by Becky Durfee
Ronald remained quiet and motionless for what seemed like an eternity, until he wordlessly closed the ring box and put it back in his pocket. He got up and began to throw all the carefully-planned food hastily back into the picnic basket.
Then the words started. “I don’t believe this.” He sniffed a few times and wiped the tears from his eyes. He walked over to Elanor and pointed at her as she sat motionlessly. “I’ve been good to you! I don’t deserve this!”
“I agree,” Elanor whispered, hanging her head. She resolved herself to hear anything he had to say, feeling deep down inside that she deserved every bit of it.
Ronald threw a few more items into the basket, and then returned to Elanor to add more. “I would have made a good husband! A good husband!”
“I know. And you will make a good husband…for the right woman.”
“But you are the right woman! Aww, just forget it.” He made a dismissive gesture with his hand and stormed off for his car, leaving Elanor and the blanket behind.
Elanor remained still for quite a while after he left, as if continuing to brace herself. Eventually the sound of the birds chirping and the light breeze relaxed her enough to abandon her statuesque demeanor and take a deep breath. She once again hugged her knees to her chest, looking out over the lake.
While she couldn’t determine exactly what she was feeling, she was quite sure it wasn’t the correct emotion. She should have been heartbroken considering her relationship just ended, but she felt strangely happy--relieved. She had been dreading this moment for a long time, and now it had passed. With Ronald out of the picture, she now had the ability to focus on the magazine without feeling like she was disappointing someone every minute she was there. With her dreams being what they were, deep down inside she knew she was better off without a man in her life bringing her down.
As she sat by herself, newly single, overlooking her favorite place in the world, she felt less alone than she had in years.
Chapter 3
2013
Jenny sat at the computer with her note pad, scribbling down information about any Steve O’dell she could find. None of it seemed to make any sense. A photographer from Texas, a lawyer in Wisconson…why on earth would she been hearing any of their names at a house in Evansdale, Georgia? She tried different variations of the name…Steve, Steven, Stephen…all to no avail. Confused but undeterred, she decided to switch gears and focus on Elanor Whitby.
A quick search yielded multiple results, all about the founder of Choices magazine. Jenny clicked on a biography, which stated that the magazine founder had been born in Evansdale in 1934. Jenny’s blood ran cold. Finally there was a connection.
On a hunch Jenny went to the county website’s real estate section to obtain an ownership history of her new house. She typed in her address, and the list of all of the property’s owners appeared chronologically. The first names on the list were Luther and Mary Ellen Whitby, the original owners who lived in the house for 37 years.
“Oh my God,” Jenny whispered. “Did she live here?”
Grateful for the information age, Jenny looked up free genealogy websites, finding multiple places she could find family trees. After several failed attempts to find a site that was easy to use, she typed in the only information she had about Elanor—her name, birth date, and the town. Results popped up instantly.
Elanor Whitby, born in 1934, was the only child of Luther and Mary Ellen Whitby.
Jenny looked around the house, realizing that Elanor Whitby, founder of Choices magazine, had grown up there as a child. She had learned to walk on those very floors, gazed outside those windows, played tag in that back yard. Jenny wondered how the house had looked when Elanor lived there—what color the walls had been, how the furniture had been arranged.
And she wondered why Elanor’s name, as well as the mysterious Steve O’dell, rang in her ears as she drifted off to sleep.
Excited about her new finding, she raced to find Greg, who was upstairs unpacking boxes. “You’ll never guess what I’ve uncovered.”
Greg didn’t look up from the box he was sorting through. “Oh yeah?” he said unenthusiastically, “What?”
Undeterred by his lack of interest, she continued. “Elanor Whitby…that name I heard last night as I was falling asleep…she lived here as a child. Her parents were the original owners of this house.”
“That’s good,” he said, closing up the box. “I guess your mystery’s solved, then.”
“My mystery’s solved?” Jenny asked. She had believed this discovery only deepened the mystery.
“Yeah.” Greg said, picking up the box. “You must have seen her name written somewhere. On some document or something. Now, for whatever reason, you think you’re hearing it.” He walked past Jenny to the closet, and put this box into storage with many others.
“I don’t think I’m hearing it,” Jenny said, turning to face him. “I am hearing it. Why are you so quick to dismiss this?” Her tone reflected a hint of annoyance.
“Because,” he said, pausing to look her in the eye. “We have lots of work to do.” He continued on to another box, opened it, and began rummaging through.
Jenny stood silently for a moment as she entertained the debate going on in her head. She certainly didn’t appreciate Greg’s lackluster reaction; however, she did have to acknowledge that she had been sitting at the computer for the past hour while Greg unpacked boxes by himself. She could see why he’d be irritated with her. Always eager to avoid a fight, Jenny grabbed a box and pulled off the tape.
They unpacked in silence for a while, until Jenny delicately announced, “I was thinking that I could try to find her.”
“Who?” Greg asked. “That woman?”
“Yes. Elanor.”
“Why?”
“I want to find out who Steve O’dell is.” Jenny shrugged sheepishly. “Maybe somebody is trying to deliver a message to me. Maybe there’s something I should be doing.”
