Read Havenwood Secrets free: the opening chapter

Returning Home

The Vermont air smelled of pine and damp earth, a scent Clara hadn’t truly noticed in years. It was a scent that belonged to Havenwood, and to a younger version of herself. She pulled her sensible shoes tighter against the gravel as she parked the car in front of “The Sweet Spot.” It wasn't much to look at.

The bakery's paint was peeling, the window display clouded with dust. A faded sign, barely clinging to the frame, declared it her grandmother’s legacy. Clara hadn’t seen it in fifteen years, not since the funeral. It felt… smaller. And sadder.

She hadn’t planned to come back. Not really. After Robert, her husband, passed, she’d simply…drifted. Sold their house in Boston, packed what she could bear, and followed a pull she hadn’t known existed until the grief settled in. A pull back to Havenwood. Back to the scent of sugar and flour, back to the memory of her grandmother’s warm smile.

It was a risk, reopening the bakery. A big one. But staying in Boston felt worse. Every street corner held a memory, every coffee shop echoed with his laughter. Here, she hoped, there was room to breathe. Room to rebuild.

She wrestled a heavy box labeled “Kitchen Essentials” from the trunk, her muscles protesting the effort. She hadn’t spent much time doing since Robert got sick. Mostly just…being. Being a wife, then a widow. She wanted to do something again.

---

The key turned with a groan, releasing a puff of stale air. It smelled of vanilla, oddly enough. And something else. Something like forgotten dreams. Clara stepped inside, and a fine layer of dust motes danced in the weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windows.

The bakery was exactly as she remembered it. The long wooden counter, worn smooth with years of use. The display cases, empty now, but she could almost see them filled with her grandmother’s famous blueberry scones and apple pies. The large, industrial oven, a hulking presence in the back. It looked like it hadn’t been turned on in decades.

She set the box down with a thud. It was going to be a lot of work. More than she’d initially thought.

“Well, now. Look who the cat dragged in.”

Clara jumped, whirling around to find Evelyn Bellweather standing in the doorway. Evelyn was a fixture in Havenwood, a woman who seemed to know everything about everyone. She was small and wiry, with a cloud of silver hair and eyes that missed nothing. She held a plate of cookies, still warm.

“Evelyn! I didn’t hear you.” Clara managed a smile.

“Didn’t expect you, dear. Not after all this time. Thought you’d forgotten all about Havenwood.” Evelyn breezed past her, placing the plate on the counter. “Chocolate chip. Your grandmother’s recipe, of course. Though I always used a touch more vanilla.”

Clara took a cookie, the familiar scent instantly transporting her back to childhood. It tasted exactly as she remembered. Warm, buttery, perfect.

“They’re wonderful, Evelyn. Thank you.”

“Humph. Don’t get sentimental on me. You got a lot of work ahead of you. This place is a mess.” Evelyn surveyed the bakery with a critical eye. “Your grandmother would be turning in her grave.”

“I know, I know. It’s…it’s overwhelming.” Clara confessed, her voice catching slightly.

“Overwhelming? Honey, you’re a Montgomery. We don’t give up easily. Your grandmother built this place from nothing. She had grit. You got grit too, I reckon.” Evelyn patted her hand. “Besides, Havenwood needs a good bakery. Bea Crowley’s been charging an arm and a leg for those dry muffins of hers for far too long.”

Clara chuckled. “Bea and her muffins. Some things never change.”

“Not in Havenwood, they don’t.” Evelyn’s smile faded a bit. “It’s been quiet since…well, since everything. People need a little sweetness in their lives, Clara. A little something to brighten their day.”

Clara looked around the dusty bakery, a flicker of hope igniting within her. Maybe Evelyn was right. Maybe this wasn’t just about reopening a bakery. Maybe it was about something more. About bringing a little bit of joy back to Havenwood. And maybe, just maybe, about finding a little bit of joy for herself.

---

“I’ll leave you to it,” Evelyn said, heading for the door. “I come by most days to check on things. And to offer advice, whether you want it or not.”

