Chapter 1 - Vivienne #2
Three cards revealed themselves: The Tower reversed, the Seven of Cups, and the Moon.
Her breath caught. The Tower reversed suggested hidden upheaval, secrets about to surface. The Seven of Cups warned of illusions and difficult choices ahead. But it was the Moon that made her hands tremble—deception, hidden enemies, and danger lurking beneath apparent calm.
She traced the Moon card with one finger, noting how the shadows seemed to shift in the illustrated landscape. Water featured prominently in the card’s imagery—a river winding between two towers, leading to mountains shrouded in mystery.
“Water. Something’s coming from the water.”
The bell above the door jingled as the first customer entered. Mrs. Coleman paused on the threshold for a moment, her expression uncertain, before stepping inside.
“Just a chamomile tea to go, dear.” Mrs. Coleman glanced at the tarot cards still spread on Mathilde’s table. “I have an early appointment.”
Vivienne prepared the tea. Mrs. Coleman’s hands trembled as she accepted the cup and left a few bills on the counter before hurrying out.
Behind her, Old Jack Thornton entered, positioning himself so he could see all the room’s corners—a habit formed by years of living in a town where some truths stayed hidden.
“Morning, Jack.” Vivienne reached for the sturdy mug she kept just for him while keeping one eye on the mysterious footprint. “The usual?”
He nodded, settling his wiry frame onto a stool at the counter while his damaged hand—two fingers lost in a fishing accident near the beacon twenty years ago—gripped the edge.
His face bore deep lines from decades of working the waters, his sparse white hair tucked under a perpetual fisherman’s cap. “Storm coming. Two days, maybe three.”
Vivienne paused in pouring his black coffee. “The weather report says clear skies all week.”
Jack’s weathered lips twitched. “Weather folks don’t know these waters like I do. Like you do.” His eyes, narrowed from squinting at the horizon, fixed on her pendant. “That stone humming again?”
Vivienne’s spine straightened. Jack kept glancing around the room, his body alert with the awareness that came from surviving close calls in dangerous waters. “What makes you think that?”
He shrugged, his damaged hand wrapping around the mug she placed before him.
“Got the same focused look your grandmother wore when something important was coming. Like you’re listening to voices the rest of us can’t hear.
” His gaze flicked toward the windows facing the structure on the peninsula, then back to her.
“Some parts of the harbor haven’t been right for decades.
Fish avoid the deep water near there. Smart of them. ”
Before Vivienne could respond, the bell jingled again, and Velta Wright appeared in the doorway.
Even Velta, usually comfortable with the Hawthorne family’s reputation, hesitated before crossing the threshold.
When she finally entered, leading several other book club members, Vivienne noticed how Margaret Holloway stayed near the door, clutching her purse, while the others maintained a respectful distance from Mathilde’s ancient oak table.
Old Jack nodded to Vivienne, leaving a few bills on the counter as he slipped out without another word, his eyes making one final sweep of the room.
“Morning, Vivienne!” Velta’s warmth carried an edge of concern. “Those scones smell wonderful.”
“Lavender with a hint of lemon today.” Vivienne set a tray down on the counter while the mysterious wet footprint shimmered in her peripheral vision. “And I’ve got that Earl Grey blend you like so much.”
As she served the women, unease settled over her. The lighthouse stone at her throat continued its humming, and through the October fog pressing against her windows, she caught glimpses of movement that might have been spirits or might have been tricks of the mist.
“Have you heard about the tourist?” Margaret asked from her position near the door, her voice hushed. “She disappeared near the beacon yesterday.”
The words struck Vivienne hard. Sharp pain lanced behind her eyes, so sudden and intense that she had to grip the counter to stay upright. The taste of copper flooded her mouth while the stone against her throat warmed. The room grew colder, though no frost appeared.
“What?” Vivienne managed through chattering teeth, her breath misting in the frigid air. “When exactly did this happen?”
“Around sunset, from what I heard.” Margaret wrapped her coat tighter around herself as the unnatural cold spread through the room.
The other women exchanged nervous glances, several backing toward the door.
