Page 8 of At First Spark
I feel steady then. The nerves from this morning burn off somewhere between the tones dropping and the hiss of water on hot sand.
I look down at the gloves in my lap, then back out toward the road opening ahead of us. For the first time since I woke up, there’s no argument in my head. No question about whetherI belong in the truck, in the station, in this thing we built from almost nothing.
I do.
Mac drives with one hand on the wheel, the radio low, the town approaching in pieces again—the marina first, then the line of shops, then the sleepy stretch of Main where the day is only just beginning for everyone else.
Beside me, the silence doesn’t feel heavy anymore. It feels earned.
Chapter Two – Lark
I don’t cry when I cross the town line. It’s meaningless to anyone else. But I hold on to it anyway, fingers tight on the steering wheel, jaw locked, sunglasses on even though the light keeps shifting in and out behind the clouds. The sign for Coral Bell Cove comes into view on the right, painted on wood, in the sea air, and with the sort of coastal charm people spend too much money trying to recreate in places that will never feel like this.
No tears. No breakdown. No dramatic pause on the shoulder while I stare out at the water and think about how I’ve somehow ended up here—twenty-eight years old, driving alone into a town where I know almost no one, taking on a restoration project that feels less like a career move and more like a dare I’m making to the universe.
I did not come here to fall apart. I came here because my father wanted this inn. Left me a trust with enough money to afford the property. Because the last time we spoke about it, he stood in our kitchen with his tie loosened and blueprints spread across the table, and said, "This one matters, Lark."It has bones. It just needs someone patient enough to see past the rot.
Then he died before he could touch it. And somehow, in the years since, that one unfinished want has lived in me like a splinter. The Carrington House Inn.
My name is on the deed now, after months of legal wrangling and one humiliating conversation after another with people who spoke to me as if I were chasing something sentimental rather than making a business decision.
My father’s dream, reduced by everyone else into proof that I couldn’t let go. Maybe I can’t. Maybe that’s the point.
The road curves closer to the water, and the bay flashes silver between the buildings as I drive deeper into town. Storefronts line the main stretch—weathered clapboard, neat signage, hanging baskets already crowded with spring color. The whole place looks like it belongs in one of those magazines my mother used to leave on the coffee table, the ones full of white kitchens and reclaimed beams and the lie that if you styled a room beautifully enough, nobody would notice the people inside it were unhappy.
Coral Bell Cove is prettier than I expected. That annoys me. I would’ve preferred it to look rougher around the edges. More visibly worn. A little less capable of getting under my skin.
I adjust my grip on the wheel and glance at the passenger seat. The folder sitting there is thick enough to be irritating—permit forms, photographs, contractor contacts, the sale agreement, my father’s old handwritten notes tucked into the front pocket because I cannot seem to stop carrying them with me even when I know every line by heart.
I should have brought less. I also should have packed lighter, eaten something besides half a protein bar three hours ago, and stopped answering my mother's calls two months ago. Life is full of suggestions I don’t follow.
My phone buzzes in the cup holder. I don’t need to look, I already know. Still, my eyes flick down before I can stop them.
Mom
I let it ring. The vibration stops, then starts again almost immediately. I laugh once under my breath. There’s no humor in it. The third call never comes. Instead, a text banner slides across the screen.
Mom:
You need to let me know you arrived safely.
I stare at the road ahead and say nothing.
Another banner appears before the first one has fully faded.
Mom:
And please tell me you reconsidered staying on that property. A hotel is more sensible.
A tighter laugh leaves me this time. Sensible. That word has followed me for six years. It showed up in every conversation after my father died. Every boardroom meeting Michael led. Every cautious suggestion from my mother, dressed up as concern and handed to me as if it were wisdom, instead of surrender.
It would be more sensible if Michael handled the larger commercial accounts.
It would be more sensible if you took some time before making any permanent decisions.
It would be more sensible not to tie yourself emotionally to one building, Lark.
Somewhere along the way, sensible became the polite word for small. For manageable. For letting everyone else decide what your grief should look like because your version made them uncomfortable.