Clara laughed. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

As Evelyn left, Clara turned back to the bakery. The weight of the task ahead was still daunting, but now it felt…different. It wasn't just a pile of dust and peeling paint. It was a connection to her grandmother, to her past, to a town she’d once loved.

She began to unpack the box, carefully arranging the baking tools. A rolling pin, a whisk, a set of measuring cups. Each item felt familiar in her hands, a comforting reminder of happier times.

As she worked, she noticed something tucked away in the corner of the counter. A small, wooden box, hidden beneath a pile of old newspapers. It was intricately carved with flowers and vines, and secured with a tarnished brass clasp.

Curiosity piqued, Clara lifted the lid. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded velvet, was a journal. Its pages were yellowed and brittle with age, the handwriting delicate and flowing.

It was her grandmother’s journal.

Clara carefully opened the first page. The date at the top read: July 12, 1958.

“My dearest Eleanor is gone. Vanished without a trace. The town whispers, of course. They say she ran off with a traveling salesman. But I know my daughter. She would never leave without saying goodbye. Something terrible has happened. I must find out what, even if it breaks my heart.”

Clara’s breath caught in her throat. Eleanor? She’d heard the name before. A distant cousin, perhaps? Someone her grandmother rarely spoke of. And gone? Vanished?

The journal continued, detailing her grandmother’s desperate search for Eleanor. A search that had ultimately led nowhere. The last entry was dated just a few weeks after the first, filled with despair and resignation.

Clara closed the journal, her mind reeling. A decades-old disappearance. A mystery hidden within the walls of The Sweet Spot. And a grandmother who had carried a secret for a lifetime.

A sudden chill ran down her spine. It wasn’t just dust and memories in this bakery. It was something far more complicated. And she had a feeling that reopening The Sweet Spot was going to be more than just baking cookies and selling pies.

She looked out the window, at the quaint town square bathed in the late afternoon sun. Havenwood seemed peaceful, idyllic. But beneath the surface, she sensed something stirring. Something hidden. Something…troubling.

And she knew, with a certainty that settled deep in her bones, that she wasn’t going to rest until she found out what happened to Eleanor.

…Something…troubling.

She looked down at the journal again, tracing the delicate script with her finger. It felt like a direct link to her grandmother, a whispered confession across the years. This wasn’t just a historical curiosity; it was a plea for help, echoing from the past.

Clara set the journal carefully on the counter, the weight of it surprisingly heavy. She needed to think. A fresh start, she’d told Evelyn. A chance to rebuild. But how could she focus on flour and sugar when a family mystery was brewing beneath her feet?

The bakery itself was a testament to years of neglect. Dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight, illuminating chipped paint and faded floral wallpaper. The scent of vanilla and cinnamon, once so strong, was now masked by the musty odor of disuse. The large, antique oven, thankfully, looked relatively intact, though it would undoubtedly need a thorough cleaning and inspection.

She ran a hand along the smooth, cool surface of the marble countertop, imagining her grandmother bustling around, expertly crafting delicate pastries. Nana Rose had been a pillar of the Havenwood community, known for her kindness and, of course, her incredible baking. Everyone remembered her famous apple pie, the secret recipe passed down through generations. Clara hoped she could recapture some of that magic.

A sigh escaped her lips. It was overwhelming, really. Not just the physical work of restoring the bakery, but the emotional weight of it all. Losing her husband, David, two years ago had left a hole in her life that she wasn’t sure would ever fully heal. She’d retreated to the city, seeking anonymity and a distraction from her grief. But the city had only amplified her loneliness. Havenwood felt…right. A place to reconnect with her roots, to honor her grandmother’s memory, and perhaps, to find a new purpose.

Suddenly, a melodic voice broke through her thoughts. “Oh my, you’ve really got your hands full!”

Clara turned to see Mrs. Gable, the owner of the flower shop across the square, standing in the doorway. She was a petite woman with a cloud of silver hair and a perpetually cheerful disposition. She carried a small bouquet of lavender and rosemary.

“Just getting acquainted with the dust bunnies,” Clara said with a wry smile. “It’s been a while since anyone’s really been in here.”

