"Oh, he left out plenty if he didn't mention race week," the clerk, whose name tag read April, said with a knowing chuckle. "This is one of our biggest weeks of the year. The whole town transforms. But don't worry, there are still quiet spots if you know where to look."
As if on cue, Bree's stomach let out a prolonged, embarrassingly loud growl that seemed to echo off the lobby's high ceiling. The sound was so unexpected and so thoroughly undignified that both women froze for a moment before bursting into laughter.
Bree's hand flew to her belly, her cheeks flushing pink. "Oh God, I'm so sorry. I guess it's been longer than I thought since I've eaten. I was so focused on just getting here that I forgot to stop for dinner."
"I've got just the thing for you." April's eyes lit up with the enthusiasm of someone who took genuine pleasure in small acts of kindness. She practically bounced on her toes as she disappeared through a doorway behind the desk marked “Employees Only.”
The brief solitude allowed Bree a moment to sag against the counter, the polished wood cool against her palms. She was here. She'd actually done it, driven all those miles alone, pushed through the fear and uncertainty, and arrived at this place Blake had promised would help her heal.
Mere seconds later, April reappeared, carrying something that made Bree's mouth water instantly. The chocolate chip cookie was enormous, easily the size of her palm, and still warm enough that wisps of steam rose from its surface. The chocolate chips glistened, not quite fully set, promising that perfect balance of crispy edges and gooey center.
"Our cook is getting ready for breakfast and comes in at one o'clock in the morning to start baking," April explained. "This is literally fresh from the oven, maybe five minutes old. Martha makes the best chocolate chip cookies on the eastern seaboard, and I'll fight anyone who says otherwise."
The aroma hit Bree full force: butter, vanilla, dark chocolate, and something else, something that reminded her of home, of better times, of her sister's kitchen on Sunday mornings. Her stomach responded with another audible complaint, and this time her blush deepened to crimson.
"My name is April, by the way," the clerk said, extending her hand across the counter. "April Morrison. Nice to meet you officially."
"Bree." She shook April's hand, noting the firm grip and the calluses that suggested this woman did more than just work the desk. "Oh, but you know that already. Sorry, I'm hungry and tired, so I guess I'm not thinking clearly. My brain feels like it's running on fumes."
She picked up the still-warm cookie and inhaled deeply. The first bite was transcendent, the perfect combination of textures and temperatures, the chocolate melting on her tongue, the slight saltiness enhancing the sweetness. It was, quite possibly, the best thing she'd eaten in months.
"No need to apologize," April said gently, seeming to sense the deeper exhaustion beneath Bree's travel weariness. "Three a.m. arrivals are always a little disoriented. It's like being in a different dimension, not quite night, not quite morning, somewhere in between. That's why we keep the cookies coming. Martha says sugar and chocolate can cure almost anything, at least temporarily."
Bree gathered her key card and paperwork, the cookie already half-devoured despite her best efforts at restraint. "Thank you, April. Not just for the cookie, but for being so welcoming. I'm sure I'll be seeing you around while I'm here."
"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.
