Chapter One
Ihang the hand-painted “Open” sign on my shop door and take a deep breath. Pine and sea salt fill the crisp December air. Outside, Seacliff Haven is getting ready for the holidays. White fairy lights twinkle from every storefront along Harbor Street, and red velvet bows hang from the old lampposts. I can hear carol singers practicing near the town gazebo, their voices mixing with the crash of waves against the seawall.
My black Giant Schnauzer, Finn, presses his nose against the glass door, fogging it with his breath. He spots Mrs. Bruce walking her dachshund, Mustard, across the street.
“Just a minute, buddy,” I tell him, adjusting the coastal-themed wreath made of driftwood and sea glass on my door. “You can say hello to Mustard after I finish setting up.”
Finn responds with a soft grumble that I’ve come to recognize as his “but I’m being patient” protest. I smile and run my fingers through his wiry black coat. His very pepper-colored eyebrows give him that perpetually thoughtful expression.
“Marnie Lane, guardian of beach treasures and spoiler of serious dogs,” I mutter to myself as I return to my workbench.
My shop, Driftwood & Décor, sits just two blocks from the shoreline. It used to be my father’s marine conservationoffice. The transformation from environmental headquarters to artisan shop happened three years ago, after Dad passed away unexpectedly. I inherited the building and his devotion to the sea—particularly the smooth, salt-worn pieces of wood that wash ashore after storms.
Today’s task demands my full attention: finishing my annual contribution to the Seacliff Haven Christmas Market auction. Each year, I create a signature piece to benefit the local marine conservation fund—Dad’s legacy. This year’s creation is my most ambitious yet: a three-foot driftwood star, meticulously assembled from pieces Dad and I collected during our final beach walks together.
I run my fingers along the smooth contours of the central piece—a curved length of maple that had once been part of an old sailing vessel, or so Dad claimed. His stories hovered somewhere between fact and coastal legend, but that was part of his charm. The townspeople of Seacliff Haven still talk about Samuel Lane with reverence. He was the environmental warrior who kept developers from turning our little slice of Rhode Island paradise into a row of impersonal condominiums.
The bell above my shop door jingles. Finn trots across the room with surprising grace for his size as Klara Hodge enters.
“My goodness, Finn! Still the most handsome gentleman in town,” Klara laughs. She’s balancing a cardboard tray with two large to-go cups. “I come bearing gifts, so please don’t knock them to the floor with those impressive paws of yours.”
Klara owns K’s Korner Kafé next door. Our morning coffee ritual has been intact since I opened my shop. Finn circles Klara regally as she navigates toward my workbench. Her silver-streaked hair is pulled back in a messy bun, and flour dusts the front of her apron.
“Peppermint mocha with extra whip,” she announces, placing one cup beside my tools. “You look like you needed theextra sugar boost today. That star is coming along beautifully, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say and accept the cup. The first sip sends warmth through me. “I was up until two working on it. The auction’s only four days away, and I still need to secure these outer points and add the sea glass accents.”
Klara leans in to examine the star. Her reading glasses are perched on the tip of her nose. “Samuel would be proud, honey. It captures everything he loved about this place.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly. “That’s the idea. Each piece comes from a specific beach walk we took together that last year. This one,” I point to a silver-gray fragment, “is from Lighthouse Point, the day we spotted that family of seals.”
“I remember you two coming into the café afterward, soaking wet and laughing about how one of the seals had splashed you.” Klara smiles. “He always said you had his eye for finding treasure in what others would dismiss as junk.”
“Driftwood whispers stories if you know how to listen,” I quote. It was Dad’s favorite saying, one he’d repeat as we’d comb the beaches after winter storms.
Klara squeezes my shoulder. It’s a comforting gesture I’ve come to rely on more than I’d like to admit. “Well, this star is going to fetch a pretty penny at the auction. Half the town is already buzzing about it.”
“Including Sid Gillespie, I assume?” I can’t keep the edge out of my voice.
Klara rolls her eyes. “Sid stopped in for coffee this morning. He mentioned that his piece for the auction is, and I quote, ‘going to make everyone forget Marnie Lane’s sentimental trinkets.’”
Irritation rises in my chest. Sid Gillespie, owner of The Lighthouse Gallery and my chief rival in all things driftwood, has been trying to outshine me since I opened my shop. Hiselaborate sculptures certainly draw attention, but they lack the connection to Seacliff Haven’s spirit that I try to infuse in every piece I create. At least, that’s what I tell myself when his prices soar above mine.
“Let him try,” I say with more confidence than I feel. “This isn’t about competition. It’s about Dad’s legacy.”
Finn’s deep bark pulls our attention to the front window. Outside, a group of volunteers hang garlands along the streetlamps. They’re preparing for tomorrow’s official holiday lighting ceremony.
“The market setup begins tomorrow morning,” Klara reminds me and finishes her coffee. “Ned’s already baking those gingerbread lighthouses that sold out in an hour last year, and Bea’s ordered special edition coastal Christmas mysteries for her booth. This year’s going to break records, mark my words.”
“I hope so. The conservation fund could use the boost.” I rise from my workbench and stretch. My lower back is tight. “Dad always said December was make-or-break for fundraising.”
Klara gathers her empty cup and heads toward the door. “Don’t work too hard, Marnie. Come by for lunch later—I’m testing a new clam chowder recipe.”
“We’ll be there,” I promise. I glance at Finn, who perks up at what he correctly interprets as the prospect of food.
After Klara leaves, I return to my star. I carefully attach small pieces of cobalt blue sea glass to the points where the driftwood sections meet. The glass catches the morning light streaming through my window and sends tiny blue reflections dancing across the shop walls. Finn settles on his cushion in the corner. Sometimes I still can’t believe I ended up with a Giant Schnauzer - not exactly your typical beach dog - but his alert, watchful eyes miss nothing. Perfect for a beachcomber’s companion.
Outside, Seacliff Haven continues its holiday transformation. Monica from the Beachcomber’s Boutique arranges a windowdisplay with mannequins dressed in holiday sweaters adorned with sequined seahorses. Tommy Fields, the curator of our lighthouse museum, directs a small team hanging a massive wreath on the town hall façade. Even Dawson Morrow, Dad’s former business partner and owner of Shoreline Antiques & Curiosities, has emerged from his typically cluttered shop to hang a modest string of lights around his door.
