Chapter 2 Vance
VANCE
The apartment above Dorian’s bookstore was never meant to be permanent. Six months ago, when I’d arrived in Willet Cove with nothing but two suitcases and a fractured heart that still somehow carried hope, Dorian had met me at the door with a key.
“It’s small,” he’d warned. “But it’s yours for as long as you need it.”
But it had a roof. It was clean. And most importantly, it was in Willet Cove.
Home. Or what used to be home, back when I was eighteen and desperate to leave.
My mother had offered me the family house the day I’d called to tell her I was moving back.
The sprawling cedar-shingled beauty perched on a cliff overlooking the ocean had been in our family for three generations.
I’d grown up running through those rooms, learning to cook in that kitchen, sitting on that wide front porch watching storms roll in.
The bones were good. The rest? Not so much.
The kitchen was straight out of 1975—avocado green appliances and all. The bathrooms weren’t much better. The whole place desperately needed updating, and I’d been in the process of choosing an interior designer when I got an unexpected call.
A reality television show wanted my house for their first episode.
At first, I’d laughed and said no. Me? On TV? Absolutely not. But after talking it through with Dorian, he’d convinced me to reconsider. What could it hurt? And I’d probably end up with an incredible renovation in the process.
The wine app I’d built almost as a joke during a slow winter in Bordeaux had sold for eighteen million dollars two years ago.
After taxes and setting aside enough to live comfortably, I had more than enough to take care of my mother, including buying her a condo in a swanky retirement community outside of town.
Money couldn’t buy back the years I’d lost with Margot.
Couldn’t undo the damage her mother had done.
But it could give my mom security. It could build a home for my daughter if I ever got her back.
That was the most important thing. I wanted the house ready for Margot.
Just in case a miracle happened and Nicole, my ex, let her back into my life.
Margot.
My baby girl with pigtails and big blue eyes who used to perch on the closed toilet seat in our Paris apartment, watching me shave every morning.
Who rode on my shoulders as we strolled to the boulangerie on Rue des Rosiers, charming the baker into giving her extra croissants with her broken French and irresistible grin.
My daughter.
She was ten now. I hadn’t seen her in six years.
Not because I didn’t want to. Never that. It had nearly killed me to lose her.
Nicole had taken Margot to California for what was supposed to be a two-month visit with family. Then she simply didn’t come back. By the time I realized what she’d done, Margot had been there six months. Enrolled in school. Settled, as the lawyers later said.
Nicole filed for custody in California courts.
I tried to fight it—spent every penny I had on lawyers who promised they could fix it.
But international custody battles are brutal.
And expensive. By the time my app sold and I finally had real money to fight with, two years had passed.
The courts decided moving Margot back to France would be too disruptive.
So I moved here instead. Six months ago. Close enough that maybe, eventually, I could see her again.
Nicole and Margot lived forty minutes north in Cliffside Bay, where Nicole had grown up. She’d moved back in with her mother—though she’d never admit she needed the help with childcare.
Every visitation request I filed was denied. Every attempt to reach out blocked. Nicole had spent six years convincing Margot I was the bad guy. That I’d abandoned her. That I didn’t love her anymore. All lies. But try explaining that to a ten-year-old who barely remembered her father.
Now, I stood at the narrow counter that passed for a kitchen, making myself an espresso with the small machine I’d brought from France—one of the few luxuries I’d allowed myself in this spartan space.
Outside the window, Saturday morning in Willet Cove was in full swing.
Tourists with shopping bags. Families with coffees and ice cream cones.
A street musician setting up near the corner.
My mom texted, checking in to make sure I was still dropping by to see her later. I replied that I would leave here in about an hour.
I took my espresso to the small table by the window. My laptop sat open, displaying the email I’d been staring at since last night.
The email from Lila.
Yes, tomorrow at seven at The Pelican sounds good. See you then.
I clicked over to her profile again, even though I’d already memorized every word.
@HomewardBound
The username alone had stopped me cold when I first saw it. Because wasn’t that exactly what I was? Someone learning to come home after twenty years of wandering?
Her photos were warm and authentic—not posed, not filtered within an inch of their life like so many profiles I’d scrolled past. One showed her in her design studio, surrounded by fabric samples and paint chips, hair pulled back in a ponytail, glasses perched on her nose.
