Series Unveiled

The “attic apartment” turned out to be three steps past adorable and one ceiling fan short of a concussion. But it had a bed, a coffee maker, and a view of the ocean — if you squinted past the neighbor’s inflatable flamingo.

I unpacked quickly, or at least opened my suitcase and stared at it while Clarabelle tried to eat a tissue. Then I wandered the space, checking outlets, peeking in the tiny bathroom with its vintage tile and clawfoot tub. It was the kind of place that could grow on you. Like salt in your hair. Or sand in your sheets.

Downstairs, Marnie insisted on a “welcome walk” — her words, not mine — through the neighborhood. It turned out to be less of a walk and more of a rolling meet-and-greet. We stopped every ten feet so she could introduce me to everyone from her favorite UPS driver to a woman who once won third place in a pierogi bake-off.

We passed a trio of retirees painting a fence, all of whom waved like they were conducting a symphony in slow motion. Then came the retired librarian who still shushed people in public, and a guy with a kayak on a trailer who seemed to think stop signs were just beach-themed suggestions.

Clarabelle was a hit. Sort of. One woman mistook her for a squirrel in a harness and screamed. Another offered her a meatball from a doggie treat cart that had apparently popped up since I left town.

“Is that cart legal?” I asked.

Marnie shrugged. “Define legal.”

The shops along Main Street were exactly how I remembered — quirky, weathered, and weirdly timeless. The Driftwood Press still had that rusted bell over the door. The post office still smelled like cedar and rubber bands.

Eventually, we reached the Cozy Cup Café, where we were offered a table outside, a cinnamon roll, and a full rundown on who divorced whom, who opened a juice bar no one liked, and which high school math teacher disappeared for six months and turned up living in a yurt in Vermont.

Clarabelle, riding in her sling bag like a tiny celebrity, got more attention than I did.

“Don’t let Harriet see that dog on the Promenade,” Marnie warned, sipping her cold brew. “She’s head of the Beautification Committee and thinks fur is a crime against concrete.”

“I thought dogs were allowed?”

“Only after September,” Marnie said. “But rules are like seagulls here. They flap around a lot, but nobody pays attention unless they steal your lunch.”

Fueled by caffeine and gossip, we wandered deeper into the Cove like we owned it.

I hadn’t meant to go looking. This was supposed to be a break — two weeks of sand, sleep, and salty air after the collapse of my high-powered job and the CEO who came crashing down with it. No suits. No stress. Absolutely no major life decisions.

But Sea Isle Cove had other plans.

A two-story, yellow stucco structure just off the beach caught my eye. The lower level had once been a bakery — Sugar & Sand — its faded sign barely clinging above a crooked door. The windows were dusty but mostly intact. A weathered awning drooped like it had given up.

A crisp, white FOR SALE sign was staked in the sand near the porch. Too new for the rest of the building. The kind of sign that goes up fast when heirs want to be done with something.

The upstairs apartment had its own entrance — a narrow staircase hidden behind dune grass and a leaning hydrangea.

I stood there a long time.

I could see it.
The bakery restored.
Morning light pouring through clean glass.
The smell of cinnamon in the air.
Me, upstairs, barefoot. Windows open.
Starting over.

It hadn’t been on the market long. Just listed, from what I’d heard. Mr. Cavanaugh — who’d owned it forever — had passed away the week before. His nephew, some guy from Philly, put the property up for sale almost immediately.

The idea rooted itself before I could stop it.

I wasn’t here to make decisions.

But the building didn’t care.

It waited.

By sunset, I was full of scones, speculation, and nervous anticipation — the good kind. The kind that means something’s about to begin.

Back upstairs, I stood at the window, peanut butter jar in one hand, Clarabelle trying to climb my shoulder like a parrot.

This wasn’t my plan. Not even close.

I’d left behind a great job that imploded under a wave of corporate scandal, a CEO who didn’t survive it (long story), and a city that never stopped buzzing long enough to breathe.

What I came here for? Still figuring that out.

But the sea air was working.

Clarabelle curled up on my pillow like she paid rent and let out a satisfied sigh.

And for the first time in a long time, so did I.