Chapter 4 #2
The cozy mystery was open—the one her editor had been asking about, stuck at seventy-five percent and stalled for three months. Six of these books behind her. Quirky sleuth, small town, body in the first chapter, suspects with secrets, resolution by page three hundred.
She read the last paragraph she'd written. Then read it again.
A sentence. Another. A third.
Highlighted. Deleted.
Her fingers found the new document button before she'd made a conscious decision.
Just to clear her head, she told herself. To shake loose whatever was stuck.
And something else entirely poured out.
A woman facing a forest that shouldn't exist, rising where the field abruptly ended.
Two moons overhead, one silver, one the color of old copper.
Magic that moved through the trees like water, visible if you knew how to look.
The woman didn't know how to look, not yet, but she could feel it against her skin, waiting to be noticed.
And then, inevitably, a man appeared. Dark-haired, sharp-tongued, saying one thing and meaning three others. He stepped out of the tree line like he'd been waiting for her, which he probably had.
The sentences came faster than they had in months. Page one became page two became page three, and when Jen finally looked up, an hour had passed.
She went to the counter for another iced latte. The barista smiled like she recognized a fellow creative mid-breakthrough. Jen took her drink back to the table and kept writing.
Scrolling back to the beginning revealed three pages of work that felt nothing like obligation.
Not the book she was supposed to write. Not even the genre. Her agent repped cozy mysteries. Her brand was tea and cats and bodies discovered in quaint village settings. And yet here it was—romance and magic and a world she hadn't known was waiting.
She saved the file. Named it "DON'T DELETE" because she knew herself well enough.
She was still looking at the document when she felt someone watching her.
A scan of the coffee shop, and she found him immediately.
Corner table, near the back. Brown hair that needed cutting, stubble that suggested forgetfulness rather than style.
Laptop open, coffee cup long empty, a paperback splayed face-down beside him, a sci-fi novel with a spaceship on the cover.
He wore a faded T-shirt with a logo too cracked to read, what might have been a venue name once.
His fingers moved across the keyboard in bursts—urgent, then stopping, then starting again.
Between bursts, he'd pick up his phone and tap at it, or stare at the screen like he was trying to hear something that wasn't there.
Then back to typing. Then the paperback—a few lines, set it back down. A reset.
When he paused, his eyes swept the room. Found her.
Jen looked away first. Pretended to read her screen. But she kept tracking him from the corner of her eye. She noticed his hands, long fingers, calluses at the tips.
He was back to typing. Whatever he was working on had him the same way her new document had her—consumed, struggling, racing to capture it before it disappeared.
The "DON'T DELETE" file. Another paragraph. Then another.
The man in the corner kept typing.
Two more hours passed. When she packed up to leave, he was still there, coffee cup finally refilled, paperback now closed, posture looser than before.
Their eyes met as she passed his table. He raised two fingers off the laptop, a small salute, the kind you give a fellow traveler. She returned it.
No words exchanged.
But Jen left knowing she'd be back at that table tomorrow. And wondering if he would too.
Carrie arrived at the farmer's market as vendors were starting to pack up.
Excursion Park had transformed for the morning. Tents lined up along the paths, the late-morning crowd already thinning as noon approached.
She wandered through what remained. Strawberries picked up and put back, picked up again. Lettuce she didn't need, radishes she'd never cook with, a jar of local honey that caught her eye.
At the far end, one tent was still fully set up. Saltmeadow Farm, the hand-painted sign read. Wooden crates of vegetables in neat rows. Behind the table stood a woman around sixty—silver hair in a loose braid, dirt under her nails, deep tan lines at her collar.
"Still shopping?" the woman asked as Carrie approached.
"Just looking. I think I overbought at the other tables."
The woman laughed. "Happens to everyone. First market of the season?"
"First for me."
A satisfied nod. "You'll learn the rhythm. Different things come into season as the weeks go by. July, you'll want the tomatoes and corn. August, the peppers and melons."
