"I work nights all week, midnight to eight, so I'm your girl if you need anything during the vampire hours." April's smile was warm and genuine, the kind that reached her eyes and crinkled the corners. "And Bree? Welcome to Copper Moon Beach. Something tells me this place is exactly what you need right now, even if you don't know it yet."
As Bree headed toward her car to retrieve her luggage, April's words echoed in her mind. The night air was thick with salt and possibility, the sound of waves a distant whisper beneath the hum of crickets and night birds. She paused, looking out at the moon-painted water once more. The copper moon that gave this place its name hung low and full, casting its unique light over everything, transforming the ordinary into something magical.
Her artist's eye caught the play of shadows and light, the way the moon's reflection created a pathway across the water that seemed to lead directly to the horizon. Tomorrow, she promised herself, she would paint this. She would capture this moment of arrival, of transition, of stepping from one life into something unknown.
The handle of her suitcase was cool against her palm as she pulled it from the trunk, the wheels clicking rhythmically against the pavement as she made her way back to the lobby. Through the windows, she could see April back at her computer, probably preparing for the next late-night arrival. But the woman looked up as Bree passed, offering a small wave that somehow felt like a promise of friendship.
In her room, 208, ocean view, Blake had splurged; Bree didn't even bother to fully unpack. She kicked off her shoes, letting them land wherever they fell, and collapsed onto the bed fully clothed. The last thing she saw before exhaustion claimed her was the copper moon through her window, watching over her like a benevolent guardian.
For the first time in a year, since that horrible day when the doctor had delivered the diagnosis that would change everything, Bree fell asleep without crying. The half-eaten cookie sat on her nightstand, a sweet reminder that even in the darkest hours, kindness could be found in the most unexpected places.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, she knew. Tomorrow she would have to face the blank canvas, the grief that painting sometimes brought to the surface, and the reality of being alone in a strange place. But tonight, with her belly finally quiet and the taste of chocolate still lingering on her tongue, she could rest.
The sound of the waves through her cracked window became a lullaby, and somewhere in that space between waking and sleeping, Bree could have sworn she heard her sister's voice on the salt breeze: "You're going to be okay, Bree. You're finally going to be okay."
Chapter 3
The first tendrils of dawn were painting the sky in shades of coral and gold when Bree Spencer's eyes fluttered open. She lay there for a moment, disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the weight of the hotel comforter, the sound of waves that had replaced the suburban traffic she was accustomed to. The digital clock on the nightstand glowed 5:17 a.m., and despite having only slept for two hours, she felt more rested than she had in months.
Perhaps it was the sea air, or maybe it was the lingering sweetness of April's cookie still coating her tongue, but something had shifted in the night. The crushing weight that had been her constant companion for the past year felt lighter somehow, as if the salt breeze had begun to erode its edges.
Sitting up, Bree stretched, her spine creating a satisfying series of pops that echoed in the quiet room. She padded to the window on bare feet, the plush carpet soft between her toes. Her fingers found the heavy curtains, and she pulled them back slowly, squinting in anticipation of the brightness.
The sunrise hit her like a physical force, all that copper and crimson light reflecting off the water in a display that made her artist's heart leap. She had to close her eyes against the intensity, seeing spots dance behind her eyelids like tiny fireworks. When she opened them again, more carefully this time, starting from the windowsill and gradually lifting her gaze, what she saw took her breath away.
The beach stretched out before her, pristine and perfect. Someone had raked it during the night, creating neat parallel lines in the sand that looked like an enormous zen garden. The water was a living canvas of light, each wave capped with copper foam that sparkled like scattered pennies. Not a soul moved on the beach; even the seabirds seemed to be sleeping in. The entire town looked drowsy and peaceful, as if it hadn't quite decided whether to wake up yet.
"Bryn," she whispered, her breath fogging the glass slightly. "I see why you loved it here. It's absolutely beautiful."
The tears came then, but they were different from the bitter, angry tears she'd been crying for months. These were soft, almost grateful. Her sister had tried to tell her about this place, had shared stories from her honeymoon here with Charlie, describing the way the morning light transformed everything it touched. Bree had thought it was just newlywed romanticism, the tendency to see the world through rose-colored glasses when you're drunk on love and possibility. But standing here now, she understood it was simply the truth.
