Chapter 2 — Return to Pine Cove

Sophie

The winding coastal road stretched ahead of Sophie Bennett like a frayed ribbon unraveling toward an uncertain future. To her right, the Atlantic stretched vast and gray under a sky thick with clouds that refused to break. The salty air seeped into her old sedan, its scent mingling with the faint tang of coffee lingering in her travel mug. She gripped the steering wheel tighter, her knuckles pale against the chipped blue paint of her nails, as the first weathered sign for Pine Cove appeared on the roadside.

She didn’t slow down, not yet. The urge to turn around tugged at her, insistent and sharp. But the road behind her—the years behind her—didn’t offer much to go back to. Liam’s voice echoed in her mind, urging her to give Pine Cove another chance. She wasn’t sure she agreed with him, but her options had dwindled to a single, winding path. “You’ll find your footing there. You always loved the quiet,” he’d said. The quiet, maybe. But it wasn’t the quiet that scared her. It was the memories.

Pine Cove came into view in pieces, as though the town were piecing itself together just for her. First, the spire of the church poking above a cluster of pines. Then the pastel clapboard houses lining the main street, their neat facades softened by creeping ivy and flower boxes that seemed to have grown wilder since she’d last been here. Sophie’s chest constricted as the town square emerged, flanked by the library and the independent bookstore she’d once slipped into after school to lose herself in stories of faraway places. It looked smaller now, as though the years had shrunk it. Or maybe that was just her—a woman who had seen too much, carried too much, to fit back into the place she once called home.

She passed the diner where she and Liam used to split milkshakes after school, her gaze lingering on the familiar red-and-white awning. The sight was a strange comfort, though it was quickly followed by a pang of regret. Would it feel the same inside? Could she walk in without the weight of the years that had come between her and the people she’d left behind?

The road dipped, and Sophie braced herself as the turnoff to Jake Miller’s property came into view. The guesthouse she’d be staying in was tucked behind his house, she knew, though she hadn’t laid eyes on it in years. Her brother Liam had insisted this was the right arrangement—a fresh start in a quiet place where people kept their heads down and let the past stay buried. She wasn’t sure she believed him, but a small part of her wanted to. Jake’s name floated through her mind, unbidden, bringing with it a flicker of curiosity. She hadn’t seen him since Sarah’s funeral. Would he recognize her? Would he care?

Her car bumped over the gravel driveway, the sound of tires crunching stones mingling with the call of seagulls overhead. And then she saw it: the guesthouse.

It was smaller than she remembered, though she doubted she’d paid much attention to it growing up. The paint on the wooden siding was peeling, the pale yellow now faded and weathered, almost gray. Wildflowers had overtaken the small yard around it—dashes of purple and yellow and white sprouting up through tufts of overgrown grass. The sight struck a chord in her, an echo of something she couldn’t quite name. Like the house, she felt faded and forgotten, yet the wildflowers hinted at resilience, a quiet reminder that even neglected things could bloom again.

Sophie parked the car and stepped out, the breeze lifting strands of her auburn hair from its messy bun. She hesitated, taking in the uneven shingles of the roof, the crooked shutters around the windows. It felt like the house had been holding its breath for years, waiting for someone to notice it again.

The key Liam had given her felt heavy in her hand as she approached the door. The lock turned with a groan, the door creaking open to reveal the interior. Dust motes swirled in the sunlight streaming through the cracked curtains, which hung limply over the windows. The faint smell of salt and damp wood lingered in the air, though it was undercut by the dryness of disuse.

Her shoes scuffed against the uneven floorboards as she stepped inside, her breath catching slightly. The furniture was sparse and mismatched, the upholstery faded and threadbare. A small kitchen was tucked into one corner, its countertops clean but worn. She ran her fingers along the edge of the counter, her touch stirring up a faint layer of dust.

She dropped her bags unceremoniously in the center of the room and let out a slow breath. The silence of the place was almost overwhelming, its stillness vibrating in her ears. It would take time—time and effort—but she could make this place hers, at least for now.

The first thing Sophie unpacked was her sketchbook. She couldn’t explain why, but holding its familiar weight in her hands steadied her. She flipped it open, running her fingers lightly over the smudged edges of old drawings. Animals, forests, and the occasional lighthouse filled its pages—all remnants of the life she’d tried to build far from Pine Cove. A life that had crumbled anyway.

She set the sketchbook aside and began exploring the house. Her steps led her upstairs, where two small rooms branched off a narrow hallway. One held a bed with a sagging mattress and a dresser that tilted slightly to one side. The other door led to an attic. Sophie hesitated, her hand resting lightly on the doorknob.

The attic was dim, lit only by a small circular window set high into the wall. She had to duck slightly as she stepped inside, the low ceiling pressing down around her. Boxes were stacked haphazardly along the walls, their edges softened by years of dust. One box in particular caught Sophie’s eye—it was smaller than the rest, its lid slightly askew. She crouched beside it and lifted the lid, her breath hitching as she pulled out a small framed painting.

The image was familiar: a lighthouse standing firm against the backdrop of a stormy sea. The brushstrokes were bold but precise, the colors vivid with emotion. Sophie’s fingers brushed against the edge of the frame, her chest tightening as memories surfaced unbidden. Her mother had painted this. She’d spent hours in the attic of their old house, bent over her easel with the same focused determination Sophie now poured into her own sketches.

Her mother’s voice came to her, soft and clear: “Find the light, even in the storm.” It had been a favorite saying of hers, one Sophie hadn’t thought of in years. She swallowed hard, guilt and longing tangled in her chest. She’d spent so long running from her past, from the family and love she hadn’t known how to hold onto.

Sophie set the painting aside, wiping at her eyes before the tears could fall. She hadn’t expected this—a piece of her mother waiting here, hidden in a forgotten corner of this little guesthouse. She exhaled shakily and rose to her feet, taking the painting with her as she descended the stairs.

Back in the main room, she propped the painting on the mantle, its presence a small but significant claim on the space. She rolled up her sleeves and set to work, unpacking her belongings and rearranging the furniture. The hours ticked by as she cleaned, her movements growing more purposeful with each task. By the time the sun began to dip toward the horizon, the space felt less like a relic of the past and more like a blank canvas, ready to be painted with something new.

As the light softened, Sophie stepped outside, clutching her sketchbook and a pencil. She wandered toward the cluster of wildflowers surrounding the guesthouse, their colors muted in the golden hour. Sitting cross-legged in the grass, she began to sketch, her pencil moving in deliberate, fluid strokes across the paper. She drew the flowers first, their petals unfurling in careful detail. Then she added the guesthouse, its crooked shutters and peeling paint somehow endearing on the page.

She paused, staring out at the horizon where the sea met the sky. The wind tugged at her hair, carrying with it the sound of distant waves. It was different here—quieter, slower. But maybe that was what she needed.

Sophie’s pencil hovered above the page, and then she began to sketch something new: a figure standing beside the guesthouse, tall and solid, his features vague but unmistakable. Jake Miller.

She didn’t let herself think too hard about it, didn’t question why her mind had drifted to him. Instead, she continued drawing, letting the shapes and lines guide her. The wind shifted, and for the first time since her arrival in Pine Cove, Sophie felt something like hope stir in her chest.

The guesthouse wasn’t perfect. Neither was she. But maybe, just maybe, they could both be salvaged.