Chapter 3 — Coastal Refuge

Bridget

The soft crunch of gravel beneath the car tires was the first sound Bridget noticed as they rolled to a stop. She stayed seated for a moment, her hands clutching her bag as her heart thudded with a mix of nerves and exhaustion. When the driver opened her door, sunlight spilled into the car, warm and almost startling after the icy chill of Manhattan. She stepped out cautiously, her feet landing on the uneven cobblestones. The air carried a gentle saltiness, mingled with citrus and the faint warmth of freshly baked bread. It was a stark contrast to the cold steel and shadowed streets she'd left behind, and for a moment, the weight of the past months eased from her shoulders.

The street was alive with texture and movement, a vibrant juxtaposition to the hollow stillness of the penthouse. Flowerpots brimming with geraniums spilled over windowsills, their reds and pinks vivid against the whitewashed walls of the buildings. Children’s laughter echoed faintly from somewhere nearby, while the rhythmic chime of church bells rolled through the air, steady and timeless. Bridget inhaled deeply, letting the scents and sounds wash over her. She pressed her hand briefly against the locket resting beneath her jacket, the cool metal grounding her. For a moment, it caught the sunlight and gleamed faintly, the etching on its surface intricate and almost mysterious. She ran her thumb over it absently, a flicker of wonder cresting before it was replaced by her usual guarded thoughts.

“Señora, ¿necesita ayuda?” The driver’s polite question pulled her from her reverie. She nodded, murmuring a soft “Gracias” as he handed her bag over.

Her gaze settled on the small inn before her. The sunflower-yellow shutters glowed warmly in the sun, and the wooden sign swinging gently above the door read *Casa Solita*. It wasn’t grandeur, but it was inviting, with a promise of simplicity she hadn’t felt in a long time. A woman emerged from the doorway, her apron dusted with flour and her cheeks glowing as if she had just stepped away from a stove.

“¡Bienvenida!” the woman greeted, her voice warm and lilting.

Bridget hesitated before managing a smile. “Gracias,” she replied softly, her Spanish tentative but careful.

The woman’s smile widened, and she motioned Bridget inside. Her room was modest—lace curtains spilled sunlight onto the tiled floor, soft patterns shifting over the walls. A small, worn armchair rested in the corner, and a balcony overlooked the street below. Placing her bag on the bed, Bridget drifted toward the balcony like a leaf carried by the breeze. From here, she could see the terracotta rooftops tumbling toward the shimmering blue coastline. The horizon seemed endless, a vast expanse of possibility.

Her fingers brushed the railing, and she closed her eyes briefly, breathing in the sea air. The enormity of her decision caught up with her then: she had left Manhattan. She had left everything she had once thought would be her life. Her hand instinctively moved to her stomach, pressing gently. “It’s just us now, Ethan,” she whispered, her voice catching. The name felt heavy and light all at once—a promise and a hope. She opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the day. The road ahead was uncertain, but she would walk it for him.

Later, hunger and curiosity pulled her out of her room and onto the cobblestone streets. The sun had climbed higher, casting a golden light on the whitewashed houses. A street musician strummed an upbeat tune on a guitar, his foot tapping against the stone as a small crowd gathered to watch. The scent of roasting almonds wafted from a cart nearby, and Bridget paused to buy a paper cone of them. The vendor, an older man with a wide smile, handed them to her with a nod of thanks. The warm nuts in her hand felt comforting, a small indulgence in a life that had been anything but easy recently.

As she wandered, she noticed small, tender moments of life unfolding around her. A shopkeeper playfully tousled the hair of a laughing boy. Two elderly women shared a bench, their hands moving animatedly as they spoke. It was a world of connection, of softened edges and open warmth. Bridget’s chest tightened as she watched the scene unfold in a small square, where children splashed their feet in the basin of a stone fountain. She pressed her hand to her stomach again, the yearning rising sharply within her. Could she give Ethan this? A life where joy, trust, and kindness were constants?

