Chapter Two – Lark
I don’t cry when I cross the town line. It’s meaningless to anyone else.
But I hold on to it anyway, fingers tight on the steering wheel, jaw locked, sunglasses on even though the light keeps shifting in and out behind the clouds.
The sign for Coral Bell Cove comes into view on the right, painted on wood, in the sea air, and with the sort of coastal charm people spend too much money trying to recreate in places that will never feel like this.
No tears. No breakdown. No dramatic pause on the shoulder while I stare out at the water and think about how I’ve somehow ended up here—twenty-eight years old, driving alone into a town where I know almost no one, taking on a restoration project that feels less like a career move and more like a dare I’m making to the universe.
I did not come here to fall apart. I came here because my father wanted this inn.
Left me a trust with enough money to afford the property.
Because the last time we spoke about it, he stood in our kitchen with his tie loosened and blueprints spread across the table, and said, "This one matters, Lark.
" It has bones. It just needs someone patient enough to see past the rot.
Then he died before he could touch it. And somehow, in the years since, that one unfinished want has lived in me like a splinter. The Carrington House Inn.
My name is on the deed now, after months of legal wrangling and one humiliating conversation after another with people who spoke to me as if I were chasing something sentimental rather than making a business decision.
My father’s dream, reduced by everyone else into proof that I couldn’t let go. Maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s the point.
The road curves closer to the water, and the bay flashes silver between the buildings as I drive deeper into town.
Storefronts line the main stretch—weathered clapboard, neat signage, hanging baskets already crowded with spring color.
The whole place looks like it belongs in one of those magazines my mother used to leave on the coffee table, the ones full of white kitchens and reclaimed beams and the lie that if you styled a room beautifully enough, nobody would notice the people inside it were unhappy.
Coral Bell Cove is prettier than I expected. That annoys me. I would’ve preferred it to look rougher around the edges. More visibly worn. A little less capable of getting under my skin.
I adjust my grip on the wheel and glance at the passenger seat.
The folder sitting there is thick enough to be irritating—permit forms, photographs, contractor contacts, the sale agreement, my father’s old handwritten notes tucked into the front pocket because I cannot seem to stop carrying them with me even when I know every line by heart.
I should have brought less. I also should have packed lighter, eaten something besides half a protein bar three hours ago, and stopped answering my mother's calls two months ago. Life is full of suggestions I don’t follow.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t need to look, I already know. Still, my eyes flick down before I can stop them.
Mom
I let it ring. The vibration stops, then starts again almost immediately. I laugh once under my breath. There’s no humor in it. The third call never comes. Instead, a text banner slides across the screen.
Mom:
You need to let me know you arrived safely.
I stare at the road ahead and say nothing.
Another banner appears before the first one has fully faded.
Mom:
And please tell me you reconsidered staying on that property. A hotel is more sensible.
A tighter laugh leaves me this time. Sensible.
That word has followed me for six years.
It showed up in every conversation after my father died.
Every boardroom meeting Michael led. Every cautious suggestion from my mother, dressed up as concern and handed to me as if it were wisdom, instead of surrender.
It would be more sensible if Michael handled the larger commercial accounts.
It would be more sensible if you took some time before making any permanent decisions.
It would be more sensible not to tie yourself emotionally to one building, Lark.
Somewhere along the way, sensible became the polite word for small. For manageable. For letting everyone else decide what your grief should look like because your version made them uncomfortable.
I pick up the phone at the next stop sign and toss it onto the passenger seat face down beside the folder.
The road narrows after the town, curving past a line of older homes and thick hedges before turning quieter. Fewer businesses. More space. The inn sits on the far edge of the historic district, which means I get a longer approach than most people probably bother noticing. I notice all of it.
The overgrown verge. The faded split-rail fence has one section sagging. The old live oaks lean over the road as if they’ve been watching people come and go for a hundred years.
My father would’ve loved this drive. That thought slips under my ribs before I can brace against it. I tighten my hands on the wheel.
The problem with grief is that it isn’t linear, no matter how many well-meaning people say it softens with time.
It waits. Changes shape. Hides in unexpected places.