“Chief Sullivan has the whole department searching, but so far, nothing. Her husband is beside himself.”
The beacon. The girl in her dreams. The parallel scratches on her arm had appeared from a drowning woman’s grip. The connections crashed over Vivienne in waves of realization, and she gripped the counter to keep from collapsing as the stone burned against her throat.
“How old is she?” Vivienne asked through the cold, fighting to control her body’s response to the warning.
“Mid-thirties, I think. Pretty blond thing. Melissa Clarkson. They were only passing through for the night.”
Velta stepped closer. “Vivienne, dear, are you all right? You look positively pale.”
“Is she a tourist or a researcher?” The question rose from an instinct she couldn’t name.
Margaret looked surprised. “Funny you should ask that. Word is she’s a historian studying New England lighthouses for a book. How did you—”
“Was she carrying a camera? Wire-rimmed glasses? Practical outdoor clothing?” Another wave of cold crashed through her.
The book club ladies exchanged glances, their expressions shifting from curiosity to the familiar mixture of awe and terror that surfaced whenever Vivienne’s abilities manifested. Half of them were already edging toward the door.
“Yes, to all of that.” Velta’s concern deepened. “Vivienne, have you seen something?”
The bell above the door chimed again, saving Vivienne from having to answer. She looked up to see a stranger enter—and her breath caught.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with watchful eyes, he seemed to catalog every detail of his surroundings. His dark hair was windblown, and his jaw was set in a way that suggested he didn’t smile often. He wore jeans, a gray henley, and a well-worn leather jacket that had seen better days.
Him.
Brooks Harrington. The man from her visions.
The boy who had visited her grandmother’s shop twenty-five years ago, now a detective carrying the weight of a woman named Traci’s death.
The shop had been preparing for him—the chipped cup with “B.H.” marked in steam, the phantom scent of cedar and leather and gunpowder, her mother’s journal promising he would be her anchor.
He was here.
Finally here.
Vivienne’s abilities flared, confirming what she’d already seen. The grief hung around him. The guilt that had driven him from Austin to this small coastal town he’d visited once as a frightened child. The bone-deep exhaustion of a man who had lost faith in everything, including himself.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, she had the distinct impression that he was studying her as intently as she was studying him. Then his gaze shifted to the chalkboard menu behind her, and the moment passed.
“Welcome to The Mystic Cup.” Vivienne wiped her hands on her apron and moved to the counter. “What can I get for you today?”
“Just coffee. Black.” His voice was deep, with a hint of a southern drawl that confirmed her suspicion that he wasn’t a local.
Vivienne’s hand moved toward the chipped cup tucked behind the others—the one that had appeared on the counter with “B.H.” marked in steam.
Her fingers hovered over it before she caught herself and selected a standard mug instead.
Not yet. The cup could wait until he was ready to understand what it meant.
“Coming right up. Anything to go with that? The lavender scones are fresh out of the oven.”
He eyed the pastries with what might have been longing before shaking his head. “Just the coffee.”
As Vivienne turned to pour his drink, she caught sight of the lighthouse through the shop’s bay window. For a split second, she could have sworn she saw a figure standing at the top. A young woman with long dark hair, her pale arm raised in what looked like a greeting.
Or a warning.
The coffeepot slipped from Vivienne’s grasp, shattering against the floor in a spray of glass shards and hot liquid.
“Damn it.” She grabbed a towel.
“You okay?” The stranger was already moving around the counter to help.
“Fine, I’m fine. Just clumsy.” Though they both knew that wasn’t true.
As Brooks crouched to help gather the glass shards, his gaze caught on something near Mathilde’s table—a wet footprint on the dark wooden floor.
He frowned. The floor had been dry when he entered.
Before he could process it further, Vivienne shifted position, and his attention returned to the broken pottery.
Their hands brushed as they both reached for the same piece, and she felt a jolt of recognition—not psychic, but human. Connection.
The stranger pulled back, his expression guarded. “You cut yourself.”
