What secrets is the candlestick holding?

Welcome back to “The Havenford Mysteries” series by local author R.A. Coscia. Installment five of “The Holiday Heirloom” is called “Truths Brought to Light." A new chapter will be published each week in The Beacon.

“Aunt Mae,” I whisper. “What is this?”

Aunt Mae stares at me, her lips parted. The basement is soundless; she is holding her breath.

“Aunt Mae?” I ask slowly. Her eyes plead with me to stop asking. “You have to tell me what this is.” I hold up the cloth with both hands. We both look down at it. There, wrapped inside, is what was once the whole of the Founder’s Light. Now it lies in my hands, broken into two pieces, cracked straight down the middle.

I look up into Aunt Mae’s eyes. They are full of tears.

“I was just trying to protect her.”

“Who?” I ask.

Her lower lip quivers. She barely opens here mouth and breathes, “Beans.”

A few minutes later, we are sitting upstairs in the big chairs, warming ourselves in front of the fire. The broken pieces of the Founder’s Light are displayed on the coffee table. Beans is curled up in Aunt Mae’s lap.

“OK, Aunt Mae,” I say gently. “Start at the beginning.”

“The evening of the parade, I came back to the shop to clean up. I was sweeping when I saw Beans jump up onto the Founder’s Light display. She was rubbing against it, and before I could stop her, the light toppled and smashed through the front window.” She reflexively pets Beans, who has fallen asleep in her lap, completely unaware of the chaos she caused.

“I was in shock. I gathered the pieces and took them into the office. I lost track of time. When I finally came back outside, Officer Tuner had already arrived. When I saw his lights flashing, I panicked and ran out the back door.”

I stare at Beans, asleep in Aunt Mae’s lap. Her paw twitches in a dream. Weeks of whispered accusations, broken trust and sleepless nights — all of it is because of her.

“And I’ve lied to everyone,” Aunt Mae continues quietly. “I don’t know how to undo what I have started. That’s why I always told you never to lie. Lies multiply, and you have to keep track of them.” Even now, with worry etched into her face, my aunt can’t help but turn her confession into a life lesson.

A knock brings us back to the present.

I slowly turn, and my heart sinks. Eleanor is standing outside, smiling and waving. I can’t move. Aunt Mae and Beans’ secret is sitting out on the coffee table. There is no way I can let Eleanor inside.

Reluctantly, I stand. The dread must be written all over my face, because as I open the door, Eleanor’s expression changes to match mine.

“Has something happened?” She asks, trying to peer past me.

“Yes, something has happened,” Aunt Mae calls from inside. “Let her in, Cora. We might as well tell the secret.”

I hesitate, then step aside and let Eleanor enter. We approach the fireplace and coffee table together.

Eleanor stops mid-stride as she takes in the broken candlestick. “Did someone return it?” She asks, looks between me and Aunt Mae.

“No,” Aunt Mae begins. “It was never taken.”

“Let me get you a tea,” I offer, as Aunt Mae begins recounting the story of how Beans broke the Founder’s Light.

When the tea is finished and the story told, we sit in silence, staring at the broken pieces. The quiet is thick; none of us knows what to say next.

Eleanor finally speaks. “On the bright side, we made it through the tree lighting without incident. Maybe the town will forget.”

“The town forgets nothing,” Aunt Mae flatly says. “Gossip lives forever.”

I sigh. “What if we get it repaired? Eleanor, you had the sliver stick restored. Maybe those same people could fix it?”

“If we take it in, we have to tell the truth,” Aunt Mae says, without lifting her eyes.

“Aunt Mae, you always told me the truth is best, even when it hurts.”

After a long exhale, she looks up at me and smiles.

“You were listening, my love.” She reaches out and squeezes my hand. “I’ll take the Founder’s Light in tomorrow. But first, I need to see Officer Turner to set this whole mess straight.”

The next afternoon Aunt Mae, Eleanor, and I are standing at the counter discussing her conversation with Officer Turner and the antique restorer when the bell rings brightly.

“Well hello, friend,” Aunt Mae smiles warmly as Hannah McMahan, the museum curator, steps inside.

“Just the three women I wanted to see,” Hannah replies cheerfully. She leans in at the counter like we are old friends.

“The other day, when Cora brought that partial note from Margaret Whitcombe into the museum, it got my mind churning. I was furious there was a piece of Havenford’s history I’d never seen.”

Aunt Mae and Eleanor both turn to me. I make a mental note to catch them up on everything I’ve uncovered in recent weeks.

“Anyways,” Hannah continues, “the note reminded me of a book of letters Margaret wrote over the years. I dug through them and found one that changed my mind about the Founder’s Light.”

Hannah pulls out what appears to be a photocopy of the letter and straightens. “It’s a letter Margaret wrote to the town’s first historical society in 1936, shortly before her death. It reads:

While I appreciate your desire that I voice my opinion that that Founder’s Light be placed under the care of the Havenford Historical Society, I simply cannot agree. The Founder’s Light has become a symbol of the hope that our town found during a cold and devastating Christmas. To either display it year round or, worse, keep it stored in some vault, would diminish the spark of hope that it can still bring to the people of Havenford. Furthermore, I must state that the Founder’s Light does not exist in the same state that it did in 1900. Things have changed, and it would be a falsity of me to let you believe that time has also not touched the original Founder’s Light. However, to protect the memory and legacy of my dear friend Lydia Wren, I can say no more on the topic. I am sorry that I cannot support your request to support your cause. May you find other ways to preserve the rich history of Havenford.”

When Hannah finishes, she folds the paper neatly.

“While I still believe museums serve an important role, I think it’s best to follow Margaret’s wishes. That is, if the light is ever found.”

Aunt Mae exhales deeply. “I think you should know something, Hannah. Let me make you some tea, and I’ll explain.”

After Aunt Mae tells her story, again, Hannah doesn’t speak right away. She steps closer to the coffee table and studies the broken candlestick, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she reaches out and traces the crack down the center with her fingertip, careful, almost reverent.

“I’ve handled a lot of artifacts,” she says finally, “items that were meant to tell a clean story — dates, names, labels.” She lets out a quiet breath. “They rarely do.”

She straightens and looks at Aunt Mae. “We like to believe history is something that can be kept pristine behind glass — that if we preserve the object, we preserve the truth.” Her eyes flick to Beans, curled contentedly by the fire. “But the truth is usually messier than that.”

I can see something shifting in her. The rigid certainty she carried when we first met has softened.

“This,” Hannah continues, nodding toward the candlestick, “isn’t just a relic. It’s a reminder — of fear, of love, of people trying to do the right thing in the moment they were given.” She offers a small smile. “And I think Margaret understood that better than any of us.”

She folds her hands together. “Maybe the Founder’s Light was never meant to be perfect. Maybe it was meant to be human.”

 Just then, Aunt Mae’s phone rings.

“It is the restoration shop. Just a moment,” she says, stepping into the back.

Beans pads over and rubs against Hannah’s ankles. She bends to scoop her up. “You, my sweet girl, have certainly stirred things up,” she murmurs. “But you’ve also brought people together, to see things in a new light.”

I smile, then turn as Aunt Mae returns. She’s holding her phone in one hand and a note in the other. She looks stunned.

“Aunt Mae?”

“You won’t believe this,” she says, looking between all of us. “The expert says the candlestick Bean’s broke is without a doubt not the original Founder’s Light. It’s a replica and isn’t even fully metal.”

No one speaks.

The room feels smaller.

How can this candlestick still be hiding one more secret?