Page 2 of Tinsel & Timber
He doesn’t smile. “What did you just call me?”
“Captain Heritage. Since it seems like you think you’re in charge here.”
“Iamthe town historian and president of the Mistletoe Bay Preservation Society,” he says sternly, but holds out his hand. “Graham Whitlock.”
Of course, the town has a historian. And of course, he happens to be the kind of man who shows up to a house built by the town’s original settlers, set on defending its past glory.
“My grandfather grew up here,” I say before I can stop myself. “My family built this place.”
The clipboard dips. For a beat—one single breath—that tidy mask on his face cracks. Recognition? Surprise? And then he blinks as if what I just revealed rearranged his map of the world in a small, inconvenient way.
“You’re—” He checks the clipboard like it will confirm this new fact. “Mara Kensington.”
“I am,” I confirm. “I had no idea that my grandfather still held the deed to this place after all these years. I only found out after he died.”
Information spills out of me faster than I mean for itto—the letters I found, the photograph of my grandfather on the porch, his grin crooked. The words are a raft I cling to to stay buoyed above the sudden undercurrent of grief and all the unexpected, raw hope.
Graham listens, perhaps in the same way he listens to a history lecture—attentive, respectful, a faint, guarded interest on his face. When I finish, he blows out a breath and nods.
“This changes things,” he says finally, voice low like he’s intrigued by everything I’ve just said.
“How?” I ask.
He flicks his eyes to the staircase, to the paneling going up the stairs, to the dust that refuses to lie flat in the corners. “When a house has lineage—actual family lineage—we treat it differently. It becomes a living archive. There are rules. Procedures. We’re not trying to make it impossible for anyone to renovate, but there are guidelines to ensure important features aren’t lost.”
“So you want paperwork,” I say, because I can hear the texture of bureaucracy through his words.
“We want preservation,” he corrects.
We stand in the middle of the library like two opposite poles, both of us convinced we’re doing the right thing. I could grit my teeth and order materials from a million online places and manhandle my way into demolition permits and get the kitchen gutted until it’s an album of modern trends. Or I could take a breath and let someone who’s lived in this town be my guide.
“You could also—” he adds, softer now, “—have talked to me or someone in the Preservation Society before you started poking around.”
“I barely had the keys,” I defend. “I wanted to see the bones before the contractors got here.”
“Heating. Wiring. All that matters,” he says. “But so does history.”
I stare at the banister outside the library. I’ve removed worse things; I’ve also saved better things. I know when to be violent and when to be careful.
“Okay,” I say finally. “How about this? You bring me the paperwork. You show me the items you care about. And I’ll promise to do right by the house. I restore what matters. Improve what’s necessary. Compromise.”
He blinks. The clipboard rests at his chest like a shield lowered.
“That’s not a terrible opening,” he says, and there’s the faintest twitch at the corners of his mouth that could be the ghost of a smile. “We’ll walk the house together tomorrow. I’ll bring the forms.”
“And you’ll try not to treat me like a criminal?” I venture.
“I’ll try,” he says dryly. “No promises.”
He walks out and the front door closes with a careful click behind him. In the space he leaves behind, there is a weird, flaring warmth like something lit inside me.
I laugh—half despair, half the kind of thrill you feel when a story begins burning.
By the time I make it to The Hollis House Inn, I’m ready to settle in for the night.
Cleo Hollis, the owner, is behind the desk. She smiles up at me the moment I walk in. “Welcome. You must be Mara.”
“How’d you know?” I reply with a smile of my own.
