“I haven’t written a word since she died.” He looked out at the water. “Every time I try, I remember how she used to be my first reader, how she’d curl up in her favorite chair with my latest chapters.” His voice cracked slightly. “I just can’t seem to find the words anymore.”
The blue heron took flight, spreading its wings wide as it disappeared around the curve of the shoreline. Mark stared after it, as if he wanted to flee with the majestic bird.
“I’m so sorry,” she said again softly.
He turned to her and smiled slightly. “Thank you. I know she’d want me to move on. To find a life without her. I just haven’t figured out how yet.”
“These things take time. Sometimes it takes us a while to figure things out when life throws us a big curve we weren’t expecting.”
He nodded.
She watched the water lap at the shore, giving him a moment with his thoughts. The breeze rustled through the oak leaves above them, creating dancing shadows on their picnic blanket. She understood loss—maybe not the same kind, but loss nonetheless. The way it hollowed you out and changed your whole world.
“I’m sorry you’re having such a hard time finding your words again. Sometimes we need a fresh perspective, a new place to help us see things differently.” She smoothed a wrinkle from the blanket. “Maybe being here on the island will help.”
He picked up another strawberry, this time taking a small bite. “I hope so.” He gazed out at the water. “My agent keeps calling, asking about the next book. But every time I sit down to write…” He shook his head. “The words just aren’t there.”
“Give yourself time. The island has its own rhythm, its own pace. Sometimes slowing down helps us find what we’ve lost.”
“I hope you’re right.” He finished the strawberry. “Sarah would have loved this place. The quiet, the wildlife, even this little cove.” A small smile touched his lips. “She always did prefer the hidden gems to tourist spots.”
She watched as a pair of sandpipers scurried along the water’s edge on thin legs that moved in quick steps. “I think I would have liked your Sarah.”
He smiled at her. “I think she would have liked you, too.”
“Well, you’re welcome to stay here on the island as long as you need,” she said. “Sometimes finding our way back takes longer than we expect.”
Chapter9
The next morning, Mark settled into the weathered balcony chair, his leather notebook open. The tiniest germ of an idea for a new story had seeped into his mind in the shower this morning. Not much yet, but at least the seed. Just a whisper of possibility, but still a possibility.
He took out his fountain pen and let it hover over the blank page, then slowly began to write. His pen scratched against the paper, leaving behind a trail of hesitant words. Then a few more. He picked up the pen and stared at the words on the page. Dark ink against cream paper. The sight looked so familiar, and yet so foreign. The familiar loops of his handwriting filled the once-empty page, yet reading the words, he felt like an interloper who discovered someone’s journal.
He stared at the words he’d written, doubt creeping in. Was this idea good enough? Could it sustain an entire novel? He’d had countless ideas over the past two years, but none had taken root. They’d all withered away, leaving him with nothing but frustration and blank pages.
But this idea… it nagged at him, refusing to let go. He picked up his pen again, jotting down a few more notes. The setting came into focus. A small coastal town not unlike this one. The main character began to take shape—a woman with a mysterious past who kept to herself.
As he wrote, the story started to unfold in his mind. Plot points, twists, and turns. And then, like a bolt of lightning, the perfect villain appeared. A character so complex and multi-layered that his hand flew across the page, desperate to capture every detail before it slipped away.
He wrote furiously, filling page after page with notes, character sketches, and snippets of dialogue. The villain’s backstory, motivations, and secrets poured out of him, as if the character had been waiting in the wings all along, just waiting for Mark to bring him to life.
When he finally set down his pen and notebook, he leaned back in his chair, a sense of accomplishment washing over him. For the first time in years, he felt the familiar spark of excitement that came with a new story. The doubts that had plagued him for so long began to slowly recede, at least a little bit.
As he closed his eyes, savoring the moment, he swore he heard Sarah’s voice whispering in his ear. “Way to go,” she seemed to say. “I knew you could do it.”
A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. Sarah had always believed in him, even when he doubted himself. She’d been his biggest cheerleader, his most honest critic, and his unwavering support. Losing her had been like losing a part of himself, and for a long time, he’d wondered if he’d ever be able to write again.
But now, sitting on this balcony with the sea breeze blowing his hair and a new story taking shape in his mind, he felt a glimmer of hope. Maybe, just maybe, he could find his way back to the writer he’d once been. And maybe, in the process, he could honor Sarah’s memory by doing what he loved most—telling stories that touched people’s hearts with mysteries that kept people guessing until the very end.
With renewed resolve, he opened his eyes and reached for his notebook once more. He had a lot of work ahead of him, but for the first time in ever so long, he was ready to face the blank page. And somewhere, he knew, Sarah was smiling down on him, cheering him on every step of the way.
Chapter10
For the next week or so, Darlene found herself taking a bit more time off and going on long walks with Mark. He accompanied her on the ferry to the mainland when she needed to do a larger shopping trip to restock items for the B&B. They often sat out on the porch after she served drinks and snacks to the guests for happy hour. They talked about their lives, their childhoods, their favorite foods. Slowly, she got a glimpse into the man he was before he lost his wife. An easy smile here and there, a laugh, a slight spryness to his step.
Tonight he sat with her in the front room as she knitted, while they both enjoyed an after-dinner glass of wine.
Her fingers moved deftly, the soft click of her knitting needles punctuating the comfortable silence. She glanced up at him, noting the pensive expression on his face as he swirled the wine in his glass.