Carrie picked up a zucchini, dark green and firm, smaller than the supermarket kind. "These are gorgeous."
"Best time of year for them." The woman leaned against the tent post. "I'm Marge. My husband and I started the farm forty years ago. He's back loading the truck. We're the last ones here most weeks."
"I'm Carrie."
"You look like you needed to get out of the house." Marge said it matter-of-factly, no judgment.
Carrie laughed, surprised. "Is it that obvious?"
"I've been doing this a long time. You learn to read people." Marge started bagging the zucchini. "If you want a break while you're here—somewhere to get out of your own head—we do tours of the farm. Nothing fancy. Walk through the fields, see how things grow. Some people find it grounding."
"That sounds nice."
"Come alone or bring people. Either way." A scrap of paper with an address and phone number. Marge handed it over with the bag. "Hope I see you out there."
Carrie made her way through the emptying market, produce in one hand, Marge's address in her pocket.
The farm. Twenty minutes inland, away from the beach and the house. A place where things grew because someone had planted and tended and waited.
Maybe she'd go.
Lori found the bookstore by accident.
She'd been walking without destination.
Tidewater Books sat between a fudge shop and a place selling beach chairs, easy to miss. The windows held summer reading displays: beaches and lighthouses and women in flowing dresses gazing at oceans.
Inside, it smelled like old paper and dried herbs. Shelves packed floor to ceiling, organized with what seemed either careful curation or cheerful chaos. A handwritten sign near the front said Fiction A-M and pointed left.
She started in fiction and lost track of time.
Books came off shelves, first pages got read, most went back. She wasn't searching for anything specific.
"Can I help you find anything?"
A man at the end of the aisle, watching her with genuine curiosity rather than retail obligation. Early fifties, thick hair in a ponytail that somehow worked. Faded Fleetwood Mac T-shirt. Glasses he pushed up his nose while waiting for her answer.
"Just browsing," Lori said.
"Best way to do it." He smiled and didn't leave. Instead, he stepped closer, scanning the spines near where she'd been browsing. "What have you been gravitating toward?"
"A little of everything." She held up the book in her hand, a woman on the cover walking into fog. "This one caught my eye."
He tilted his head to read the title. "Beautiful sentences in that one. Not much plot, takes its time. Some people find it slow."
"And you?"
"I loved it." He reached past her and slid another book from the shelf. "But if you want more momentum—this. Same depth, quicker pace. The ending stayed with me for weeks."
Lori looked at the cover. A house half-swallowed by ivy, a single lit window.
"I haven't heard of this."
"Small press, came out last year. The author did a reading here." He tapped the spine. "I try to stock things you won't find at the airport."
"Is that your niche?"
"One of them." He extended his hand. "John. I own the place."
"Lori."
"Take your time, Lori. I'll be up front if you need me."
He returned to the register, and Lori watched him go.
The usual retail exchange—forced cheer, the upsell, transaction dressed as conversation—she'd been ready for that. This hadn't been that. He'd been curious without agenda. Genuinely interested.
Another half hour of wandering, books accumulating in her arms. When she brought them to the register, John was finishing with another customer.
He turned to her. "Solid choices."
"You're persuasive."
"Occupational hazard." He scanned the books, movements calm and measured. "If you're around, I host a speaker series. Local voices—authors, historians, anyone with a good story about this place. Next one's later this week."
"I might check that out."
"You should. It's usually a full house."
Lori took the bag. "Thanks for the recommendations."
"Anytime."
She walked out into the afternoon.
The beach club was exactly what Brittany had expected—white lounge chairs in precise rows, a pool that belonged in a magazine, a bar serving twenty-dollar smoothies to people who didn't flinch at the price.
Her job was front desk and cabana rentals. Check members in, answer questions, maintain the smile. She'd worked a juice bar, a summer doing register at a boutique, but the beach club operated on different rules. These weren't customers. They were members. The distinction mattered here.
