Chapter 3 — A Walk Along the Coast

Ivy

The morning air hummed with anticipation, a gentle breeze carrying the scent of salt and pine through the open window of Ivy’s room. She stood at the sill, gazing out at the jagged cliffs and the restless sea beyond. The waves crashed in rhythmic bursts, their whitecaps dissolving into the rocky shore below. Despite the heaviness that lingered in her chest, Ivy felt a faint thrill at the untamed beauty of the coastline. It was raw, unpolished, and achingly different from the sharp-edged urban skyline she had grown so accustomed to.

Bag slung over her shoulder, notebook tucked securely inside, she set out for a walk along the coastal path, her boots crunching softly against the dirt trail. The path wove through dense clusters of coastal pine before opening to breathtaking views of the ocean. She had no set destination, only the hope that the walk might clear her head and perhaps spark the inspiration she so desperately sought.

Wildflowers burst in clusters of gold and purple along the trail’s edges, their delicate petals swaying in the breeze. The cry of a gull echoed in the distance, cutting through the soft rustle of branches above. The ocean stretched endlessly before her, a shifting canvas of blues and greens, mirroring the sky’s faint streaks of morning light. As she walked, Ivy ran her hand along the notebook’s worn leather cover, its familiar texture rough against her palm. For years, it had been her lifeline, but now, it felt heavier. Was it the notebook itself or what it symbolized? She couldn’t tell. Lately, her words had felt hollow—she’d been chasing stories, but maybe she’d lost sight of why she’d started in the first place.

Rounding a bend, Ivy paused mid-step, her sharp green eyes catching the familiar figure of Ethan Shaw. He was seated on a weathered wooden bench that overlooked a secluded stretch of shoreline, his back to her. A sketchpad rested on his lap, and his hand moved in deliberate strokes across the page. She hesitated, the sight of him so quiet and unguarded momentarily stopping her in her tracks. He seemed entirely immersed in his work, unaware of her presence.

Curiosity tugged at her, propelling her forward. She tread lightly, the crunch of dirt underfoot almost imperceptible. As she drew closer, she caught a glimpse of the charcoal lines on his page. It wasn’t until she saw the sweeping arcs of the waves, the jagged edges of the cliffs rendered with a raw energy that mirrored the landscape itself, that she realized he wasn’t merely sketching—he was capturing something deeper. Her gaze snagged on a detail in the corner of the sketch: the faint outline of a building that looked strikingly like Mariner’s Haven, its tall windows unmistakable even in shadows.

“You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?” Ivy’s voice cut through the stillness, her tone laced with playful curiosity.

Ethan stiffened, his hand pausing mid-stroke. Slowly, he turned to face her, his gray-blue eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing her intentions. “What are you doing out here?” he asked, his voice even but tinged with wariness. His posture straightened, the sketchpad angled slightly away from her.

“Walking. Thinking. Avoiding the temptation to email my editor and tell her I’ve hit writer’s block,” she replied, flashing him a wry smile. She motioned toward the sketchpad. “What about you? Decided to trade in the concierge routine for an artist’s life?”

He exhaled a short, humorless laugh and closed the sketchpad, his fingers lingering protectively over the leather cover. “Something like that.”

Ivy tilted her head, her gaze lingering on the pad in his hands. “You’re good,” she said simply. “From what little I saw, anyway. Do you sketch often?”

“Sometimes,” he admitted, his voice softening slightly. “When there’s time.”

“Doesn’t seem like there’d be much of that,” Ivy said, motioning vaguely toward the hotel, visible in the distance like a sentinel overlooking the sea. “Between running Mariner’s Haven and dealing with nosy journalists like me.”

For a moment, something flickered in Ethan’s expression—an almost imperceptible vulnerability that vanished as quickly as it appeared. He glanced at the hotel, his jaw tightening briefly. “It keeps me busy,” he said, his tone growing more guarded. “But the hotel’s important. It’s… more than just a job.”

Ivy studied him, her curiosity deepening. There was a weight in his words, an unspoken story she could sense but couldn’t yet tease out. “It must mean a lot to you,” she said gently, her voice dipping into sincerity. “The way you talk about it… I don’t know. It feels like there’s a history there.”

Ethan’s gaze flicked toward the ocean, as if searching its endless expanse for an answer. “It’s been part of my life for as long as I can remember,” he said finally. “My family built it, ran it. It’s not just a building—it’s… a legacy.”

There it was again, that unguarded glimpse of something deeper. Ivy felt a pang of recognition. She understood what it was to carry the weight of expectations, to feel the pull of something so much greater than oneself. “And the art?” she pressed, her tone light but her curiosity genuine. “Where does that fit in?”

Ethan’s lips quirked slightly, though the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. “It doesn’t. Not really.”

“That’s a shame,” Ivy said, her voice softening. “From what I saw, you’ve got a real talent. And it’s not just technical—there’s something… alive in your work. It’s like you’re pulling something out of the world and putting it down on paper.”

He met her gaze then, his eyes sharp and searching, as if trying to determine whether her words held any hidden agenda. “Talent doesn’t mean much if it doesn’t pay the bills,” he said finally, the corner of his mouth lifting in a self-deprecating half-smile.

Ivy returned his gaze, her expression steady. “Maybe not,” she said. “But it’s not nothing, either.”

Silence stretched between them, filled only by the distant crash of waves and the whisper of wind through the trees. Ivy felt the weight of it, the unspoken truths hovering just out of reach. She wanted to press further, to ask him about the sketches, the hotel, the guarded look in his eyes. But something held her back—an instinctive understanding that to push too hard would be to risk breaking whatever fragile connection was forming between them.

Instead, she shifted her gaze back to the ocean, letting the moment settle. “It’s beautiful out here,” she said softly, more to herself than to him. “There’s something about this place… It feels timeless.”

Ethan followed her gaze, his expression softening as he took in the view. “It’s why people keep coming back,” he said. “The town, the hotel… they hold onto something that’s hard to find anywhere else. Something real.”

Ivy nodded, her thoughts drifting. Real. It was a word that had been eluding her lately, both in her work and in her life. She’d spent so much time chasing stories, chasing recognition, that she’d almost forgotten what it felt like to truly connect—with a place, with people, with herself.

She glanced back at Ethan, wanting to say something more, something that might bridge the gap between them. But before she could find the words, he stood, tucking the sketchpad under his arm. His fingers lingered on the edge of the pad, as if reluctant to let go.

“I should get back,” he said, his tone polite but distant. “There’s always something that needs doing.”

Ivy watched him go, the breeze tugging at his sandy brown hair as he made his way down the path toward the hotel. Her gaze lingered on his retreating figure, a strange mix of frustration and intrigue swirling within her. He was a puzzle, a story waiting to be told. And for reasons she couldn’t quite explain, she felt compelled to uncover it—not just for her article, but for herself.

Turning back to the ocean, Ivy let the wind whip through her hair, carrying away the lingering traces of hesitation. There was something about this place, about Mariner’s Haven and the people within it, that felt different. As if the answers she’d been searching for might be hidden somewhere in the rhythm of the waves, in the creak of the hotel’s floors, or in the quiet sketches of a man who seemed as tied to this place as the cliffs to the sea.

With a deep breath, Ivy started back down the trail, her steps measured but purposeful. The ocean roared behind her, a steady companion. She didn’t know where the path would lead her, but for the first time in a long while, she was willing to follow it and see where it went.