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I let my mind drift back over the day. Despite the bittersweet departure from my San Francisco life, I was surprised by how quickly Pebble Point’s familiar embrace had settled my nerves. Well, most of them.
There was still one thing—or one person—on my mind. Professor Alexander Fairmont.
I shook my head, dispersing the swirling thoughts. For now, focus on settling back into life here. The rest will come in time.
Standing up with a groan, I stretched my stiff limbs and ambled to the front door. The day’s fatigue was really hitting me now. I was looking forward to sinking into my cozy bed.
Inside, I quickly washed up and changed into an oversized sleep shirt. Sliding between the cool sheets, I was reminded of the countless nights I’d slept in this room growing up. So much was still the same, yet I was returning as a different person.
As my eyes drifted closed, a small smile crossed my lips. This felt right. I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Chapter 4
The morning sun streamed through the kitchen window, casting a warm and hopeful glow that enveloped the room. Taking a moment to appreciate my first breakfast back home, I felt gratitude for George, who had thoughtfully stocked the fridge with fresh local produce. The sweet fragrance of Pebble Point strawberries wafted through the air as I prepared a humble yet gratifying meal—avocado toast adorned with a perfectly cooked sunny side up egg, accompanied by a medley of berries, all delicately seasoned with a sprinkle of chili flakes.
The first sip of coffee was pure comfort, transporting me back to leisurely weekend breakfasts with my dad. I browsed on my phone as I ate, stumbling upon a job posting that immediately caught my eye - Marketing Coordinator at Pebble Point Publishing House. I had always dreamed of working in publishing, and the opportunity to do so in my hometown felt serendipitous.
I applied on a whim, not expecting much. But within minutes, a chat message popped up from Clara, the hiring manager. Tomy delight, she invited me for an interview that very afternoon! My nerves bubbled up, but I typed out a quick confirmation, thrilled by the prospect of this new direction.
Too nervous to finish my breakfast, I pushed it to one side and rushed upstairs, suddenly panicking that I wouldn’t have a wrinkle-free outfit from being crammed into a suitcase. I stood in front of my closet, sifting through options. I wanted an outfit that struck the right balance between professional and approachable. A navy blazer felt too stuffy. The floral sundress is too casual. I settled on a gray sheath dress paired with low heels and a string of pearls - classic and formal enough. I laid the outfit on the bed and found myself compulsively rehearsing potential interview questions out loud.
“Tell us about yourself,” I said to my reflection.
“Well, I’m an experienced writer and avid reader who adores getting lost in stories, much like I used to get lost in the stacks of the town library as a child!” I replied with an exaggerated smile. Too cheesy, I thought.
I tried again. “My greatest strengths are my ability to work efficiently under pressure and my passion for language and storytelling. For instance, just yesterday, I wrote a riveting expose on the corrupt practices of a local parking meter manufacturer that had readers on the edge of their seats!”
I stood under the warm spray of the shower, letting the water soak my curls as I mentally prepared for the interview. “So, Etta, what makes you the ideal candidate for this position?” I asked for my shampoo bottle, giving my best dazzling smile despite the suds running down my face. “Well, not only do I have over five years of experience as a writer and storyteller, but I’m also intimately familiar with this charming seaside town, having grown up right here in Pebble Point!” I continued my ridiculous rehearsal as I lathered up my loofah, imaging the hiring manager nodding approvingly.
After toweling off, I squeezed some minty toothpaste onto my brush, glancing at my foggy reflection in the mirror. “Impress me with one of your story pitches,” I commanded myself in my best serious interviewer voice. “Okay, how about this?” I garbled through a mouthful of foam. “A rollicking romance where a plucky small-town girl and a dashing sea captain get caught up in a treasure hunt and island adventures and find unexpected love along the way!” I chuckled at my silly pitch, spitting into the sink.
I had two hours until the interview, so I wanted to look polished and professional. I liberally applied leave-in conditioner to tame my curls into a tidy low bun, brushing any flyaways into submission. Moving on to my face, I massaged in a vitamin C serum, hoping its brightening properties would make me look alert and refreshed. As a clay mask hardened on my skin, I searched through my Spotify playlists until I found the right track. As “Roar” by Katy Perry blared out my phone’s tinny speakers, I shimmied around the bathroom as I applied toner and moisturizer. The final touch was a swipe of rose-tinted lip balm and a sweet, floral perfume spritz.
Finally, it was time to get dressed. I stepped into the gray sheath dress, smoothing it over my hips, and secured the string of pearls around my neck just as Pink’s “Raise Your Glass” started to play. A quick inspection in the mirror confirmed I looked professional yet approachable - perfect for a publishing house interview. With a deep, calming breath, I gathered my clutch bag, gave myself an encouraging wink, and headed out the door toward this exciting opportunity.
***
I took a deep breath and pushed open the dark wooden door, stepping into the lobby of Pebble Point Publishing. Despiteliving in this small coastal town my whole life, I had never once set foot in the old converted Victorian that housed the publishing house.
The cozy reception area embraced me with its warm amber glow from antique wall sconces. The faint scent of aged paper and coffee enveloped my senses. It was a far cry from the sterile fluorescence of The Bay Chronicle’s lobby.
I glanced around, taking in the rows of bookcases brimming with manuscripts and leather-bound first editions. Framed book covers adorned the walls in an artful mosaic of titles and authors. A pair of worn leather armchairs flanked a round table stacked with literary magazines.
It felt less like a place of business and more like an extension of someone’s home, lived-in and brimming with stories. My nerves settled as nostalgia washed over me. Perhaps this interview marked a new beginning, bringing me full circle back to my love of books and writing.
The reception desk sat empty. I walked over and pressed the polished brass bell. It let out a cheerful ding that seemed to bounce playfully off the dark, wood-paneled walls.
I checked my watch. Ten minutes early. Plenty of time to take in the surroundings that already felt more inviting than my stark cubicle at The Chronicle ever did.
I turned at the sound of brisk footsteps to see a slender woman in a gray suit striding towards me. She looked to be in her mid-forties, with sleek black hair styled in a no-nonsense bob that grazed her shoulders. Her piercing blue eyes and angular features gave her an air of sharp intelligence. She stood tall, her posture impeccable, accentuating her lithe frame.
“Can I help you?” she asked crisply, her perfectly arched eyebrows lifting in inquiry as she stepped behind the desk.
I straightened, suddenly self-conscious. “Yes, I’m Etta Harwood. I have an interview at eleven for the marketing coordinator role.”
The woman glanced down at a leather-bound planner, running a manicured nail down the page.
“Ah yes, Etta. Welcome,” Clara said briskly as she glanced down at her planner.