She swiped at her eyes with the back of her hand and turned toward the bathroom, suddenly eager to get outside and capture this light. Her fingers were already itching for a brush, her mind automatically mixing colors: burnt sienna with a touch of cadmium orange, perhaps a hint of gold ochre for the highlights on the water.
She dressed quickly but carefully, choosing cream-colored capri pants that Bryn had bought for her last birthday and a soft-blue sleeveless button-up blouse that had been Bryn's. The clothes still smelled faintly of her sister's favorite fabric softener, a small comfort she wasn't ready to wash away. She unpacked the items she'd been too exhausted to unpack last night. She heard her mother's voice: "A cluttered space means a cluttered mind, girls." It brought a smile to her lips.
Stepping out of her room, she made her way to the elevator, then through the lobby, where April was still at her post, looking remarkably fresh for someone who'd been working all night. They exchanged waves, April's smile bright despite the early hour.
Outside, the morning air wrapped around her like a cool, salty embrace. She popped the trunk of her car with the key fob, the electronic chirp seeming too loud in the morning quiet. Her painting supplies were organized in the trunk with the same meticulous care she applied to everything: canvas in protective sleeves, her paint tote with each tube in its designated spot, her easel folded neatly and compact.
She gathered her supplies, the familiar weight of them comforting in her arms, and headed across the road toward the beach. Her leather sandals made soft whisking sounds against the pavement, then transitioned to a gentle swoosh as she stepped onto the sand. The breeze played with her newly shortened hair, the bob cut swaying and tickling her neck in a way she still wasn't used to. She'd cut it three weeks after the funeral, needing to change something, anything, to mark the transition from before to after.
Looking down the beach, she noticed something odd. The meticulously raked section ended abruptly, giving way to smooth, hard-packed sand that looked almost like concrete. The texture difference was striking; soft and groomed on one side, compressed and worn on the other. The morning waves rolled up the hard-packed section, their foam fingers reaching only a few feet before retreating back to the sea.
Her artist's eye was drawn to a rock formation ahead, its top worn flat by centuries of wind and weather. "Perfect," she whispered, already envisioning how she'd set up her easel there, using the natural platform to steady her supplies.
The beach sounds created a symphony around her: waves lapping in rhythm, birds beginning their morning songs, the distant croak of frogs from some hidden marsh. This was what Bryn had tried to describe, this sense of being held by nature, of being part of something both ancient and immediate.
Then she heard it: a sharp, mechanical roar that shattered the morning peace like a hammer through glass. An engine revving, growing louder, angrier. She turned back toward the road, frowning, waiting to see what kind of person would destroy such perfect quiet at this ungodly hour. The sound grew closer, the pitch changing as gears shifted, but she saw nothing on the road. No car, no truck, nothing.
Shaking her head at the invisible disturbance, she continued toward the rocks. She was just stepping onto the hard-packed sand, navigating around the far edge of the formation, when she saw him.
Time seemed to slow, the way it does in dreams or accidents. A motorcycle was bearing down on her, its rider leaning into the speed, the machine itself a blur of chrome and color. She had perhaps a second to process what was happening: the bike was on the beach, not the road; it was racing directly toward her; she was in its path.
She squealed, a high, frightened sound she'd never made before, and dove sideways. Her painting supplies flew from her arms as she hit the sand hard, rolling twice before coming to a stop. She could feel sand in her mouth, in her hair, coating one side of her face like gritty makeup.
The motorcycle's brakes screamed in protest, the back wheel sliding sideways, leaving a dark scar in the pristine sand. The rider fought for control, his body language speaking of barely contained disaster. Finally, impossibly, he brought the machine to a stop some thirty yards away.
But even as Bree pushed herself up on her elbows, spitting sand and trying to process what had just happened, she saw her canvas. The wind, aided by the motorcycle's passage, had caught it like a sail. It tumbled end over end down the beach, directly toward the rider who was now turning his bike around.
