On Cliff Road (Periwinkle Shores #3)
Chapter 1
CHAPTER 1
T he drive to Cliff Road wound through familiar terrain, each curve of the narrow path stirring a mix of comfort and unease in Romy Kingsbury. She kept her hands steady on the steering wheel, her gaze fixed on the horizon where the dunes met the vast expanse of the Atlantic Ocean. The wind swept across the landscape, carrying the sharp tang of salt and seagrass and rustling memories she had worked hard to bury.
Her car's GPS had tried to route her through the new bypass after the Sagamore Bridge, but she ignored it, choosing instead the old coastal road she remembered from her youth. The route might take longer, but it felt right—like slowly peeling back the layers of time rather than rushing headlong into the past.
The house came into view as she rounded the final bend. It perched on its slight rise, framed by a scattering of weathered beach grass and the endless sky. Its shingles had been removed since she was last here, and the windows, open to the breeze, mirrored the rolling waves. Pamela's kayak leaned casually against the side of the house, an unchanged relic of the life Romy had once shared with her aunt. Next to it stood an old bicycle she didn't recognize, its blue paint faded from sun exposure, suggesting that perhaps Pamela had found new ways to explore the coastline in Romy's absence.
Her throat tightened as she pulled onto the gravel driveway, the crunch of tires loud in the otherwise quiet afternoon. Killing the engine, she sat for a moment, gripping the wheel as if letting go would make the house disappear. This place had been a refuge during her turbulent teenage years, a sanctuary when her parents' relentless expectations had become too much. Pamela—the cool, carefree sister to Romy’s rigid mother—had been the one to offer popsicles on the back steps and reassurance when Romy's dreams clashed with her parents' ambitions.
A seagull landed on the hood of her car, startling her from her reverie. It cocked its head, studying her through the windshield with that peculiar intensity unique to shore birds, before taking flight again. Romy watched it soar away, remembering how she and Pamela used to share sandwiches with the local gulls, much to her mother's disapproval.
But now the house felt different. It was no longer a haven but a monument to what she had lost, to the family that had once seemed so unshakable. The fresh paint on the trim and the newly planted hydrangeas beside the steps spoke of Pamela's continued care, but they also highlighted how much time had passed, how long Romy had stayed away.
With a deep breath, she stepped out of the car, the Cape Cod breeze brushing against her face and tugging at her hair. The salty air carried the sound of waves crashing on the shore, a rhythm as familiar as her own heartbeat. She looked up at the house, its silhouette stark against the blue-gray sky, and hesitated before heading for the steps. A wind chime she didn't remember tinkled softly from just above the steps, its gentle notes mixing with the distant cry of gulls.
Once again, she questioned whether coming back had been the right decision.
New York or Cape Cod—what does it matter? There's no escaping the memories .
The plane crash had shattered everything.
Her parents had been on their way to a wedding on Martha's Vineyard, her father at the controls of the single-engine plane he'd flown with confidence for years. Romy had flown with him countless times as a child, her small hand clutching his arm as he pointed out landmarks below and filled the air with his steady reassurances. She could still hear his voice: "The sky is where we're free, Romy. Up here, it's just us and the clouds."
She remembered the last time she'd seen them, standing in the small airport terminal. Her mother had been wearing her favorite blue dress, her father adjusting his lucky pilot's cap—the one with the worn brim that her mother always threatened to replace. "We'll be back before you know it," he'd said, kissing her forehead. "Break a leg at rehearsal, sweetheart."
But the sky hadn't been kind that day. The call had come while she was rehearsing for her senior play, running lines for her role as Beatrice in "Much Ado About Nothing." Her principal's face had been grim as he pulled her aside and delivered the news: the plane had gone down between Hyannis and Martha's Vineyard. There were no survivors.
Her world tilted on its axis. Her parents—the pillars of her life—were gone. An only child, Romy was more than alone, she was an orphan. The irony wasn't lost on her that she'd been playing a character whose father's death was a crucial plot point when she received the news about her own parents.
In the aftermath, grief hollowed her out, leaving a fragile shell where a vibrant teenager had once been. The house in town had become unbearable, each room echoing with her mother's laughter and her father's steady footsteps. The garden her mother had tended with such care withered as Romy couldn't bring herself to maintain it. Her father's study remained untouched, his half-finished crossword puzzle still open on the desk, pen resting precisely where he'd left it. Within six months, and with Pamela's support, she had sold the house. It was too painful to keep
Pamela had begged her to move into the house on Cliff Road, but Romy couldn't. Instead of college, she had fled to New York City, carrying with her the proceeds from the sale of her childhood home and dreams of making it as an actress. For a while, it had seemed like the right choice. The city was everything she'd imagined: electric, vibrant, full of opportunities.
But the reality had been far harsher. Small roles, endless rejections, and the weight of solitude chipped away at her confidence. She'd landed a few promising parts in off-off-Broadway productions, even earned some favorable reviews, but nothing had quite clicked. Boyfriends would come and go and she made few permanent friendships with women.
And then came the attack—a single violent moment that left her with scars she couldn't hide and a fear that chased her through every crowded street and subway platform. The mugging had happened after a late-night rehearsal, in a dimly-lit alley she'd walked through countless times before. Therapy hadn't been enough. The city's chaos felt unbearable.
Now, as she climbed the steps to the house on Cliff Road, she wondered if this place could offer her the peace she so desperately needed. The wooden steps creaked under her feet—the third one still loose, she noticed with a hint of comfort in the familiar imperfection. The front door opened before she could knock, and Pamela stood framed in the doorway, looking thinner than Romy remembered, her once-dark hair now streaked liberally with silver. But her eyes were the same—sharp and warm, and most importantly, welcoming.
