Chapter 2
The path from the lighthouse cottages into town was crushed shell and sand. It was picturesque and probably photographed daily by tourists who thought it was charming.
She walked like she was late for a meeting.
Her wedges sank with each step. The shells crunched and shifted. She had to adjust her pace to keep from twisting an ankle. This was why cities had sidewalks. Sidewalks were efficient and didn’t fight back.
The morning air was already thick. She could feel sweat forming at her hairline. Her blazer was a mistake. Everything about this place was a mistake.
A pelican dove into the water near the shore. The splash was enormous and startled her. She was used to pigeons that scattered when you walked past, not prehistoric-looking birds that could probably carry off a small dog.
She kept walking.
The town emerged gradually. First, a bait shop with a hand-painted sign that said “Captain Roy’s - Open When We’re Here.” It was seven in the morning, and the lights were off.
You’re missing the morning demographic. Fishermen are up before dawn. This is poor customer service.
She passed a faded wooden sign that said “Welcome to Starlight Shores - A Small Town with a Big Heart.” The paint was peeling. The post leaned slightly to the left. Someone had stapled festival flyers to it at random angles. No consistent branding. No clear call to action.
She pulled one off to examine it.
Annual Harbor Festival - July 12-14
Boat Parade! Fresh Seafood! Local Art!
Come Celebrate Our Heritage
The clip art lighthouse looked like it had been downloaded from a free website in 1997. The text was in three different fonts. There was no website listed, no social media handles, just a phone number for more information.
She folded the flyer and put it in her blazer pocket. She wasn’t sure why. Professional habit, maybe. The instinct to identify problems even when they weren’t hers to solve.
The main street opened up ahead. It ran parallel to the waterfront, with a post office, a general store with a faded sign reading Bayview, a bookstore called Tides & Tales, and a coffee shop with outdoor tables and a chalkboard menu.
Everything was painted in soft pastels with shades of seafoam green, pale coral, and light blue, as if the whole place had agreed on a weathered color palette and stuck to it.
She passed a small gallery with local art in the window and a restaurant with a wooden sign shaped like a sandpiper.
Tourists wandered in couples and families, sunburned and relaxed. Others—locals, she assumed—stopped to chat on corners and waved to each other across the street.
It was aggressively charming. She felt like an anthropologist observing a foreign culture.
She checked her watch. She’d made the walk in twelve minutes. The cottage rental information had said it was a leisurely twenty-minute stroll into town.
She’d saved eight minutes. The small victory felt hollow.
She ended up at the coffee shop, Harbor Brew, because caffeine was non-negotiable and she hadn’t thought to check if the cottage had a coffee maker. Through the glass, she could see people moving inside. Real people. Potential witnesses to her continued existence.
She stopped at the door, straightened her blazer, and checked her reflection in the window. The humidity had already won the battle with her hair. Fine. She’d deal with it.
She pulled the door open.
The air conditioning hit her first. Then the smell of coffee. Dark roast. The good kind. The kind that meant someone here took caffeine seriously.
The space was bigger than it looked from the outside.
Exposed brick walls. Mismatched furniture that was probably called eclectic instead of we-couldn’t-afford-a-matching-set.
Nautical decor that walked the line between charming and excessive.
There was a ship’s wheel on one wall and vintage photos of fishing boats on another.
A large chalkboard menu with actual chalk handwriting hung behind the counter.
People sat scattered at different tables. An elderly man was reading a newspaper. Two women huddled over coffee cups, deep in conversation. They all looked up when she entered.
The assessment was immediate. Her blazer, shoes, and her whole vibe screamed outsider.
The man went back to his newspaper. The women kept staring.
She walked to the counter. A woman with a name tag that said “Jan” looked up from the coffee machine.
“Good morning! You must be new in town.” Jan’s smile was genuine.
“Just visiting. I need a large coffee. Dark roast. Black.”
“You got it. For here or to go?”
“Um...”
“No problem. I’ll pour a mug and give you a to-go cup if you decide to finish up later.” Jan reached for a large mug. “Staying long?”
