She laughed softly to herself. It was the natural order of things, wasn’t it? You raise them, watch them grow, and then let them fly. But the B&B kept her busy enough, and she had her friends in town, of course. There was no need to feel sorry for herself. She wasn’t one for melancholy, anyway. Life at Bayside had taught her to embrace the ebb and flow of life.
She opened the refrigerator and took stock of what she’d need for tomorrow’s breakfast. As she jotted down a grocery list, she found herself looking forward to this evening when Felicity would surely pop in, full of stories about her day with Brent.
With a contented sigh, she finished her list and tucked it into her pocket. With the kitchen now spotless, she untied her apron and hung it on the hook behind the door. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and headed for the porch, ready to enjoy a moment of quiet before tackling the rest of her chores.
Yes, things would work out however they were meant to be. With the new inn and with Felicity and her new beau.
Chapter2
Mark Donovan stood at the foot of the steps leading up to Bayside B&B, his weathered leather suitcase clutched in one hand. He really should get a new suitcase with those fancy spinning wheels. But he hadn’t found the energy to order one before this trip.
The salt-tinged breeze ruffled his silver hair, carrying with it the distant cry of seagulls and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the shore. He took a deep breath, hoping the fresh coastal air might clear the fog that had settled over his mind these past few years.
With his ever-present weary sigh, he began his ascent. Each step felt heavier than the last, as if his writer’s block had transformed into a physical weight that dragged him down. The once-prolific author who had captivated readers with his stories now struggled to string together a simple thought, a basic sentence.
As he reached the porch, he paused to take in the quaint charm of the B&B. Weathered shingles, window boxes bursting with cheerful flowers, and welcoming rocking chairs all spoke of a simpler time. It was a far cry from his sleek, modern apartment in Portland, where every corner echoed with memories and reminded him of his creative drought.
His gaze lingered on the doorknob. He hesitated, his hand hovering inches from it. Was he really ready for this? Ready to face new people, new conversations, new expectations? The thought of introducing himself as Mark Donovan made his stomach churn. Would anyone recognize him? How long before they asked about his next book? How long before the disappointment set in when they realized he was just a shell of the writer he once was?
He shook his head, trying to dislodge the doubts that clung to him. This was supposed to be a fresh start, a chance to rediscover his passion for writing. Yet here he was, paralyzed on the doorstep, the grief and frustration of the past three years threatening to overwhelm him once again.
With another look at the welcoming sign that simply said “come in,” he took a deep breath and turned the doorknob.
The door swung open, revealing a warm, inviting interior. He squared his shoulders, summoning what little energy he had left to greet his host. He may have lost his creative spark, but he hadn’t forgotten his manners. As he stepped over the threshold, he dared to hope that this change of scenery might be the key to unlocking the stories trapped inside him.
As he stepped into the B&B, the scent of freshly baked cookies wafted through the air, mingling with the faint hint of lemon-scented cleaner. The entryway opened into a cozy living room, where a silver-haired woman set down her knitting and rose from her armchair, a warm smile spreading across her face.
“You must be Mr. Donovan. Welcome to Bayside,” she said, her voice rich with enthusiasm and warmth. “I’m Darlene Bond. We’re so pleased to have you stay with us.”
She approached him, arm outstretched. He hesitated for a split second before taking her hand in his. The moment their palms touched, a jolt of surprise coursed through him. How long had it been since he’d had such simple human contact? The warmth of her skin against his felt almost foreign, yet strangely comforting.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bond,” he managed, his voice a bit rougher than he’d intended. “It’s a pleasure to be here.”
Darlene’s grip was firm and reassuring, and he found himself reluctant to let go. When she finally released his hand, he felt an odd sense of loss.
“Oh, please, call me Darlene,” she insisted, her eyes twinkling. “We don’t stand on ceremony here at Bayside. Now, let me show you to your room. I’m sure you’d like to get settled in after your trip.”
He nodded, grateful for her easy manner. He followed her up a narrow staircase, noting the family photos that lined the walls. Happy faces beamed down at him, reminding him of a time when his own home had been filled with such warmth.
“Here we are,” Darlene announced, pushing open a door at the end of the hallway. “I’ve put you in one of our best rooms. It has a lovely view of the bay.”
He stepped inside and took in the quaint decor. A patchwork quilt adorned the bed, and lace curtains framed a large window that indeed offered a stunning view of the water.
“It’s perfect,” he said, surprised to find he meant it. The room radiated a sense of peace he hadn’t felt in years.
“Wonderful,” Darlene beamed. “Feel free to explore the grounds or relax on the porch. Breakfast is between about seven and ten. And if you need anything at all, just ask.”
As she turned to leave, he felt a sudden urge to prolong the conversation. “Mrs. Bond—Darlene,” he corrected himself, “I just wanted to say thank you for the warm welcome.”
She paused in the doorway, her expression softening. “You’re very welcome, Mr. Donovan. We’re glad to have you here.”
With that, she left, closing the door gently behind her. He stood in the middle of the room, suitcase still in hand, his laptop case slung over his shoulder, feeling oddly bereft. The silence that had been his constant companion for the past three years suddenly felt oppressive.
He set down his luggage and moved to the French doors, throwing them open and stepping onto the small balcony. He gazed out at the bay. The water sparkled in the afternoon sun, and a handful of sailboats dotted the horizon. It was a scene that once would have inspired pages of prose. Now, he only felt a dull ache where his creativity used to reside.
But as he watched a seagull swoop low over the water, he felt something stir within him. It wasn’t quite inspiration, not yet. But it was a flicker of… of something. Interest, perhaps. Or maybe just a momentary respite from the grief that had become his constant companion.
He took a deep breath, inhaling the salty air. Maybe, just maybe, coming here hadn’t been a mistake after all.
