Chapter 3
Perhaps it was the sea air, or maybe it was the lingering sweetness of April's cookie still coating her tongue, but something had shifted in the night.
The crushing weight that had been her constant companion for the past year felt lighter somehow, as if the salt breeze had begun to erode its edges.
Sitting up, Bree stretched, her spine creating a satisfying series of pops that echoed in the quiet room.
She padded to the window on bare feet, the plush carpet soft between her toes.
Her fingers found the heavy curtains, and she pulled them back slowly, squinting in anticipation of the brightness.
The sunrise hit her like a physical force, all that copper and crimson light reflecting off the water in a display that made her artist's heart leap.
She had to close her eyes against the intensity, seeing spots dance behind her eyelids like tiny fireworks.
When she opened them again, more carefully this time, starting from the windowsill and gradually lifting her gaze, what she saw took her breath away.
The beach stretched out before her, pristine and perfect.
Someone had raked it during the night, creating neat parallel lines in the sand that looked like an enormous zen garden.
The water was a living canvas of light, each wave capped with copper foam that sparkled like scattered pennies.
Not a soul moved on the beach; even the seabirds seemed to be sleeping in.
The entire town looked drowsy and peaceful, as if it hadn't quite decided whether to wake up yet.
"Bryn," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass slightly. "I see why you loved it here. It's absolutely beautiful."
The tears came then, but they were different from the bitter, angry tears she'd been crying for months.
These were soft, almost grateful. Her sister had tried to tell her about this place, had shared stories from her honeymoon here with Charlie, describing the way the morning light transformed everything it touched.
Bree had thought it was just newlywed romanticism, the tendency to see the world through rose-colored glasses when you're drunk on love and possibility.
But standing here now, she understood it was simply the truth.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and turned toward the bathroom, suddenly eager to get outside and capture this light.
Her fingers were already itching for a brush, her mind automatically mixing colors: burnt sienna with a touch of cadmium orange, perhaps a hint of gold ochre for the highlights on the water.
She dressed quickly but carefully, choosing cream-colored capri pants that Bryn had bought for her last birthday and a soft-blue sleeveless button-up blouse that had been Bryn's.
The clothes still smelled faintly of her sister's favorite fabric softener, a small comfort she wasn't ready to wash away.
She unpacked the items she'd been too exhausted to unpack last night.
She heard her mother's voice: "A cluttered space means a cluttered mind, girls. " It brought a smile to her lips.
Stepping out of her room, she made her way to the elevator, then through the lobby, where April was still at her post, looking remarkably fresh for someone who'd been working all night. They exchanged waves, April's smile bright despite the early hour.
Outside, the morning air wrapped around her like a cool, salty embrace.
She popped the trunk of her car with the key fob, the electronic chirp seeming too loud in the morning quiet.
Her painting supplies were organized in the trunk with the same meticulous care she applied to everything: canvas in protective sleeves, her paint tote with each tube in its designated spot, her easel folded neatly and compact.
She gathered her supplies, the familiar weight of them comforting in her arms, and headed across the road toward the beach.
Her leather sandals made soft whisking sounds against the pavement, then transitioned to a gentle swoosh as she stepped onto the sand.
The breeze played with her newly shortened hair, the bob cut swaying and tickling her neck in a way she still wasn't used to.
She'd cut it three weeks after the funeral, needing to change something, anything, to mark the transition from before to after.
Looking down the beach, she noticed something odd.
The meticulously raked section ended abruptly, giving way to smooth, hard-packed sand that looked almost like concrete.
The texture difference was striking; soft and groomed on one side, compressed and worn on the other.
The morning waves rolled up the hard-packed section, their foam fingers reaching only a few feet before retreating back to the sea.
Her artist's eye was drawn to a rock formation ahead, its top worn flat by centuries of wind and weather. "Perfect," she whispered, already envisioning how she'd set up her easel there, using the natural platform to steady her supplies.
The beach sounds created a symphony around her: waves lapping in rhythm, birds beginning their morning songs, the distant croak of frogs from some hidden marsh. This was what Bryn had tried to describe, this sense of being held by nature, of being part of something both ancient and immediate.
Then she heard it: a sharp, mechanical roar that shattered the morning peace like a hammer through glass.
An engine revving, growing louder, angrier.
She turned back toward the road, frowning, waiting to see what kind of person would destroy such perfect quiet at this ungodly hour.
The sound grew closer, the pitch changing as gears shifted, but she saw nothing on the road. No car, no truck, nothing.
Shaking her head at the invisible disturbance, she continued toward the rocks. She was just stepping onto the hard-packed sand, navigating around the far edge of the formation, when she saw him.
Time seemed to slow, the way it does in dreams or accidents.
A motorcycle was bearing down on her, its rider leaning into the speed, the machine itself a blur of chrome and color.
She had perhaps a second to process what was happening: the bike was on the beach, not the road; it was racing directly toward her; she was in its path.
She squealed, a high, frightened sound she'd never made before, and dove sideways. Her painting supplies flew from her arms as she hit the sand hard, rolling twice before coming to a stop. She could feel sand in her mouth, in her hair, coating one side of her face like gritty makeup.
The motorcycle's brakes screamed in protest, the back wheel sliding sideways, leaving a dark scar in the pristine sand. The rider fought for control, his body language speaking of barely contained disaster. Finally, impossibly, he brought the machine to a stop some thirty yards away.
But even as Bree pushed herself up on her elbows, spitting sand and trying to process what had just happened, she saw her canvas.
The wind, aided by the motorcycle's passage, had caught it like a sail.
It tumbled end over end down the beach, directly toward the rider who was now turning his bike around.
"No, no, no," she whispered, watching in horror as the inevitable unfolded.
The rider, his attention divided between controlling the bike and looking at her, didn't see the canvas until it was too late.
It hit him square in the chest just as he accelerated.
His hands came off the handlebars instinctively, trying to bat it away.
The motorcycle, suddenly without guidance, lurched sideways and went down hard, sliding several feet before coming to rest on its side.
The sound of metal on sand was horrible, a grinding scrape that made her teeth ache.
But worse was the stream of profanity that followed.
The rider ripped his helmet off and hurled it at the ground, where it bounced twice before rolling to a stop.
His curses were creative, extensive, and loud enough that she was certain they could hear him back at the hotel.
Despite everything, despite nearly being run over, despite being covered in sand and having her peaceful morning shattered, Bree found herself running toward him. "Are you okay?" she called out, her voice high and worried.
The man turned to look at her for the first time, really look at her, and she felt the full force of his anger like a physical blow.
His eyes were dark, furious, his jaw clenched so tightly she could see the muscles jumping beneath the skin.
He planted his hands on his hips in a stance that screamed confrontation.
She stopped short, suddenly uncertain. "I'm so sorry. Are you hurt?"
"You're sorry?" His voice was rough, gravelly, as if he'd been gargling sand.
"That's all you have to say? I could have been killed.
What the hell are you doing, throwing this shit around the beach?
" He gestured wildly at her scattered supplies.
"And why in the hell did you step in front of me?
For crying out loud, you must have heard me coming. "
The sympathy she'd been feeling evaporated like morning dew under his harsh tone. Being scolded like a misbehaving child flipped a switch in her that she didn't know existed. Her own hands found her hips, mirroring his stance, her chin lifting in defiance.
"I'll have you know, Mr. Mayor," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she made exaggerated air quotes around the title, "that I wasn't throwing 'shit' around the beach.
I was trying to paint, which is a perfectly reasonable thing to do at sunrise on a public beach.
And while we're at it, why didn't you honk your horn or something when you saw me so I would get out of the way? "