Page 89 of Buried Secrets

But as she typed, describing her qualifications and her vision for modernizing the town’s record-keeping systems, Kaitlin realized the decision had already been made. Somewhere between finding connection to her family and falling in love with a stubborn sheriff, she’d chosen to stay.

The driveway leading to the Winters family home wound through a grove of maple trees, their bare branches etched against the overcast November sky. Kaitlin smoothed her hands over her navy dress, conservative but not stuffy. She hoped. As Matt’s Jeep rounded the final curve, she swallowed deeply.

“You’re nervous,” Matt observed with amusement.

“I’m not nervous,” Kaitlin replied, then immediately contradicted herself. “What if they don’t like me?”

“They’re going to love you.” Matt reached over and squeezed her hand. “My mother’s been asking about you since I mentioned we were seeing each other. And my father’s already planning to show you his collection of history books.”

The house came into view, a classic New England colonial with weathered cedar shingles and white trim, surrounded by gardens that showed the careful attention of decades of tending. Smoke curled from the chimney, and warm light spilled from multi-paned windows.

“It’s beautiful,” Kaitlin said, meaning it. The house looked like it had grown from the landscape rather than being imposed upon it.

“My great-grandfather built it. The lighthouse keeper,” Matt said, parking beside a small Honda that had seen better years. “Four generations of Winters have lived here.”

The front door opened before they could knock, revealing a woman in her early sixties with Matt’s dark hair streaked with silver and the same warm brown eyes. She wore a cable-knit sweater and jeans, an apron tied around her waist.

“Kaitlin,” she said, stepping forward with a welcoming smile. “I’m Susan. We’re so pleased to meet you.”

“Mrs. Winters, thank you for having me,” Kaitlin replied, accepting the offered hug with surprise. She’d expected a handshake, not the immediate warmth of maternal embrace.

“Susan, please. And come in before you freeze. This weather can’t decide what season it wants to be.”

The interior was as welcoming as its exterior suggested, with polished hardwood floors covered with worn rugs, built-in bookshelves lining the walls, and the scent of something delicious drifting from the kitchen.

“Dad’s likely in his study,” Matt said, helping Kaitlin out of her coat. “Fair warning, once he starts talking about local history, it’s hard to get him to stop.”

A tall man emerged from a doorway down the hall. He had Matt’s build but with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses that gave him a professorial air.

“Welcome to our home, Kaitlin. Matt tells us you’re quite the historian. You can call me David,” he said, extending his hand with a firm grip.

“More of an archivist, really. Though I’ve developed quite an appreciation for Widow’s Point’s history.”

“Under rather extraordinary circumstances, from what I understand,” David said, his face growing more serious. “That business with the mansion must have been quite an ordeal.”

“It was,” Kaitlin admitted. “But it also led me to discover my family here on the island. My birth mother and half brother.”

“Marissa Lane. Such a lovely woman. I can see the resemblance in your green eyes,” Susan said warmly. “We’ve known her for years through the bakery. And Ryan’s a good boy—man, I should say. Hard worker.”

The easy acceptance in Susan’s voice loosened something tight in Kaitlin’s chest. She’d worried about how Matt’s parents considered her reason for being here, but they seemed to take it in stride.

“Come sit by the fire,” David suggested, leading them into a comfortable living room dominated by a stone fireplace where logs crackled cheerfully. “Susan’s made her famous beef stew, but we have time to chat before dinner. Can I get you something to drink?”

Kaitlin settled into a worn leather chair, Matt taking the matching one beside her. The room felt lived-in and loved, with family photographs covering every available surface and books stacked on side tables.

“Matt mentioned you’re considering the town clerk position,” Susan said, settling onto the sofa across from them. “That would be wonderful. Mrs. Holloway’s done a fine job, but the office could use some fresh thinking.”

“I’m hopeful,” Kaitlin replied. “Though I imagine there’s some skepticism about hiring an outsider.”

David chuckled. “You’d be surprised. Besides, you’re not exactly an outsider anymore, are you?”

“I suppose I’m not.” Kaitlin said, glancing at Matt.

“Tell me about your background,” David continued, leaning forward with genuine interest. “Matt said you’ve worked with historical archives in London?”

“For the past eight years, yes. Mostly Victorian-era documents for various institutions. The British Museum, private collectors, some university research projects.” Kaitlin found herself relaxing as she spoke about familiar territory. “It’s detail-oriented work, but I find it fascinating. Each document tells a story, not just about the people who created it, but about the time they lived in.”

David’s eyes lit up. “That’s what I tried to teach my students for thirty-seven years. History isn’t just dates and events, it’s human stories. The choices people made, the challenges they faced.”