He got the idea from another tourist he met on our honeymoon. That person had fallen in love with Saltspray Coveand decided to buy a holiday home here, encouraging him to do the same.
I still love this town, but now it feels too carefully arranged, almost like a glossy brochure come to life. It doesn’t feel like a place where people actually live. Maybe that’s the point. Towns like this might exist just for making memories before we return to our real lives.
Avenues lined with palm trees lead to the marina, where expensive white yachts sit in neat rows. One of them is calledSecond Chance. That’s exactly what I need.
I observe luxury SUVs speed past boutiques with floor-to-ceiling windows. Inside, designer clothes, shoes, and genuine leather handbags cost more than some people’s rent.
After wandering for a while, I end up at an upscale open-air market. The organic produce is stacked in perfect pyramids, looking more like museum pieces than food.
I sigh when I see a couple in horse riding gear laughing under a striped umbrella. I miss when Gabriel and I laughed together.
Staff in crisp white aprons offer silver trays of samples, speaking in quiet, polite voices. No one shouts prices or haggles here. The atmosphere is carefully maintained in a place where money is rarely a problem.
I turn down an offer of truffle pecorino at the cheese stall. Instead, I pick up a small cup of imported strawberries, some fresh lemons, heirloom tomatoes, and a loaf of sourdough from a pop-up bakery tent.
The woman at the register gives me a brown canvas tote with the store’s logo on it. Her bright-blue silk scarf shifts as she moves. “Thank you so much,” she says, waving as a tennis bracelet of small diamonds catches the light.
As I leave the market, the streets open up, bordered by perfectly trimmed hedges and olive trees imported from places far away.
Soon, I reach a playground that looks like it belongs in a design magazine. There are climbing frames made of pale wood, slides with matte metal finishes, and huge canvas sunshades over the rubber flooring.
On stone benches, several au pairs scroll through their phones, hardly glancing up at the children they are meant to watch.
I stare at mothers pushing swings, and children chasing each other across the grass, shrieking with laughter. Their sounds of joy feel like a gut punch.
Other mothers in oversized sunglasses push strollers that cost more than a small car.
Watching them all feels like pressing on a bruise.
I was a mother once. I still am.
I remember the weight of Sadie in my arms after twelve hours of labor. I remember her first day of preschool, her fingers locked around mine, tears streaming down her face as she begged me not to leave.
I remember the pride and pain of her first day of real school, how she stood a little straighter but still glanced back to make sure I was watching.
And I remember when she started pulling away. When she fought me. When she wanted independence so badly it felt like rejection. When I hardened, mistaking control for protection. When I told myself tough love was real love.
Thinking back to the photo I received, I force myself to continue believing that my daughter is still out there, alive and waiting for me to find her, so we can have a second chance.
I leave the park before doubts set in.
“IamSadie’s mother,” I whisper to myself. That doesn’t end because she disappeared.
I wipe my eyes with the back of my hand and tilt my face up toward the sky. It’s a rich blue today.
Is she seeing this same sky? For my own sanity I have to believe that photo is real. Anyway, who would do this? Who would go to the effort of staging a photo, printing it, writing those words, and mailing it?
That wouldn’t just be a prank. That would be unspeakably cruel.
On my way back to the car, I stop short in front of a flower shop I recognize. One of my favorites.
Maison des Fleurs.
Gabriel bought me a bouquet here on the first day of our honeymoon. I dried the petals and kept them for years. I’m almost certain they’re still in a box somewhere, buried beneath things neither of us are ready to throw away.
I stand there now, staring through the window. If not for the photograph, I would be buying roses. Peach roses for the funeral.
Unable to stop myself, I walk inside, and my fingers trace the petals, velvet-soft, alive with color. My mind fights viciously, listing reasons why the photo could be fake. It’s been six months with no body, and no proof.
