Chapter Two – Lark #3
The grocery store sits on the edge of Main Street, bigger than I expect, bright and clean and blessedly air-conditioned.
At first, I planned to leave the dog in the car with the windows down, but it breaks my heart to leave him there alone.
Instead, I wrap him as inconspicuously as possible in a clean towel and carry him inside.
I grab a cart and start filling it with all the practical things my life currently lacks.
Bleach. Gloves. Paper towels. Trash bags.
Bottled water. Bread. Peanut butter. A cheap throw blanket.
The dog food recommended by the vet. A squeaky toy I absolutely do not need and buy anyway because the dog has finally stopped growling every time I look at him, and I’m not emotionally stable enough to resist.
By the time I make it to the produce section, the cart is full, and my arm aches from carrying the dog against my hip. He insists on being held. The second I try to put him in the cart, he climbs back toward me with offended determination.
“Okay,” I mutter, shifting him higher. “This is an absurd way to live.”
“Only if you don’t get him one of those little kid seats in the buggy.”
I look up.
The woman standing beside the tomatoes is somewhere in her late fifties, maybe early sixties, with warm brown eyes, hair highlighted and twisted into a clip at the nape of her neck, and an open expression that suggests she’s either extremely kind or about to ask me a deeply personal question.
Possibly both.
She smiles at the dog first, then at me.
“He looks offended by the concept of walking,” she says.
I glance down at him. “That’s accurate.”
The woman laughs softly and reaches toward the display, picking up a tomato with the certainty of someone who knows her way around every inch of this store.
“Found him?”
“On the side of the road.”
Her expression changes immediately. Not pity. Something gentler and sharper than that. “Poor thing.”
“That seems to be the general consensus.”
“He’s lucky you stopped.”
The words land in a strange place. Lucky. I’m not sure either one of us qualifies at the moment.
The woman sets the tomato back and extends her free hand. “Claire Wright.”
I shift the dog enough to free one hand and shake hers. “Lark Carrington.”
Something flickers across her face. Recognition. Not from meeting me before. From the name.
“Carrington,” she repeats. “As in the inn.”
There it is. This town moves fast.
I tighten my grip on the dog and nod once. “That’s me.”
Claire’s gaze sharpens just enough to tell me she’s piecing things together in real time. New woman in town. Dog under one arm. Cart full of cleaning supplies. Name attached to the old inn.
“And you’re staying out there,” she says.
Not a question.
I almost smile.
“Is everyone in Coral Bell Cove psychic?”
“No, honey. Just curious.”
That gets me. A real, startled laugh slips out before I can stop it. Claire smiles like she’s made a note of that somewhere.
“Well,” she says, glancing at the cart, “you’re either braver than most or too stubborn to know better.”
“I’ve been accused of both.”
“Mm.” She reaches for a cucumber and drops it into her basket. “That place needs love.”
It’s such a simple thing to say. So much kinder than sensible. Kinder than impractical. Kinder than Are you sure you want that burden?
I look at her more closely. There’s steadiness in her. The kind that doesn’t need to perform itself loudly.
“It does,” I say.
“And your dog needs a bath.”
I glance down. “Also true.”
Claire’s mouth twitches. “Come by my place sometime. Otter Creek Farm. I’ll give you the name of the best roofer in town and some proper dog shampoo.”
I blink. We have known each other for less than three minutes. She just invited me to a farm. And somehow, it doesn’t feel strange. It feels like this town does not understand the concept of gradual involvement.
“I… appreciate that.”
“You can appreciate it after you accept it,” she says, then leans slightly closer. “And if anyone tells you Carrington House is too much trouble, don’t listen. Half the people saying it wouldn’t know how to care for a place like that if you handed them instructions.”
I stare at her. Something in my chest shifts. The weight is all still there—my father, Michael, my mother, the inn, the room I have to scrub before I can sleep, the dog who may or may not trust me yet.
Still, for the first time since I crossed into town, I feel a small clean thread of something else under it. Maybe not hope. Not yet. But something close enough to keep.
Claire smiles at me one last time, then glances toward the front of the store. “I’d better go before one of my children calls looking for dinner.”
“Children,” I repeat.
Her grin turns knowing. “You’ll meet them eventually.”
Something about the way she says it makes the back of my neck prickle. I don’t know why. Then she gives the dog one last fond look and pushes her basket farther down the aisle.
I stand there for a second longer than necessary, dog in my arms, cart full of practical things, tomato display in front of me, and the sense that something has just quietly shifted under my feet.
Then I shake it off and keep moving. I still have a filthy inn waiting for me. I still have a first night to survive—industrial-strength locks and pest control at the ready.
And I still have no idea that meeting Claire Wright in the produce aisle is going to change far more than the quality of my dog shampoo.