The question was casual and friendly. It was the kind of small talk that she normally deflected with professional ease. “Not sure.”
“You staying at the lighthouse cottages? I heard Winnie rented out Heron Cottage.”
Small towns. Everyone knew everything.
“Yes.”
“Oh, you’ll love it there. Winnie’s the best, and the cottages are so cozy. My cousin got married in that courtyard last spring.”
Jan handed over a mug and a to-go cup. “Here you go. You need anything else? Recommendations? We’ve got the best sunsets on this coast. And if you like seafood, The Sandpiper is right on the water. Best grouper sandwich you’ll ever have.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
She took the coffee and went over to a table by the window. She sat alone and sipped her coffee.
A woman slid into the chair across from her without asking, and Cassidy looked up, startled.
“Sorry, hope you don’t mind,” the woman said, though she didn’t look sorry. She was older—seventy, maybe—with short gray hair. “Jan said you were Winnie’s new guest. Just wanted to say hi.”
Cassidy minded, but saying so felt unnecessarily rude. “It’s fine.”
“I’m Sally Morris.” She stuck out a hand.
She shook it briefly. “Cassidy.”
“You’re in Heron Cottage, right? Cute cottage. Cliff, have you met him? He’s Winnie’s nephew and does maintenance around the cottages. He keeps saying he’s going to paint it. Last I noticed, it was in need of a bit of a refresh.”
She reeled slightly from the deluge of words. “Does everyone in this town know everything immediately?”
Sally grinned. “Pretty much. Don’t worry, they’ll get bored of you in a week or two.” She pulled out her phone and checked a message. “You here for work, or...?”
“Not exactly.”
“Vacation?”
“Something like that.”
Sally glanced up, assessing, then shrugged. “It’s okay. Half the people who stay at the lighthouse are running from something. Winnie’s good at giving people space to figure things out.”
“I’m not running.”
Sally just nodded, stood, and grabbed her coffee. “Well, just wanted to welcome you. If you need a friendly face, I’m always at Bayview General Store. I own it. Feels like I rarely leave it.”
She left before Cassidy could respond.
She sat alone again, staring into her coffee.
I’m not running.
But she wasn’t staying, either. She was... paused. She was sidelined and waiting for clearance to return to her real life.
This wasn’t her life. This was a placeholder.
The two women were still watching her. One leaned over and whispered something to the other. They both smiled.
She dumped what was left of her coffee into the to-go cup before anyone else could ask her questions or stare at her.
She pushed through the door and back into the humidity.
She stood on the sidewalk and looked down the street. The sun was fully up now. The town was waking up. A truck rumbled past. Someone called out a greeting to someone else.
She should go back to the cottage. She should journal. She should do the things Dr. Smith said would help her reconnect with her authentic self. Whatever that meant.
Instead, she walked toward the water.
The harbor opened up at the end of the street. Boats bobbed in their slips. The smell of fish and diesel fuel mixed together. Pelicans perched on the pier posts. A man in waders was hosing down the deck of a fishing boat.
She stopped at the edge of the wharf. The festival flyer crinkled in her pocket. She pulled it out again and studied it. Studied the poor design, lack of strategy, and the missed opportunities.
This isn’t your problem.
But her fingers were already itching to open her notes app, sketch out a better approach, and fix what was clearly broken.
She took a sip of coffee and watched the boats. The sun warmed her face.
Two months. Sixty days. Eighty-six thousand four hundred minutes of forced stillness while Steve Hodges took over her life.
She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t sit on that balcony and pretend she was fine with being erased.
Then she looked at the festival flyer one more time.
She’d finish her coffee and go back to the cottage. She’d change into something more practical.
Her watch buzzed. Eight-thirty. Time for her scheduled power walk.
She looked down at her wedges and the crushed shell path. The oppressive humidity was currently turning her hair into a science experiment.
A seagull landed on a nearby piling and fixed her with one unblinking eye. She stared back.
“What?” she said aloud.
The bird didn’t answer. It probably had better things to do than judge her life choices.