Her wandering feet carried her toward a café. The sign above the door read *Café de la Brisa,* and the air was thick with the scent of roasted coffee and something sweet. Bridget hesitated at the threshold, her fingers brushing the doorframe. The space hummed with life—soft laughter, the clink of cups, the scrape of chairs against stone floors. It was inviting, but for a moment, the idea of stepping into that warmth made her feel exposed. She almost turned away.

But then she remembered the promise she had made to herself: to rebuild, to open herself to something new. She took a quiet breath and stepped inside.

The café was quaint and alive with charm. Wooden tables, worn from years of use, gleamed in the sunlight streaming through the windows. The chairs were mismatched, their eclectic colors and designs giving the space a sense of carefree authenticity. Along the walls hung framed photographs and vibrant paintings, each piece telling its own story. Behind the counter, a chalkboard menu listed offerings in looping chalk script: *tarta de limón,* *café con leche,* and other specialties. The air buzzed softly with the warmth of conversation and the distant hum of a coffee grinder.

“¡Hola! ¿Primera vez aquí?” came a voice, bright and warm. Bridget glanced toward the counter, where a man with sun-kissed skin and smiling brown eyes stood. His dark hair was slightly unruly, and the sleeves of his linen shirt were rolled up, revealing forearms dusted with flour.

“Sí. Acabo de llegar… hoy,” she replied hesitantly, her Spanish stumbling slightly.

The man’s smile widened, and he switched easily to English, his accent curling around his words like sunlight on water. “Then welcome. You’ve found the best café in town—though I might be a little biased.”

There was a lightness to his tone that eased the tightness in her chest. She allowed herself a small smile. “I’ll take your word for it. What do you recommend?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, then gestured toward a golden pastry in the display case. “The lemon tart. It’s my specialty. That and a café con leche—it’s practically an unwritten rule here.”

Bridget felt the pang of hunger again, sharper now. “That sounds perfect.”

As he prepared her order, his movements were practiced but unhurried. “I’m Sein, by the way. Owner, chef, and sometimes waiter, depending on the day,” he said with a playful grin. “And you?”

“Bridget,” she said quietly, her fingers brushing the warm ceramic cup he slid toward her.

“Well, Bridget,” Sein said, leaning slightly on the counter, “I hope this is the first of many visits. And if you ever need recommendations, directions, or just someone to chat with, you know where to find me.”

His sincerity caught her off guard, making her throat tighten. She nodded, murmuring a soft “Thank you” before finding a seat by the window.

The tart melted on her tongue, its bright lemon flavor offset by a subtle sweetness, and the coffee was rich and comforting. Bridget let herself relax, just a little, sinking into the chair as the hum of life in the café surrounded her. She touched the locket beneath her jacket again, her fingers resting on its well-worn surface. She watched Sein move through the café, chatting with customers and laughing with a child who had spilled his drink. There was something grounding about him, a quiet ease that seemed woven into the space itself.

“Good, yes?” Sein’s voice startled her, and she realized he had come to stand by her table, a towel slung over his shoulder. He gestured to her empty plate, his smile teasing. “I’ll take that as a yes.”

Bridget smiled faintly, nodding. “It was perfect. Thank you.”

He inclined his head, his tone softening. “It’s good to see someone new in town. I hope you find what you’re looking for here.”

The words lingered long after he moved away. Was she looking for something? She wasn’t sure. But here, in this warm, mismatched café, she felt a flicker of hope—a fragile, precious thing she hadn’t felt in what seemed like forever.

By the time she left, the sun was beginning to set, casting the buildings in hues of gold and pink. The cobblestones glowed underfoot, and the distant sound of waves whispered promises of peace. Tucking her hands into her jacket pockets, she brushed her fingers against the locket. It felt warmer now, as if it, too, had soaked in the sun.

When she climbed the stairs to her room and closed the door behind her, Bridget rested her hand gently on her stomach. The promise of this place—its warmth, its simplicity—felt like enough. For the first time in months, she let herself breathe.