The Man She Waited For

Celeste had never been one to obsess over mysteries. She preferred facts—tangible history that could be traced through records, photographs, and preserved architecture. But Evelyn Harland's story had burrowed under her skin.

She needed to know.

Who had Evelyn been waiting for? And why had they never come?

If she could find the answer, maybe she could finally put the woman's lingering presence to rest.

Maybe then the Fairmont would stop whispering.

The town archives were housed in a small, red-brick building a few blocks from the theater. Celeste had spent plenty of time here over the years, researching preservation projects. Today, though, she was looking for something specific.

She sifted through old city directories and school records, searching for Evelyn's name. The newspaper article had given her a basic outline of the woman's life—a schoolteacher, unmarried, living alone in a modest apartment near the town square.

But there had to be more.

Then, finally, she found something.

A faded engagement announcement from 1947.

Evelyn Harland and James Barrington to Wed in Spring Ceremony

James Barrington.

Celeste's pulse quickened. The name wasn't familiar, but the mention of an engagement changed everything. Was he the one she was waiting for?

She dug deeper, scanning through old census records and property deeds. James Barrington had been a local businessman, the son of a prominent family in Port Bellingham. He had worked at his father's shipping company—until 1948.

That was where the trail stopped.

No marriage records. No mention of him in later newspaper clippings. It was as if he had vanished from town after Evelyn's death.

Celeste frowned. Did he leave out of grief? Or was there something more to it?

When she arrived back at the Fairmont, Adrian was waiting for her in the lobby, arms crossed.

"You disappeared on me," he said. "If you ran off to research more ghosts, I might have to stage an intervention."

Celeste rolled her eyes and dropped a file onto the nearest table. "I found something."

Adrian sighed, but he stepped forward anyway. "Of course you did."

She opened the file, pointing to the engagement announcement. "Evelyn Harland was engaged to a man named James Barrington. But there's no record of them ever getting married. And after the fire, he vanished from town."

Adrian scanned the article. "So you think he's the one she was waiting for that night?"

"I think it's possible," Celeste said. "But I need to know why he never showed."

Adrian exhaled, rubbing a hand over his jaw. "You really can't let this go, can you?"

Celeste met his gaze. "If you saw that journal—really read it—you wouldn't be able to either."

A long pause. Then, to her surprise, Adrian nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Then let's find out what happened to James Barrington."

It turned out that tracking down someone who had vanished nearly eighty years ago wasn't easy.

After hours of scouring old records, Celeste and Adrian finally found a lead: an obituary.

James Barrington, 94, of Seattle, WA, passed away peacefully at his home on August 12, 2013.

Celeste's breath caught. "He lived into his nineties."

Adrian frowned. "So he didn't die in the fire. He didn't go missing. He just… left."

Celeste nodded slowly. "Which means he chose not to come back."

Adrian leaned back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "Maybe he couldn't face it. Losing her like that."

Celeste swallowed. Or maybe there was another reason.

She kept reading.

The obituary listed surviving family members—children, grandchildren. That meant there were still people who might know what happened.

And there, at the bottom, was the name of the funeral home that had handled his arrangements.

It was still in business.

Adrian raised an eyebrow as he followed her gaze. "You're not seriously thinking about calling them, are you?"

Celeste was already reaching for her phone. "Do you have a better idea?"

An hour later, they had a name: Margaret Barrington, James' eldest daughter.

And an address.

"She still lives in Seattle," Celeste said, glancing at Adrian. "It's a two-hour drive."

Adrian sighed. "You're really dragging me into this ghost hunt, aren't you?"

Celeste smirked. "I thought you liked a challenge."

Adrian gave her a long-suffering look but grabbed his coat. "Fine. Let's go."

The drive to Seattle was quiet, the weight of the past pressing down on them both.

Adrian glanced at her as he drove. "So let's say we find out what happened to James. Then what? You think Evelyn's ghost is just going to… move on?"

Celeste hesitated. "I don't know."

Adrian shook his head. "You're really serious about this, aren't you?"

Celeste exhaled. "I just think… if a place like the Fairmont holds memories, maybe there are things left unfinished. And maybe, just maybe, we can help."

Adrian didn't say anything for a while.

Then, quietly, he said, "If anyone could, it'd be you."

Celeste blinked, caught off guard.

Adrian smirked. "Don't look so shocked. I give compliments sometimes."

Celeste rolled her eyes, but she couldn't hide her small smile.

Margaret Barrington's house was a cozy, well-kept home in a quiet Seattle neighborhood. When she answered the door, she was in her seventies, her white hair neatly styled, her sharp blue eyes studying them with curiosity.

"Can I help you?"

Celeste hesitated. How exactly did you ask a stranger about a ghost haunting an old theater?

She cleared her throat. "I'm Celeste Whitmore. This is Adrian Hale. We're working on restoring the Fairmont Theater in Port Bellingham, and we came across some records about your father."

Margaret's expression softened. "The Fairmont," she murmured. "I haven't heard that name in years."

Celeste nodded. "We were hoping you could tell us about him. And about Evelyn Harland."

Margaret stilled.

For a long moment, she didn't speak.

Then, finally, she sighed and gestured for them to come inside.

They followed her into a sitting room lined with old photographs. Celeste's gaze immediately landed on a framed black-and-white picture of a young couple—James Barrington, handsome and smiling, and a woman who was not Evelyn Harland.

Margaret saw where she was looking and gave a sad smile. "That's my mother. She and my father married in 1950."

Celeste's stomach twisted.

She knew the answer before she asked the question.

"He never married Evelyn," she said softly.

Margaret shook her head. "No. Because the night of the fire… he never showed up."

Celeste's pulse quickened. "Why?"

Margaret hesitated, then stood and walked to a cabinet. She pulled out an old, yellowed envelope and handed it to Celeste.

"He wanted to," she said. "But he never got the chance."

Celeste opened the envelope, unfolding the fragile paper inside.

And her breath caught.

It was a telegram.

James—

I'm sorry. I can't do this. I love you, but I have to leave.

Please forgive me.

Evelyn

Celeste stared at the words, her mind reeling.

Evelyn had left him.

She had never planned to meet him that night.

But then—why had she gone to the Fairmont at all?

And why had she stayed?

Adrian met Celeste's eyes. He didn't have to say anything. They both knew what this meant.

Everything they thought they knew about Evelyn Harland's story had been wrong.

And the real mystery was only just beginning.