Chapter Eight

Eliza bustled in the front door, carried on the uplifting winds of progress. Her mood had improved greatly from her earlier trepidation. That faint, creeping dread wasn’t entirely excised, but tempered by personal experience and knowledge.

Her visit to the library had been, she decided, a resounding success. The archives were everything she’d hoped for and more—fascinating, detailed, if a tad indecipherable. Pages of brittle script, maps annotated in looping hands, poorly-kept parish ledgers, and centuries-old reports from the frontier missions. All of it layered and complex.

It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever…

Sandra, the librarian, had proved invaluable, patiently steering her through the thicket of manuscripts.

The woman’s initial coolness had thawed quickly—Tammy’s sunshiny charm could have melted an ice age. Between the realtor’s friendly chatter and Sandra’s diligent guidance, Eliza had felt herself being swept along in a swift current of community spirit.

Tammy really was extraordinary: bright, charismatic, endlessly gracious. No wonder she was so successful at her job.

Everyone in town seemed to adore the burgundy-haired woman. Eliza had found herself smiling more than once, nodding along as Tammy spoke of neighborly values and “the Moorfield way,” of helping hands and open doors, of women supporting one another for the betterment of all.

And the tea. That fragrant, floral tea. Tammy had kindly gifted her a tin of dried tea leaves and instructions on how to steep them properly.

Eliza must’ve drunk eight cups over the afternoon, each sip soothing her nerves and sharpening her focus just enough to keep studying.

Hours slipped by in that cozy nook.

Sandra would bring another leather-bound tome or a stack of copied records, quietly explaining their significance. Each document seemed more complicated than the last—charts, deeds, missionary reports in archaic Spanish—but Eliza felt sure she was circling closer to something. Some hidden connection between the lost Franciscan mission and Moorfield’s founding.

It was almost too much information. And every time she tried narrowing her investigative scope to Mission San José de los Nazonis, the industrious librarian would produce another dense article of local lore that promised to be relevant but somehow failed to touch on the topic directly.

By the time she rose to leave, her legal pad was overflowing with chicken scratchings. The town’s history felt tantalizingly close to revealing itself, like a puzzle she was finally beginning to piece together.

It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever…

Eliza’s head was positively buzzing when she hurried home, arms loaded with photocopies, manila folders, borrowed books, and scribbled notes.

The familiar smiles and friendly waves of passersby were still mildly eerie–their dated fashion still out of place–but Eliza found it didn’t bother her as much as before.

In fact, she even paused to window-shop at a darling little boutique selling women’s shoes and pastel accessories. A white satin ribbon caught her eye—simple, charming, and cheerfully impractical. A few minutes later, she stepped back into the summer air, the ribbon now perched in a pert bow atop her brunette bob.

It looked nice, and Eliza felt good about the indulgence.

“Hubby, are you home?” she called, dumping her burdensome research on the kitchen counter with a clatter that sent a stray pen dashing for the sink. “Whoops!”

Retrieving the runaway stationery, Eliza froze, hearing a wet rhythmic squelching, accompanied by low, frustrated muttering.

It was coming from inside the house…

The hum of the refrigerator suddenly sounded too loud. Her spine tingled as the squelching continued—slow, then faster, punctuated by a grunt and a hiss of irritation.

Cautiously, she crept toward the hallway, stepping over grocery bags and glancing at the recycling bin, which overflowed with empty glass bottles. The smell hit her next: thick and musky. Her empathic sense blipped, that faint internal warning.

Her heartbeat quickened. Mason’s clothes were scattered before the guest bathroom door. A shadow moved inside. The sound grew louder.

“C’mon,” came her husband’s voice—strained, breathy, ****. “C’mon, just… let go already! Quit fighting me!”

Eliza’s pulse leaped to her throat. She hesitated, braced herself, and nudged the door open.

“Mason?”

Her fears evaporated in a burst of exposed flesh and ridiculousness.

There was her husband, bare-chested, towel slung around his hips, wrestling with a toilet plunger. The shower floor was flooded, and each shove of the handle produced another obscene squelch.

“Oh, hey there, love.” He said, straightening abruptly. “Uh, drain’s blocked. Just… showing it who’s boss.”

Eliza blinked, then laughed—a long, shaky laugh that dispelled the tension. “You nearly gave me a heart attack! I thought—”

“Yeah, well, it’s fighting dirty,” Mason interrupted, cheeks faintly pink. “Don’t worry, I’ll get it sorted.”

He offered her a lopsided grin, the sort that used to melt her heart during college, and somehow still did. Eliza leaned on the doorframe, watching the water dapple his coppery skin, admiring the breadth of his shoulders and the strength in his movements.

It struck her how lucky she was—to have a man who could fix things, who didn’t mind rolling up his sleeves, who looked so endearingly sheepish doing it.

She caught her reflection in the foggy mirror, the little white bow bright against her autumn hair. It suited her, didn’t it? Made her look… softer.

It ain't too clever for a girl to be clever.

The faint echo whispered in her mind again. Eliza blinked, brushed it aside, and smiled again.

She had a lot to smile about in that moment–big, happy smiles that felt good and fractured her usually reserved countenance.

“I’m glad you're on the job, hubby dearest.” Eliza stepped in to kiss his brow. The salty sweat and his masculine scent invaded her senses, making the bathroom feel ten degrees hotter. “Are you hungry? I’m suddenly in the mood to whip up a late lunch.”

She wanted to tell him about her day. The suspicious email. Visiting the library. Her encounter with Tammy. The book club meeting. Her research into Moorfield’s history. But somehow, that all dimmed in importance compared to feeding her man.

“Sure. Thanks.”

Mason had already gone back to plunging, whistling tunelessly now, water splashing against the tiles. Everything was perfectly ordinary. Perfectly normal.

That felt good too. Eliza’s smile widened, and a girlish giggle bubbled out of her.

She didn’t leave right away. Enthralled, watching her dashing husband work and bathing in his pervasive musk. She never thought to question why he’d used the guest shower, how the drain had clogged in the first place, or what that milky swirling residue was as it mingled with the water pooling around their feet.

Instead, Eliza found herself staring, that silly grin stuck on her face, until Mason turned to her again with a quizzical expression.

“You okay, love?” He asked, “You’re just kinda standing there. How’s about that lunch, huh?”

“Oh… fine!” She shook herself awake. “Spaced out for a second. Lunch, yes! Coming right up, hubby.”

His manly scent trailed Eliza as she bustled towards the kitchen. Unsure what had come over her and unable to stop smiling the entire way.

End of Part Two

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