde House,” she said, leaning back in her chair. “A complicated piece of property, that one. And an even more complicated owner, I’d imagine.”

“You know Max Sterling?” Clara asked, sitting up straighter.

“I know of him,” June clarified, her voice thoughtful. “He keeps to himself, but his name comes up often enough in whispers and rumors. The mansion has been his sanctuary ever since… well, you know.”

Clara hesitated, unsure how much June knew about the scandal that had driven Max into exile. “He’s... reluctant to part with the property,” she admitted, choosing her words carefully. “It’s clear there’s a deeper connection there, but he won’t let me in—not figuratively or literally.”

June studied her over the rim of her teacup, a knowing smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Clara, dear, you’ve always had a knack for strategy, but perhaps this isn’t a problem you can solve with pragmatism alone. Max strikes me as someone who guards his heart as fiercely as he guards that house. If you truly want to make progress, you’ll need to show him you’re not just another outsider looking to take something from him.”

“I’m not sure he’ll give me the chance,” Clara said, irritation creeping into her tone. “He practically threw me out today.”

“Hmm,” June murmured, tapping a finger against her chin. “Then perhaps you need to approach this differently. The mansion is more than just a house to him—it’s a piece of his story. If you want to reach him, you’ll have to connect with that story. Show him that you see it, not as a commodity, but as something worth preserving.”

Clara frowned, turning the locket over in her pocket. “I found something while I was there—a locket. It has initials on it: A.S. Do you think it could mean something?”

June’s expression turned thoughtful. “It’s possible. The mansion has hosted many lives and stories over the years. That locket could be a thread leading you to one of them. If Max doesn’t want to talk, perhaps you can learn more about the mansion’s history on your own. The more you understand his connection to the house, the better equipped you’ll be to appeal to him.”

“There’s one more thing you should know,” June added, her tone turning serious. “Rumor has it that a development company has been eyeing the mansion for some time now. Horizon Holdings, I believe. If they step in, they’ll have no qualms about bulldozing over Max’s objections—or the town’s heritage.”

Clara’s stomach sank. “Horizon Holdings?” she repeated. “They’re ruthless. If they make an offer, Max might take it just to make us all go away.”

“Which is why you’ll need to act quickly—and carefully,” June said. “You’re not just dealing with one man’s heart, Clara. The future of this town and its history could very well hang in the balance.”

Clara swallowed the knot forming in her throat and met June’s gaze. The stakes, already high, now felt insurmountable. But she couldn’t afford to falter. She had already resolved to uncover the mansion’s secrets, and now she had an even greater reason to see it through.

“Thank you, June,” she said, rising from her chair. “You’ve given me a lot to think about.”

“Anytime, dear,” June said, reaching out to squeeze Clara’s hand. “And remember, every story has a turning point. Perhaps this is yours.”

Clara left the cottage feeling the weight of responsibility settle more deeply on her shoulders. As she made her way back toward the inn, the locket burning against her palm, she glanced up at the mansion on the hill. Its silhouette was shrouded in mist once more, a silent sentinel waiting to reveal its secrets.

Tomorrow, she thought. Tomorrow, she would start again.