"Romy," Pamela said, her voice a mix of surprise and relief. "You made it."
Romy nodded, her throat too tight for words. She stepped into her aunt's embrace, the familiar scent of chamomile tea and lavender enveloping her. For a moment, she let herself sink into the comfort of it, noticing how Pamela's arms felt more fragile than she remembered, but no less secure.
Pamela stepped back to study her, her gaze lingering on Romy's face. "You look…tired," she said gently, her eyes catching on the thin scar near Romy's temple—a souvenir from that night in New York that makeup could never quite conceal.
Romy let out a faint laugh. "That's one way to put it." She touched the scar self-consciously, a habit she'd developed over the past year.
Pamela raised an eyebrow but didn't push. Instead, she gestured toward the kitchen. "Come in. You must be hungry after that drive. I've got a pot of clam chowder on the stove—your favorite recipe, the one your mother used to make."
“Thanks, but I’m not hungry. Maybe in a bit?”
“Of course,” Pamela responded.
Inside, the house was as Romy remembered. The mismatched furniture, the walls lined with books, and the faint smell of saltwater mixed with old wood—it was all achingly familiar. But it also felt like stepping into a time capsule, as if the house had been waiting for her return. New photographs had joined the old ones on the walls: scenes of the beach in different seasons, local birds in flight, and a few shots of Pamela with people Romy didn't recognize—evidence of a life that had continued in her absence.
"Your old room's ready for you," Pamela said, leading her down the hallway. The floorboards creaked in their remembered places, like an old song played note for note. "I haven't touched it since you last stayed here. Thought you might like that."
Romy nodded as she stepped into the room. The quilt on the bed, the faded posters on the walls, the small stack of books on the nightstand—it was like walking into her teenage years. She set her bag on the floor, her fingers brushing the edge of the dresser where she'd once carved her initials, hidden on the side where her mother wouldn't see.
"Thank you," she said quietly, running her hand over the familiar nicks and scratches in the wood.
Pamela lingered in the doorway, her expression soft but thoughtful. "Take your time settling in. We'll catch up later." She paused, then added, "And Romy? I'm glad you're home."
When her aunt left, Romy sank onto the edge of the bed. The sound of the ocean drifted through the open window, the steady crash of waves a reminder of the world beyond the walls. In the distance she could see several sea lions swimming from right to left, their sleek bodies breaking the surface in a graceful dance she'd forgotten she'd missed. Smiling at the scene, she then closed her eyes, letting the rhythm of the water drown out the noise in her mind.
The memories were still there—the crash, the years in New York, the scars—the constant feeling that the memories would never stop chasing her. She opened her eyes and stared out the window, the dunes stretching toward the horizon. A pair of sandpipers scurried along the waterline, their quick steps a counterpoint to the lazy roll of the waves.
Romy stood and wandered back into the hall, her steps hesitant as she approached the living room. Pamela sat in her favorite armchair, a steaming cup of tea in hand and a blanket draped over her lap. The sight brought a pang of nostalgia. The chair was more worn than Romy remembered, its fabric faded in places where the sun had kissed it through the windows, but it still held Pamela's shape as perfectly as ever.
"Want some tea?" Pamela asked, gesturing toward the kettle on the side table. A new tea set had replaced the old one—delicate blue and white porcelain where once there had been sturdy ceramic.
Romy nodded, grateful for the offer. She poured herself a cup and sat across from her aunt, the warmth of the mug soothing her hands. The tea's fragrance—a blend of chamomile and something else she couldn't quite identify—filled the space between them.
"This place hasn't changed much," Romy said after a moment, her voice soft. She gestured to the room around them, taking in the familiar watercolors on the walls, the collection of shells on the windowsill, the weathered brass telescope still pointed toward the horizon.
Pamela smiled. "I've kept it the same on purpose. Thought maybe one day you'd come back." She adjusted the blanket over her knees, and Romy noticed how her hands trembled slightly—a detail that made her heart catch.
Romy smiled, feeling the weight of the years between them. "I should've come sooner."
"You're here now," Pamela said simply, her gaze steady. "That's all that matters." She took a sip of her tea, then added, "Sometimes we need to wander before we can find our way home."
Pamela's words settled over her like a warm blanket, easing some of the tension she'd been carrying. For the first time in what felt like years, Romy allowed herself to relax, even if only for a moment. She stared into her cup, watching the ripples of tea move with each slight tremble of her hands, remembering all the conversations they'd had in this room, all the storms they'd weathered together.
"What's next for you?" Pamela asked, breaking the silence. "Do you have a plan?"
Romy shook her head, a rueful smile tugging at her lips. "Not really. I just… needed to be somewhere quiet. Somewhere familiar. I'm still trying to figure that out. I'm not in a rush. New York was so crowded, so noisy, I couldn't wait to get out of there and find a place to be still…quiet."
Pamela nodded knowingly. "This place has a way of doing that. Reminding you who you are, even when you've forgotten." She set her cup down and leaned forward slightly. "The community theater in town is still going strong, you know. They're always looking for new talent."
Romy's breath caught at the suggestion, but she didn't immediately dismiss it. The thought of performing again, in a place where every shadow didn't hold a threat, stirred something in her she thought had died in that New York alley.
Pamela smiled. "You'll find your way. Just take it one day at a time."
They sat in companionable silence, the soft hum of the ocean filling the spaces between their words. Outside, the light was beginning to fade, painting the dunes in soft shades of gold and gray. A gull's cry pierced the quiet, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked at the waves.
For the first time in years, Romy felt a flicker of something she hadn't allowed herself to hope for: the possibility of healing. Maybe here, between the sea and the sky, she could finally find her way back to herself.