Chapter Twenty-five – Bailey
I wake to the smell of coffee drifting up from downstairs, to the sound of seagulls and a hammer tapping rhythmically somewhere along the boardwalk.
The town feels alive again, lighter, as if Coral Bell Cove had collectively exhaled.
Every porch flag is flying, every window chalked with hearts and book quotes. Even the air seems grateful.
Crew’s side of the bed is empty except for the imprint of his body and the cat curled on his pillow like a smug crown.
I stretch, my muscles humming in that way that isn’t sore so much as satisfied, and smile into the sheet.
The last few days have been chaos, and somehow we survived them with more than we started with.
Downstairs, Crew is barefoot, hair damp from a shower, standing at the stove in a T-shirt that says READ LIKE A CHAMPION TODAY.
He’s flipping pancakes with unnecessary flourish, singing off-key to whatever old country song is bleeding from the radio.
There’s batter on his cheek and a grin that could power the entire lighthouse.
“Morning, boss,” he says when he sees me.
“You’re in my kitchen,” I remind him, tying my robe tighter.
He slides a plate toward me. “Breakfast diplomacy.”
The pancakes are uneven and perfect. He leans a hip against the counter and watches me eat, eyes soft. “You realize yesterday we broke the internet.”
“I realize the internet is easily broken,” I say. “We just gave it something wholesome to panic about.”
He laughs, pours more coffee, and the sound wraps around me like sunlight through the windows.
When the courier knocks an hour later, the moment shifts. The envelope he hands me is thick, official, stamped with the emblem of the Virginia Coastal Heritage Foundation. My name is typed neatly beneath A Page in Time Preservation Grant Application.
My fingers tremble. “It’s early.”
Crew wipes his hands on a towel and joins me. “Open it.”
I do. The words blur at first, then sharpen. Congratulations. Approved. Full award amount. Restoration of the lantern room authorized under the Virginia Historic Revival Initiative.
I blink, laugh, maybe cry. Crew picks me up off the floor like I weigh less than relief and spins me until the cat yowls from the counter.
“You did it,” he says into my hair.
“We did,” I correct. But then I see the fine print—matching funds required within thirty days.
My stomach dips. “There’s a catch.”
“There’s always a catch,” he says, setting me down gently. “How much?”
I tell him. He whistles low. It’s not impossible, but it’s large enough to sting.
He squeezes my shoulders. “We’ll figure it out.”
By noon, half the town knows. Coral Bell’s grapevine moves faster than Wi-Fi.
Mrs. Winthrop brings champagne and scones “for tax purposes.” Ivy prints RESTORE THE LIGHT posters in pastel blues.
Lila starts a spreadsheet titled MATCHING MIRACLE FUND.
Crew builds a donation box out of reclaimed wood and hand-paints HOPE BUYS HINGES across the top.
We set it by the register. Within an hour, it’s half full of bills, coins, and one IOU written in crayon from a kid named Henry who promises “to sell seashells if necessary.”
The shop hums all day. I’m signing receipts when Crew ducks behind the counter and whispers, “Close your eyes.”
“I’m working.”
“Close them.”
I do. Something cool and metallic brushes my wrist—a tiny silver charm shaped like a book, strung on a thin chain.
He fastens it. “For luck.”
When I open my eyes, he’s smiling, shy and smug at once. “Thought you could use some backup magic.”
I touch the charm. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Effective,” he says. “That’s what matters.”
Late afternoon drips gold through the windows. Crew climbs a ladder to hang the new A Page in Time sign, and I stand below pretending not to stare at the way his T-shirt rides up when he stretches.
“Straight?” he calls.
“Steadier than you,” I call back.
He laughs so hard he nearly drops a screw. “You sure about that?”
“Positive.”
The banter fills the empty spaces that fear once occupied. For a few hours, there’s only paint, laughter, and the rhythmic hush of the tide.
When he comes down, streaked with sawdust, he kisses me like he’s rewarding teamwork. “Perfect alignment,” he murmurs.
“You mean the sign?”
“Sure,” he says, eyes glinting. “That, too.”
At sunset, his phone rings. The Nashville number flashes across the screen. I see it before he does, and something inside me twists.
He answers, tone polite, neutral. “Hey, Laramie. … Yeah, I’ve been thinking about it.”
I busy myself with the register, pretending not to listen, though every word lands like a pebble on my ribs. Commentator role. National network. Travel schedule.
When he hangs up, I’m reorganizing books that were already alphabetical.
“Big opportunity,” he says carefully.
“It sounds like it,” I say, not looking up.
“It’s not what I planned,” he adds. “But it could mean stability. Flexibility, even. Half the season here, half there.”
I finally meet his eyes. “And which half has a lighthouse?”
He winces, stepping closer. “Hey. I’m just… thinking.”
“I know.” I force a smile. “Think loud so I can keep up.”
He cups my cheek, thumb tracing the edge of my jaw. “You’re part of every version of the plan, Bailey.”
“Promises are cheap,” I whisper.
“Then let me prove it expensive.”
We cook dinner together—seafood pasta that smells like the ocean itself. He chops garlic with exaggerated skill; I pretend not to flinch when he drops half of it on the floor. We drink wine from mismatched mugs, dance barefoot in the kitchen to old records that skip every third line.
When the song slows, he spins me once and catches me against him. The laughter fades but the closeness doesn’t.
“I missed this,” he says.
“Dancing?”
“Being still with you.”
He brushes his lips against my temple, then lower, until the question in the air answers itself.
The rest unfolds like music we already know.
The world narrows to his hands, my heartbeat, the slide of breath between us.
He tastes like wine and something untranslatable.
We move to the rhythm of a tide we’ve been denying since spring.
It’s tender, heated, reverent; the kind of intimacy that feels like a secret you both already told.
Afterward, the lighthouse beam sweeps through the window, slicing silver across the ceiling. He traces it along my skin like he’s memorizing coordinates.
“This feels like forever,” he murmurs.
“It feels like right now,” I correct, because I’ve learned not to measure time in promises.
He smiles against my shoulder. “Then let’s stay here a while.”
Later, when sleep should be winning, I lie awake listening to the wind. The cat sprawls between us like Switzerland. Crew’s breathing evens out. I reach for my phone to set an alarm for the inspection tomorrow.
There’s a new message.
Laramie: Don’t celebrate yet. We found something in the grant files. Call me first thing.
The words blur, then sharpen. My chest goes cold.
I stare at the ceiling, the lighthouse beam slicing light and shadow across the room, and feel that old dread crawl back in—the one that whispers peace never lasts here.
Outside, the sea keeps breathing. Inside, I stop.