Vivienne looked down to see a thin line of red across her palm. She hadn’t even noticed. “It’s nothing.” But the blood was already seeping into the lines of her hand, forming a pattern that stopped her breath.
The shape of a lighthouse.
“You should get that cleaned up.” His tone made it clear he wasn’t making a suggestion. “Brooks Harrington,” he added after a pause, as if the introduction was an afterthought. “I’m new in town.”
“Vivienne Hawthorne.” She pressed the towel against her palm. “And I gathered that much. Nobody from Westerly Cove orders ‘just coffee’ at The Mystic Cup. Except for Old Jack. He’s the only one.”
A hint of a smile touched his face. “What do the locals order if they’re not Old Jack?”
“Tea, mostly. With elaborate names and specific brewing instructions. The coffee is for lost tourists and—” She studied him more intently. “—cops passing through.”
Brooks’s expression shuttered. “What makes you think I’m a cop?”
Vivienne almost smiled back. “Lucky guess.”
That wasn’t entirely true. She could still see it as clearly as the day it had struck her—standing in the shop two weeks ago, cataloging tea varieties when vertigo hit and the world spun away.
She’d found herself elsewhere, watching a man slumped at a desk in a harsh fluorescent-lit police station, blood on his hands that wasn’t literal but she could see it clinging to him.
A woman’s name on his lips: “Traci.” Then his head had lifted, and she’d seen eyes the color of midnight storms, haunted and desperate.
“I can’t do this anymore. I’m requesting a transfer. Anywhere. Just away from here.”
The scene had shifted to a bus station. The same man stood before a schedule board, one name glowing brighter than the others: WESTERLY COVE.
His finger had hesitated over the ticket machine.
“Why there? I haven’t thought about that place in twenty years.
” But his hand had moved without conscious decision, selecting Westerly Cove.
She couldn’t tell him any of that. Not yet. Men like Brooks Harrington—practical, logical, carrying the weight of cases solved and lives lost—didn’t want to hear that a tea shop owner had watched their breakdown in visions days before they arrived.
But Brooks Harrington wasn’t ready to hear about auras and psychic impressions.
Not yet.
“Let me get you a fresh coffee.” She turned away before he could question her further and retrieve a clean coffee pot and set the machine to brew another pot. “On the house since you helped with the mess.”
“Thanks, but not necessary. I can pay for my coffee.”
There was an edge in his voice that suggested accepting favors wasn’t something he did easily. Pride or principle, Vivienne wasn’t sure which.
“Suit yourself.” She poured a fresh cup and placed it on the counter between them. “That’ll be three dollars.”
As he handed over the money, their fingers brushed again, and this time Vivienne was prepared for the jolt of awareness. She controlled her reaction, maintaining a pleasant, professional smile.
“So, Detective Harrington, are you here about the missing tourist?” Tension built at the base of her neck as she said it.
Brooks went very still. “How did you know I’m a detective?”
The book club ladies had gone quiet, all of them watching the exchange.
Vivienne realized her mistake too late. She’d picked up on his rank without him mentioning it, a classic slip that had gotten her in trouble before. Her grandmother had always warned her: Never reveal more than they tell you directly. It makes them afraid.
“I didn’t. But you just confirmed it. And you haven’t answered my question.”
Brooks regarded her with narrowed eyes. “I’m not here about any missing tourist. Today’s my day off. I don’t start at the Westerly Cove PD until tomorrow.”
Pieces clicked into place, and Vivienne recognized fate arranging circumstances for reasons she couldn’t yet understand.
“Well then, Detective, welcome to Westerly Cove. I have a feeling things are about to get interesting around here.”
Outside, the fog had lifted completely, revealing the structure standing clear against the blue sky.
The three ravens had vanished from its peak, but Vivienne could still sense a presence there—waiting, watching, carrying secrets that only the dead could know and only she could hear.
The wet footprint near Mathilde’s table had begun to evaporate, but its message remained clear: someone who had died near the water was trying to communicate, and the connection to the beacon was growing stronger.
And somehow, she knew with absolute certainty that the new detective in town was about to become involved in whatever truth the spirits were trying to reveal.