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Over coffee, our conversation flowed easily. Lucia asked thoughtful questions and listened intently as I shared my passion for writing and my hopes for inspiration in Pebble Point.
As we chatted in the lounge, memories of my childhood dream of becoming an author bubbled. Ever since I could hold a pencil, I wanted to create worlds with words. In elementary school, I filled up notebook after notebook with stories about magic and adventure. My father encouraged me, even hanging my short stories on the refrigerator. But as I grew older, doubts crept in. The road to publication seemed long and daunting. Now, sitting across from Lucia and seeing the compassion in her eyes as I described my writing ambitions, I felt that long-buried hope rekindling. Her interest revived my creative spirit and gave me confidence that this small beach town would be the muse I needed to write my novel.
Though we had only just met, I felt an immediate bond with Lucia. Her gentle guidance reminded me of my late father, while her witty humor kept the mood light.
I hesitated, unsure if I should continue. But Lucia’s kind eyes and warm demeanor made me want to open up.
“Can I...confide something in you?” I asked tentatively. Lucia nodded, leaning in.
“Well, you see, the thing is...Alexander and I have a past. Well, we almost had a past. He was my dad’s best friend, but nothing romantically happened between us. Still, there was this spark, you know?”
Lucia raised her eyebrows but stayed silent, waiting for me to continue.
The words tumbled out in a rush before I could stop them. “I mean, we never dated or anything. But we were close before I left Pebble Point.” I paused, old memories flooding back. “Alexander was my dad’s best friend. We used to talk for hours about books and life, especially after Dad died.”
I smiled wistfully at the recollection. “He really understood me, you know?” My smile faded. “But now, being back here around him, I just feel confused.” I furrowed my brow, emotions churning within.
“One minute, I’m totally professional, and the next, I remember how he made me feel back then.” I shook my head, exhaling sharply, worried I had revealed too much to Lucia. We were colleagues now, after all, and these were such unprofessional thoughts. But Lucia just smiled kindly, her eyes crinkling with empathy. She reached out and gave my hand a reassuring squeeze. “It’s alright, dear. Matters of the heart are always complicated.” Her voice was soothing. “I’m here to listen without judgment.”
I nodded gratefully, feeling understood. Maybe opening up was exactly what I needed.
“It’s only natural to have complicated feelings given your history,” she said. “Just remember that the past and presentare different. Follow your heart, but also your head.” Her eyes twinkled with humor. “And if you need advice, I’m here.”
I laughed, feeling silly for being embarrassed. Her words comforted me more than she knew.
We spent the rest of the break chatting lightly about books and authors. Lucia’s witty commentary on the drama of publishing was a delight. I was still glowing from our heart-to-heart when I returned to my office. Lucia made me feel like I could handle my messy feelings for Alexander. I thought I could turn to her not just as a mentor but also as a friend.
***
As the day wound down, I sank into my office chair, letting out a deep sigh. My first day at Pebble Point Publishing had been a whirlwind of fresh faces, inside jokes, and more than a few amusing mishaps. As I glanced around at the compact, book-filled office, I felt myself smile. This was certainly a far cry from The Chronicle newsroom’s hectic open floor plan and constant clatter.
Here, people chatted over coffee, traded funny stories, and actually got to know one another. Alexander’s and Henry’s hilarious tales of college pranks over lunch came to mind, bringing another chuckle. Even my minor wardrobe malfunction yesterday had led to warm laughs rather than embarrassment.
Despite the slower pace, I felt stimulated differently by the passion for stories pulsing through every corner of this tiny publishing house. The excitement of helping authors bring their creative visions to life. This was a place where I could grow not just as a marketer, but also as a writer.
My reverie was interrupted by a knock at the door. Clara popped her head in. “Don’t get too comfortable there yet,rookie,” she said with a wry smile. “We may move a little slower here in Pebble Point, but we still have big ambitions.”
I laughed as I gathered my things. “Thanks for the warning. I’ll try my best to keep up with the breakneck speed of publishing in Pebble Point!” Clara and I exchanged smiles as we walked out.
“Have a lovely weekend, Etta, and see you on Monday,” Clara said warmly. “Oh, and welcome home.”
Exiting into the sunset, I inhaled the subtle fragrance of ocean air. For the first time in years, a sense of being precisely where I belonged enveloped me. While Pebble Point may not rival the bustling metropolis of San Francisco, it exuded potential—both for the town and for me. As I leisurely strolled home, anticipating a restful night before my next small-town adventure, one thing remained clear: this place held a few surprises yet to be unveiled. And I couldn’t wait to uncover them.
Chapter 7
I drew in a deep breath of the fresh morning air as I stepped onto the front porch, savoring the peace that Saturday mornings in San Francisco never brought. The sunrise cast a warm glow across the sleepy neighborhood of Pebble Point, and I could hear the distant crash of waves coming from the shore.
It had been a lifelong habit of mine to rise early, even on weekends, and I decided to take advantage of the solitude to reacquaint myself with the old haunts around town. I set off down the sidewalk, my worn-in sneakers comfortable and familiar against the pavement.
The short walk to Pebble Point Park was one I had taken countless times as a child, though it had been years since my last visit. A wave of nostalgia washed over me as I entered through the iron gates. The towering oaks, gently curving paths, and wooden benches weathered by decades of use were all just as I remembered.
I wandered slowly, noticing subtle changes. New flower beds added splashes of color, while playground equipment had beenupdated and improved. But the spirit of the place remained - I could almost see my younger self racing across the grass, kite in hand.
I paused on a bench near the pond, taking in the view. Ducks glided across the shimmering water as a light breeze rustled the leaves above me. It was so peaceful, especially compared to the constant bustle of the city. I realized how much I had missed the chance to sit and reflect.
I sat on the weathered park bench, looking out over the tranquil pond as the morning sun glittered across the water. This spot held a special memory for me - it was where Alexander and I had sat together five years ago, just days before I left Pebble Point for San Francisco.
I smiled wistfully as I recalled that evening under the stars. We had talked for hours, sharing our hopes and dreams. I confided my ambitions of becoming a journalist, scared to leave the safety of home but hungry for new experiences. Alexander had spoken of his desire to turn his passion for literature into a career, unsure if he could make it a reality.