Greg didn’t deliver an answer right away. He put away a few items from the box, and eventually said, “So you think spirits are talking to you or something?” His tone made her feel like a reprimanded child.
“I don’t know,” she confessed, “but I think it’s worth investigating.”
Greg didn’t say anything, so Jenny continued. “According to the information I found, Elanor is still alive. She’d be in her early eighties now.” Jenny took a few items out of her box. “She was the founder of Choices magazine, you know. She was quite a successful woman.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” Greg said. “Look at where she grew up. It seems success ran in her family.”
Jenny remained nervously quiet as she put a few more items away. Eventually she asked in a tone she tried to keep casual, “So…are you okay with it then? Me finding Elanor?”
“I guess,” Greg said shrugging. “Just please make sure it doesn’t interfere with the restoration. We only have six weeks until school starts, and I’m going away in a few weeks for Ray’s bachelor party, so we have to make the most of this time we have.”
Jenny exhaled with relief. “It won’t interfere,” she said, “I promise.”
Finding Elanor proved to be a bigger challenge than Jenny had thought. Jenny spent three evenings in a row sorting through articles, biographies, and the Choices magazine website, unable to find anything at all suggesting where Elanor might be living now. The notion made sense, really. What successful person would want their address to be public knowledge? That would be like inviting burglars to come in. She knew what she wanted to do, but she also knew it wouldn’t be well received by Greg. However, by the end of night three, Jenny didn’t know what else to do.
She approached Greg, who was in the family room looking up electricians on his laptop and jotting down their contact information. “Hey, honey,” she said, plopping down on the couch next to him. “I’m not having a whole lot of luck finding Elanor.”
Greg didn’t look up from his computer. “I’m sor
ry to hear that.”
“Well,” she proclaimed, “I’m not giving up yet. I just think I might need a little help.”
“You want me to help you?”
“Not exactly,” she said. “I’m not sure you’d have any more luck than I’m having. I don’t think her current address is public knowledge.” Jenny waited for a response from Greg that never came. He simply glanced at her skeptically, as if he knew he wasn’t going to like what she was about to say next. Jenny took a deep breath and announced, “I’d like to hire a private investigator to find her.”
“How much would one of those cost?”
“That’s just it,” Jenny said. “A lot. I think they charge by the hour, and I’m reading online that it’s probably between two-fifty and three-hundred an hour.”
“An hour?” Greg asked in disbelief. Jenny only nodded. “No,” Greg said, shaking his head, “I’m fine with this being your hobby or whatever, but we can’t afford to go spending money we don’t have on this.”
Jenny hung her head. “But it means a lot to me. This can be my early birthday present this year.”
“I’m sorry,” Greg said, putting his hand on Jenny’s leg, “but it’s just too much.” Feeling satisfied that the conversation was over, Greg went back to his laptop.
Jenny obediently got off the couch and headed upstairs, blinking away tears. She collapsed on the bed and hugged her pillow, wishing Greg would understand how much she wanted to pursue this. Anger simmered under her skin, popping like bubbles; she closed her eyes and breathed deeply in a concerted effort to get past the feeling. She focused on the sound of her breath, clearing her head of all thought. Eventually the anger began to subside, and peace took over.
“Good day, ma’am.”
Jenny opened her eyes and looked around the empty room. Unlike her last encounters with the voice, she didn’t feel afraid; she felt validated. “You are trying to tell me something,” she whispered, although she wasn’t sure to whom she was speaking.
She sat up slowly, weighing the options facing her. She either needed to defy her husband or ignore this voice that was reaching out for her. Greg only wanted to save money; she was sure the voice had a much larger concern. She threw her hands in the air and announced, “I have to do this.”
Jenny rose and tiptoed down the stairs, retrieving her laptop. She winced as the stairs creaked while she headed back up. “Stupid old house.” However, Greg didn’t question what she was doing, and she hopped safely back on the bed. Feeling a bit surreal, she jotted down the names of a few private investigators to call in the morning, slid the paper into her nightstand, and closed the laptop. Satisfied with herself, she washed up, got into her pajamas, and climbed excitedly back into bed. She felt more invigorated than she had in a long time.
The next day Jenny felt like she was having an out of body experience as she set her devious plan into motion. “I’d like to pick up some paint swatches today,” she mentioned casually as Greg worked intently on a list at the kitchen table. “I think we should try to get an idea of what color schemes we’d like in each room before we buy any plumbing or electrical fixtures. I might even head to the library and check out a book on homes from this era. I’d like to see what this house may have looked like originally.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Greg mentioned. “While you’re gone I’ll do some more shopping around for plumbers. I’ve got an electrician coming out Wednesday at 3:00 to help us come up with a plan. We can discuss where we’d like outlets, what type of lighting we want, and stuff like that.”
“Wednesday…”Jenny said thoughtfully. “What day is today?”
“Monday,” Greg said in a joking tone, implying that is something Jenny should have known.
Jenny laughed. “It’s always so hard to know what day it is in the summer.” She tapped her forehead. “Now it’s in my mental appointment book. Well, I guess I’ll head out then for a little while.”