Another was her laughing with friends on a patio, the ocean visible in the background.
And the third—my favorite—showed her standing on a beach at sunset, barefoot, holding her sandals, looking out at the water with a small, private smile.
A photo very much like the one I’d posted of myself.
I’d sent that first message on impulse, not really believing she’d respond. Beautiful, successful women with their lives together weren’t usually on the dating sites. At least, not in my experience. But she had responded. We had a time and place. Tonight. My pulse kicked up just thinking about it.
“Get it together, Prescott,” I muttered to myself. “It’s just dinner.”
Except it wasn’t just dinner. It was the first real date I’d had since …
God, I couldn’t even remember. Years. I’d had a few casual flings in the years after my marriage ended, but nothing serious.
I simply hadn’t had it in me to try again.
Now, however, I felt ready. I wanted to let go of the bitterness I felt and move forward at long last. Would a date with a beautiful woman turn into something real?
Most likely not. I wasn’t really a statistics guy, but the odds were against it.
My phone buzzed with a text from Dorian.
He’d been my best friend growing up and, since we were both unexpectedly back in town, we’d picked up where we left off twenty-six years ago.
We’d been eighteen, with our whole lives ahead of us.
He’d joined the Navy. I’d gone to France.
Now, we were back in Willet Cove. As my mother had said, “I never thought I’d see the day. ”
Dorian
You want to have dinner tonight?
Vance
I can’t. I have a date. From the app I told you about.
Dorian
No way.
Vance
Yep.
Dorian
Does that mean I’m going to have to do it too?
Vance
Let’s see how my date turns out first. It’ll probably be a disaster!
Dorian
Good luck! I’m cheering you on from here. Text me afterwards, unless it goes so well you’re up late. You know I’m lights out at ten.
Vance
You know you’re not in the Navy any longer, right?
Dorian
Tell my body that because it still thinks we’re on a strict schedule.
Vance
I’ll let you know how it goes. Have a great day!
An hour later, I pulled into the parking lot at Seabrook Gardens, the retirement community perched on the bluffs north of town.
The grounds were immaculate—rolling lawns, walking paths lined with lavender and rosemary, hydrangeas in every shade of blue and purple.
It looked more like a resort than a place for people over fifty-six, which was exactly why my mom had chosen it.
I found Mom in her apartment—a bright, airy space with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the ocean. She was arranging flowers in a vase, classical music playing softly in the background.
“There’s my boy,” she said, pulling me into a hug.
“Hi, Mama. You’re looking beautiful.”
“I’m a mess, but thank you.” She stepped back, studying my face with that x-ray vision mothers seem to possess. Whatever she saw there, she didn’t comment. “Let’s take a walk. It’s a gorgeous day.”
“Lead the way,” I said.
The morning air carried the scent of jasmine and fresh-cut grass as my mother and I strolled the walking path that curled through her new place of residence.
Perched on a bluff overlooking the Pacific, the grounds rolled gently with walking paths shaded by olive trees and bordered by lavender and rosemary.
The herbs released their fragrance with every breeze, mixing with the salt air that drifted up from the ocean below.
Hydrangeas bloomed in every hue imaginable—deep purples, soft pinks, brilliant blues—while koi ponds and quiet stone benches invited conversation or contemplation.
The main building had the feel of an old inn crossed with a boutique spa, with whitewashed walls, cedar-shingled roofs, and flowering vines curling around every post.
We strolled one of the meandering paths, passing beneath the dappled shade of olive branches.
In the distance, I could see the Pacific stretching endlessly, its surface catching the morning light like scattered diamonds.
The sound of waves far below provided a steady rhythm, punctuated by the gentle splash of fountains and the occasional call of seabirds.
But I’d come not just for the view, but to tell my mother the incredible news about the house.
“You’re not going to believe this,” I said. “But a new design show has chosen our house for a televised renovation.”
She stopped in the middle of the path. “What? No. Really?”
I chuckled. “Yes, I just got the confirmation that it’s a go. I’m meeting with the production crew tomorrow.” I went on to tell her what I knew, which wasn’t much.