Mrs. Gable chuckled. “That it has. Your Nana Rose would be thrilled to see you back. She talked about you often, you know. Said you had her knack for baking.”

“I hope so,” Clara said, a warmth spreading through her chest. “I have a lot to live up to.”

Mrs. Gable approached the counter, placing the bouquet in a small vase. “Nonsense. You’ll do just fine. Havenwood has been missing a good bakery for far too long. And besides,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially, “we need someone to keep Evelyn in check. She means well, that girl, but she’s a whirlwind.”

Clara laughed, remembering Evelyn’s enthusiastic arrival. “She certainly is.”

“I brought you a little something to brighten the place up,” Mrs. Gable said, gesturing to the lavender and rosemary. “Lavender for peace and tranquility, rosemary for remembrance.”

“That’s thoughtful of you,” Clara said, genuinely touched. “Thank you.”

“Don’t mention it. We all need a little help sometimes. Especially when we’re starting over.” Mrs. Gable’s gaze softened. “You lost your husband, didn’t you?”

Clara nodded, a familiar ache in her heart. “Two years ago.”

“I’m so sorry, dear. It’s never easy. But Havenwood is a good place to heal. People here care about each other. We look out for one another.”

Clara appreciated the woman’s kindness. It was exactly the kind of warmth she’d been craving. “I’m already feeling that.”

“Good. Now, tell me, what are you planning to bake first?” Mrs. Gable’s eyes twinkled. “I’m partial to a good lemon bar myself.”

Clara smiled. “I think I’ll start with Nana Rose’s apple pie. It’s a classic, and I want to get it just right.”

“Excellent choice. You can’t go wrong with apple pie.”

As they chatted, Clara’s gaze drifted back to the journal on the counter. She hesitated, then decided to confide in Mrs. Gable. “I found something…interesting while I was unpacking. My grandmother’s journal. It seems she was searching for someone, a woman named Eleanor, who disappeared years ago.”

Mrs. Gable’s expression changed, her cheerful demeanor replaced with a thoughtful frown. “Eleanor… Now that’s a name I haven’t heard in a long time. Old Man Hemlock’s daughter, if I remember correctly.”

“Hemlock?”

“Yes. He was the town blacksmith. A gruff old man, but harmless enough. Eleanor was a lovely girl, full of life. Disappeared right before her wedding, she did. A real tragedy.”

“The journal suggests there was something more to it than just running off,” Clara said. “My grandmother seemed to believe something terrible had happened.”

Mrs. Gable’s eyes widened. “Your grandmother was a smart woman. Always had a good head on her shoulders. But the sheriff at the time, he dismissed it as a runaway case. Said Eleanor was probably tired of small-town life.”

“But your grandmother didn’t believe that?”

“No. She spent months searching, asking questions. But she never found a trace. Eventually, she just…gave up. It broke her heart, I think.”

Clara felt a shiver run down her spine. This was more than just a local legend. It was a real person, a real family, shattered by an unsolved mystery. And her grandmother had been deeply involved.

“I wonder why she never spoke of it,” Clara mused aloud.

Mrs. Gable shrugged. “Sometimes, secrets are best left buried. Especially when they bring so much pain.”

But Clara didn’t think this was a secret that should stay buried. She felt a growing sense of responsibility, a desire to uncover the truth, not just for her grandmother, but for Eleanor and her family.

“I think I need to do some digging,” Clara said, her voice firm. “I need to find out what happened to Eleanor.”

Mrs. Gable nodded, a flicker of hope in her eyes. “Maybe you will, dear. Maybe you will. Havenwood has a way of revealing its secrets… eventually.”

As Mrs. Gable left, Clara looked around the bakery, her gaze sweeping over the dusty shelves, the peeling wallpaper, and the antique oven. She knew she had a long road ahead of her. But she wasn’t just restoring a bakery; she was uncovering a mystery. And she was determined to see it through, one forgotten clue, one faded memory, at a time. The scent of lavender and rosemary filled the air, a promise of healing and hope, mingled with the lingering scent of dust and memories. The Sweet Spot wasn't just a bakery anymore. It was a starting point.

The sample ends here.