Chapter 1

Gemma

The salty air hits me as I roll down the window of my rental car. It's been years since I've been back to Seabreeze Harbor, but that distinct ocean scent brings an instant flood of memories. I ease off the highway onto Main Street, where the quaint storefronts look like they've been frozen in time.

"Well, hello old friend," I murmur to the town as I drive past Molly's Bakery, where Mom used to buy me cinnamon rolls every Sunday after church. The faded blue awning flutters in the breeze, just as it always has.

The clock tower in the town square still chimes on the hour. I check my phone. Three missed calls from work and an email marked urgent. How annoying. I silence it and toss it onto the passenger seat. Not now. For once, not now.

My shoulders relax as I navigate the familiar streets. How long has it been since they weren't permanently hunched toward my ears? In New York, tension is my constant companion. Deadlines, subway delays, competitive coworkers eyeing my position, and the endless climb up the marketing ladder.

I drive past the elementary school where I once played hopscotch and dreamed of becoming a marine biologist. That was before career aptitude tests and practical considerations steered me toward marketing. Before I learned phrases like "networking opportunity" and "personal brand."

The old lighthouse comes into view, standing tall against the horizon. Mom used to tell me stories about the lighthouse keeper's daughter who saved a ship during a terrible storm. I believed I could be that brave once.

"Look at you now," I say to myself, easing the car around a bend in the coastal road. "Gemma Francis, barely keeping her head above water in the big city."

I'd never admit it to my coworkers, who think I have it all together. They see the polished exterior, the woman who nails presentations and stays three steps ahead of client demands. They don't see me collapsing onto my couch at 11 PM, too exhausted to even change clothes.

The ocean appears, vast and endless to my right. I pull over at the scenic viewpoint where Dad taught me to skip stones. The waves crash against the rocky shore, a rhythm so different from the honking horns and urgent sirens of my adopted city.

I step out of the car, the wind immediately whipping my curls across my face. I don't bother fixing them. Here, I don't need to look perfect.

"Fuck, I've missed this place," I whisper, leaning against the car hood.

Back in New York, I'm constantly racing around. To meetings, to networking events, to prove myself in an industry that doesn't always welcome women who look like me. Everyone's always watching, waiting for that one mistake that confirms their biases. My calendar is a battlefield of back-to-back appointments with barely enough time to grab a coffee between client calls. Here, time seems to expand, offering space to breathe. The minutes don't tick by with the same frantic urgency, and no one's expecting me to be anywhere but exactly where I am.

I take a deep gulp of sea air, filling my lungs completely for what feels like the first time in years. The salt clings to my skin, and I can taste the ocean on my lips. It's familiar and comforting in a way my sterile apartment never manages to be, despite all the houseplants and scented candles I've scattered around in a desperate attempt to make it feel like home.

My phone buzzes again in the car. I hear the persistent vibration against the cup holder where I tossed it. I ignore it. Probably Jake from marketing with another "urgent" request that could absolutely wait until Monday. Or maybe it's Diane wondering why I haven't responded to her wedding invitation yet. Mom's house is just around the bend, the house where I grew up, now hers alone since Dad passed. The blue shutters probably need retouching, and the garden's likely overrun with those stubborn weeds that Dad used to battle every spring.

The road curves ahead, revealing the familiar stretch of beach where I built my first sandcastle. Where I first felt the pull of dreams bigger than this small town could hold. I remember standing there at seventeen, toes digging into the sand, promising myself I'd make something of my life, that I'd build a career that would make my parents proud. That determined girl had no idea how complicated "making it" would actually be.

I never imagined I'd feel such relief seeing this place again. The place I was so desperate to escape has somehow become a sanctuary, the only spot where the constant pressure in my chest seems to ease. Maybe that's what growing up really means—learning that what you run from often becomes what you need most.

Getting back into the car, I complete the short stretch that brings me in front of my mother's home. I pull into the driveway and take in the familiar sight. The white picket fence definitely needs a fresh coat of paint, and the hydrangeas Mom loves so much are in full bloom, their blue heads nodding in the breeze. The two-story cottage with its wraparound porch looks smaller than I remember, but no less charming.

For a moment, I just sit in the car, soaking it all in. The wind chimes Dad hung years ago still tinkle in the breeze. The porch swing where I read countless books during summer breaks creaks gently.

I step out of the car and reach under the large ceramic turtle by the front steps—Mom's idea of a hiding spot that hasn't changed in twenty years. My fingers find the cool metal key exactly where it's always been.

"Some security system," I mutter, smiling despite myself.

The key slides into the lock with familiar ease. I push open the door, expecting the usual emptiness that greets me whenever I enter my apartment back in the city. Instead, the unmistakable scent of vanilla and chocolate hits me. Before I can process what this means, Mom appears in the hallway, wiping flour-covered hands on her favorite apron, the one with dancing cats that I gave her for Christmas years ago.

"Gemma! You're here!" She rushes forward, enveloping me in a hug that smells like home and comfort and everything I've been missing.

"Oh, Mom, it's so good to see you again." I drop my bag and squeeze her tight, suddenly feeling like a little girl again.

Then, she pulls back, holding my face between her palms. "You look tired, sweetheart."

"Thanks for the warm welcome," I laugh, but there's no hiding anything from her. Never could.

"Come on in. I've got chocolate chip cookies in the oven. Your favorite."

I follow her through the familiar hallway, past family photos chronicling my growth from gap-toothed child to graduation day. The kitchen is exactly as I remember. Yellow walls, the ancient refrigerator covered in magnets from places Mom has volunteered, the wooden table where I did homework while Mom cooked dinner.

"I can't believe you're baking right now," I say, sinking into my usual chair at the table. "You didn't have to do this just for me."

"Some things are worth a little work." She pulls out a tray of perfectly golden cookies. "Besides, I knew you needed them."

The simple gesture—knowing what I need before I do—brings a lump to my throat. "Thanks for letting me crash here, Mom. I just... I needed to get away from everything for a while."

She sets a plate of cookies in front of me and sits down. "Gemma Francis, you listen to me. This is your home. Always has been, always will be. You don't need permission to come back to it."

I bite into a cookie, the chocolate melting on my tongue. "New York is just so... much sometimes. The constant pressure, the noise, the competition."

"And yet you thrive there." She reaches across the table, squeezing my hand. "But I understand you, honey. Everyone needs a place to recharge."

Later, over a dinner of Mom's famous lasagna, we talk about everything and nothing. She tells me about her latest volunteer project, I share stories about my coworkers. The tension in my shoulders loosens with each passing minute.

As darkness falls outside and the crickets begin their nightly chorus, I realize what's been missing in my life. Not success or achievement, but this feeling of belonging somewhere, of being known completely and loved anyway. With my mother, I'm encapsulated by this warm, snug feeling.

But it's only temporary. In a week's time, I'll be back in New York. Back in the rat race I'm an avid participant in. I try not to think too long about that, though. It's too depressing.