“Okay, see you later,” Greg muttered half-heartedly. He was already looking up the next phone number on his list.
Jenny gave him a kiss on the top of the head and scooted out the door. She drove quickly to the paint store, hurriedly gathering any tan colored swatches she could grab. She ran back out to her car and headed to the office of the private investigator she had contacted that morning.
She walked in to the simple office, which had a small waiting area and a secretary. “Hi,” she said to the woman behind the desk, “I’m Jenny Watkins. Mr. Buchanan told me to drop by today to talk about a job I’d like him to do.”
“Okay,” the secretary said, “have a seat and I’ll tell him you’re here.” Jenny sat in one of the three chairs in the waiting room. The secretary poked her head through an open door, announced Jenny’s presence, and then said to Jenny, “Go ahead in. He’s expecting you.”
Jenny thanked the secretary as she walked past and went into the unkempt office. Mr. Buchanan was a middle-aged man in a disheveled suit sitting behind a desk piled with papers. She wasn’t quite sure how this man would be able to find anything, let alone a woman’s address, but she figured she had nothing to lose. Except three hundred dollars. And perhaps a peaceful existence at home.
He stood up and outstretched his hand, “Kyle Buchanan.”
Jenny shook his hand. “Jenny Watkins.”
“Pleasure, Ms. Watkins. Please have a seat.” Jenny sat down in front of his desk. “So tell me what brings you in here today.”
“Well,” Jenny said, “My husband and I just purchased a house…a 1933 colonial in need of a lot of work. I wanted to find the original owners so I could ask what the house used to look like…you know, so we could make it look similar when we renovate.”
“I see,” Mr. Buchanan said.
“Well, through real estate records I was able to find out that Elanor Whitby lived there when she was a child. Elanor Whitby is the founder of Choices magazine. However, the one thing I can’t find out is where she is now. That’s where you come in.”
“You’d like me to find her for you.”
“Yes, sir.” Jenny swallowed nervously, convinced that this private investigator was going to question her real motives any second.
“Well,” he said, “before I take the job you need to be aware of some safety precautions. First, I’ll need to do a background check on you before I find anyone for you. I need to make sure you’re not wanted by the police, or you don’t have a bunch of restraining orders on you or anything.”
“Understandable.”
“Next,” he continued, “you need to understand that some people don’t want to be found. I’ll need to talk with this…Ms. Whitby, is it?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll need to talk with Ms. Whitby and make sure she’s okay with meeting you. I won’t disclose anybody’s location unless they give me the okay. I don’t want to be responsible for making anybody’s life unpleasant.”
“Also understandable.” Jenny nodded approvingly. She felt relieved that Mr. Buchanan had apparently bought her story about the renovation and was willing to take the case.
“Then there’s the matter of money.” Mr. Buchanan was speaking as if reading off cue cards. “I charge three hundred dollars per hour, and I do charge even if the person says they don’t want to be found. You’re paying for my time, not results.”
“How long do you think it will take to find her?” Jenny asked nervously.
“Honestly, not that long. If she’s not purposely in hiding for any reason, I can probably find her in less than an hour’s time. It doesn’t sound like she’s necessarily hiding from anyone.”
Jenny shook her head. “No, probably not.” She thought about the money, and how upset Greg would be if he knew what she was doing. “Can I make a strange arrangement with you?”
“Maybe,” Mr. Buchanan smiled. “Depends on what it is.”
“Money is a little tight for me….can you work for an hour and then stop? Even if you haven’t found her?”
&nb
sp; “I can do that,” he said. “I’ll just write that clause into the contract.”
“Can I ask you another favor? This is actually a surprise for my husband…I thought it would be fun if I could show him pictures, maybe, of what the house used to look like.” The lies flowed out of her mouth like she’d been doing it her whole life. “Could we possibly keep this arrangement between the two of us?”
“Ma’am,” he said, “the vast majority of my cases involve secrecy. If I didn’t know how to be discreet, I’d be out of work.”
Relieved, Jenny smiled and exhaled. They spent the next couple of minutes signing the contract, and then Jenny scooted out the door. She headed quickly to the library, checking out the first book on older homes she could find, and ran back home.
Greg seemed unsuspecting when she arrived. “Did you have any luck?”
Feeling transparent again, she tried to act natural. “Kind of,” she said. “I’m so indecisive when it comes to paint color. I’m sure most of these shades look the same, but I spent forever trying to decide which ones I liked best. I ended up bringing them all home.”
“That’s okay,” he said, “better too many than not enough.”
She smiled. “That’s what I figured.”
The next day Jenny’s cell phone rang while she was in the grocery store; it was a number she didn’t recognize. Optimistically, she said, “Hello?”
“Ms. Watkins?” asked a male voice on the other end.
“Yes.”
“Kyle Buchanan here. I’ve got some good news for you. I was able to find Elanor for you, and as I suspected it wasn’t that difficult. If you come by my office with three hundred dollars, I’ll tell you where you can find her.”
“Great,” Jenny said, “I’ll be there as soon as I can.” She hurriedly filled her grocery cart and checked out. Before too long the groceries were loaded into her car, and she was on her way to the ATM machine.