A few hours in, she was logging a rental when someone spoke up beside her.
"First day's always the longest."
The bartender. He set a bottle of water on the counter. "Figured you could use this."
"Thanks." She took it. "Brittany."
"Ryan." He leaned against the edge. "Let me guess. You're questioning all your life choices and wondering why you signed up for this."
She laughed. "Is it written on my face?"
"Everyone has that look their first day. It fades by week two." He gestured at the pool deck. "Members seem intimidating, but most of them just want to feel important. Treat them like they matter and they tip well."
"Noted."
A woman in oversized sunglasses approached and asked about the spa schedule, her tone suggesting Brittany should already know. Brittany smiled, found the answer, delivered it calmly. The woman left without thanking her.
Ryan watched her go. "Mrs. Everett. Never tips over ten percent and once sent back a margarita because the salt was 'uneven.'"
Brittany snorted. "Uneven salt."
"I wish I was kidding." He straightened up. "You handled that well, though. She's not easy."
"Customer service isn't new to me. Just the clientele."
"That's the trick." He started back toward the bar. "Same skills, different tax bracket."
The rest of the shift passed in a blur of check-ins and questions and the constant effort of keeping her face pleasant. But it felt slightly less impossible than it had that morning.
When she grabbed her bag to leave, Ryan was restocking glasses behind the bar. He looked up, met her gaze, and raised his water bottle. Same way he'd brought her one earlier. A callback.
She gave a small nod and headed out.
Tom's car was in the driveway.
Meredith sat for a moment, groceries in the passenger seat, trying to figure out what she felt.
She'd been out most of the afternoon. Grocery store, wine shop on Landis, a stop for batteries they probably didn't need. She'd still bought groceries for the house, but no one had texted her a list, no one had asked what time dinner would be ready. Just her, moving through a day.
And now Tom was here, three days early, without warning.
She grabbed the grocery bags and headed inside.
The living room was crowded. Sophie perched on the sectional arm, beaming. Jen leaning in the kitchen doorway. And at the island, grinning like he'd just executed a heist, was Tom.
"Hey, stranger." He crossed to her and took the bags. "Surprise."
She hugged him. "Why didn't you tell me? How long can you stay?"
"Weekend at least. Maybe longer if things stay quiet." He kissed her forehead. "Moved some showings around. You've been handling the contracts and listings from here, so I figured the team could spare me for a few days."
Sophie launched into a recap of her first day—Diane, the training, the reservation system, the news that Ethan had gotten hired at the same restaurant. Tom listened, asked questions, laughed where appropriate. He slipped into the space without effort, as he always did.
The evening unfolded easily. Pizza from DeNunzio's, eaten on the deck while the sky cycled through its colors. The teenagers scattered to their corners of the house. The adults lingered with drinks, conversation moving comfortably among people who knew each other well.
Tom sat beside Meredith on the loveseat, his hand on her knee. A story about work—a client who'd lowballed an offer, then acted shocked when the sellers countered at full ask—and everyone was laughing.
Meredith laughed too. She'd always been able to do that, even when her mind was elsewhere.
Later, after the deck emptied and Meredith stood alone at the railing, she let herself feel what she'd pushed down since walking through the door.
She'd been different here. Easier. She hadn't realized how much until Tom appeared in the kitchen and she felt herself pulling back into the familiar shape.
She loved him. That wasn't in question.
What unsettled her was harder to name. A restlessness she couldn't explain. Someone she'd started becoming here, in these few days, who didn't quite fit the contours of her marriage.
The pool glowed below. Beyond the dunes, the ocean kept its steady pull. Inside, Tom was asking Carrie about the farmer's market, his voice drifting through the screen door.
Meredith stayed at the railing until her breathing slowed.
It didn't disappear entirely. She hadn't expected it to.
She went inside. Kissed her husband. Pretended she wasn't still trying to understand what any of it meant.