Page 208 of Waiting For A Girl Like You
“Specifically, near the graveyard?” Liam added.
“Well, there’s Stephen Fairweather. He would be your direct ancestor, Mr. Fairweather. Shot by either his lover, his son, or his wife—no one was really sure. My mother said her grandmother never found out who pulled the trigger.” George let out a sharp yelp. “Sorry, my books fell over.”
“Uncle George’s study is cluttered with books and maps—” Carter began, but was interrupted by his Great-Uncle’s shout.
“Maps! Yes, that’s it!” George shouted, shuffling around. He let out anoofas if he’d tripped. “I wrote everything down on a survey map I procured of Haven House. Let me find it.”
While they waited, Jamison whispered to Carter, “I think we should invite your Great-Uncle George over for dinner.”
“Please don’t,” Carter mumbled. “He’d never leave. He’s already mad that both me and his brother have been to Haven without him.”
“Okay, here we go,” George said, slightly out of breath. “Right, I already mentioned Stephen Fairweather. Then there was Calvin Fairweather’s lover. I’ve got the name Jennie written down, so I’m guessing that’s what Wilhelmina said, although I’m not sure. I gatheredall this information years ago when my mother was in the end stages of heart failure. Anyway, Calvin Fairweather shot his lover, who I think is this Jennie, and then he buried her with his father. Isn’t Calvin your grandfather, Ben?”
“No, my grandfather was Malcolm Fairweather.”
Jamison’s eyes widened when George whooped with excitement. “Malcolm was Calvin Fairweather’s son! Okay, so we have Stephen and Jennie. Then there’s Grace Fairweather, and she drowned with her lover. Maybe that’s who you’re looking for? I can barely read my handwriting, but I think that’s what it says.”
“How many freaking murderers are in this family?” Liam arched an eyebrow, smirking sarcastically as he went to sip from his to-go cup. “Maybe I need to rethink this whole marriage thing.”
“No take backs.” Jamison straightened her spine, sitting primly as she lifted her nose in the air. “Simone has a strict no-return policy.”
“Well, then.” Liam kissed her again. “Guess I’ll just have to deal with it.”
“I’m sorry you had to hear all that, Mr. Anderson. We’re in the presence of newlyweds,” her father remarked, giving them a look. “May I ask how you received all this information? You said your mother told you?”
George chuckled. “My mother was a wonderful woman. She was a photographer who loved to tell stories with her camera and played witness to many things in her life. But when she got older and slowed down, I asked her to tell me her life story—and she did. It was good for her and good for us. She was what we called ‘the keeper’ in our family. The keeper of stories, if you will. She loved to sit and listen to the tales of other people’s lives and then photograph them to put a face to the story. Here, let me show you something.”
A beat passed, and then Carter’s phone buzzed. “Show them the pictures,” George instructed. “I think you’ll really get a kick out of them.”
Carter swiped through each photo as they gathered around to look at his screen. Haven House. The images, from decades ago, captured what appeared to be a renovation. The framed shells of the cottages were out on the shore of the bayou, prepped and ready for completion. There were images of the interior. The dining hall. The conservatory. The library.
And the final picture showed an elderly couple. Tall and thin, they held each other on a white sandy beach, laughing wildly as the wind tugged at their clothes and hair.
“That’s my mother’s grandparents,” George said. “Dr. Noah Anderson and his wife, Willa Anderson—formerly Wilhelmina Fairweather.”
“They look happy,” her father said, taking off his sunglasses to see the screen. “We were told she was sickly, and that’s why they built the conservatory for her at Haven House.”
“She did have a breathing condition. Noah specialized in pulmonary disorders and gave her a good life,” George replied. “My mother adored her grandparents and spent every summer with them. She often said they taught her the value of stopping and listening to others instead of barreling through life and making everything about oneself.”
“That’s lovely,” Jamison said into the phone. “Hi, I’m Jamison Fa—Cohen. I’m Jamison Cohen, Ben Fairweather’s daughter.”
“Hello, Jamison. It’s nice to meet you.”
“Can you tell us more about Grace and her lover? The ones who drowned?”
George moved about as he mumbled to himself. “I don’t know much, only that they died in the bayou. Grace committed suicide after the man she loved died. I think his name was Tommy—or Thomas. He was a worker at the mill and was killed when Stephen Fairweather discovered them trying to run away.”
“Are you saying Stephen Fairweather killed him?” Jamison asked. “And they’re buried in the graveyard?”
“Hold on, let me read,” George said, and went quiet for a beat. “Yes, here it is. According to what my mother learned, both Grace Fairweather and her lover drowned in the bayou.”
Cars were beginning to pull into the parking lot, and Jamison straightened her dress. “What do you want to do?” she asked Liam, already seeing the excitement building in his eyes. “Are we making this official, or are we going back to hunt for some journals?”
“Oh, I’m marrying you today.” He took her hand, tugging her toward the courthouse while Carter and her father lingered by the Rover, still talking to George. “But we’re starting our honeymoon off with a hunt.”
“I’m getting really tired of running around in wedding dresses!” Jamison shouted when Liam picked up the pace. “And why are we even running in the first place?”
The entire time they filled out the paperwork, Liam bounced theories off her, and she volleyed them back, sorting through his wild rush of ideas. It was their way, and it would always be the way of Mr. and Mrs. Cohen.