Then one old tree on one quiet road in one town you’ve never lived in catches the light in the exact right way, and suddenly your chest feels too small again.
I blink hard and keep driving. Something moves in the shoulder ahead. Small. Fast.
I ease off the gas automatically. The shape appears again near the ditch line—a scruffy, dirty blur of fur and ribs and frantic movement. Dog.
“Shit.”
I brake hard and pull onto the shoulder, gravel spitting under the tires. My heart jumps into my throat as I throw the car into Park and push the door open.
The dog startles at the sound and darts toward the road.
“Hey—hey, no.” I step out fast, both hands up. “No. Don’t do that.”
He freezes about ten feet away, half in the grass, half in the dirt shoulder.
Small, maybe twenty pounds, maybe less under all that matted fur.
One ear bent. Tail crooked at the base like it healed wrong or never healed at all.
His coat is some shade of sandy brown under the mud. His ribs show. His eyes are huge.
He looks like he’s decided the world is dangerous, and he’s probably right. Cars don’t come out here often, but it only takes one.
I crouch slowly, trying not to spook him. “Hey, buddy.”
He bares his teeth. It would be more effective if he didn’t look like a windstorm could take him out.
“Yeah,” I murmur. “I know. I wouldn’t trust me either.”
I glance back at my car. My purse sits on the passenger seat. Other half of my protein bar in the console. Half a bottle of water.
I move slowly, never taking my eyes off him as I back toward the car. He tenses, ready to bolt.
“It’s fine,” I say softly. “You can hate me and still let me help you.”
I get the door open, dig the protein bar out with shaking fingers, and pull it free of the wrapper. The dog’s head lifts instantly, nostrils flaring. Food wins over pride every time. I break off a piece and toss it a few feet away from him.
He doesn’t move at first. Then hunger gets louder than fear, and he darts forward, grabs it, retreats. I throw another piece closer. This one he takes faster. The third piece lands almost within arm’s reach.
He hesitates. I stay crouched. Quiet. Still.
The road behind me sits empty. Wind moves through the grass. Somewhere overhead, a gull calls from farther inland than it has any business being.
The dog steps closer. One paw. Then another. Mud cakes around his legs. A raw patch near his flank looks irritated but not deep. His nails are too long. One of his paws lifts oddly when he puts weight on it.
He takes the next piece from the dirt just in front of me and flinches back. I don’t reach yet. The fourth piece I hold in my palm.
“Come on,” I whisper.
He stares at my hand like it personally offended him. Then his stomach makes the decision for him. He edges forward, neck stretched, body still ready to run, and closes his mouth around the food. His nose is cold against my palm. His whiskers twitch.
I move before I can second-guess it, sliding my other hand gently under his chest and lifting. He writhes once. A low growl vibrates against my arm. Then he goes stiff and trembling.
“It’s okay,” I say, though it very much is not okay, and we both know it. “I’ve got you.”
He smells like wet dirt and fear.
I don’t think. I just tuck him against my chest, grab the rest of the protein bar with my teeth, and shoulder the car door open with my hip.
The passenger seat is full. My life in one visual. Phone. Folder. Coffee receipt. Sunglasses case. My father’s notes. The remains of control.
I dump the folder into the back seat, set the dog on the front passenger side floorboard, and climb in before he can launch himself somewhere stupid.
He immediately tries to scramble up into the seat.
“Nope.” I reach down and steady him. “We’re doing this one thing at a time.”
His whole body shakes as I look at the road ahead, then at the dog, then at the GPS route on the dash, still set for Carrington Inn.
The practical move would be to drive straight to the inn, unload, then figure out the dog later. I’m already turning the car around before I finish the thought. There has to be a vet in town.
Coral Bell Cove is small enough that I pass the clinic sign on my second trip through the main stretch. Back Bay Veterinary. A little white building tucked beside a nursery with blue hydrangeas exploding out front and a hand-painted wooden crab by the steps.
I pull in too fast, kill the engine, and scoop the dog back into my arms. He bares his teeth again, weaker this time.
“Yeah, yeah,” I mutter as I shoulder through the front door. “I know. I’m the villain.”