Chapter 5 - The Harbor Bookstore Sanctuary
The salt air of Newport, Oregon, tasted like rain, cedar, and deep, ancient oceans. Amy pulled the rental sedan up to the curb of a weathered three-story brick building situated right along the working harbor. A faded wooden sign swinging gently above a green-paned shop window read: Gull & Page Antiquarian Books.
True to Claire’s word, the brass key was hidden precisely where she had promised—tucked behind a loose brick near the side service door marked Apartment 2B.
Amy climbed the narrow, creaking wooden staircase carrying her single suitcase, her muscles aching slightly from the cross-country journey, but her mind remarkably clear. When she unlocked the door and stepped inside, she let out a long, shuddering breath. The apartment was a writer’s dream and a minimalist’s haven. Sunlight poured through large, double-hung windows overlooking the bustling docks where fishing boats bobbed rhythmically against the gray swells. A worn leather armchair sat beside a towering shelf of classic literature, a small cast-iron stove stood ready in the corner, and a simple iron bed was dressed in crisp white cotton quilts.
It was quiet. Not the suffocating, padded silence of a luxury Manhattan penthouse, but a living, breathing silence filled with the cries of distant gulls and the low, mournful foghorns of the Pacific.
That evening, Amy walked down the wooden stairs and explored the ground-floor bookstore. The bell above the door chimed cheerfully as she entered. The shop was tended by an elderly, silver-bearded man named Mr. Abernathy, who looked up from behind a towering stack of leather-bound nautical journals, peering at her over the rim of half-moon spectacles.
“You must be Claire’s friend from New York,” the old man said, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. “She called me day before yesterday. Said you needed a place where the Wi-Fi is spotty and the air is thick enough to breathe.”
“I do,” Amy smiled, resting her hands gently over her slightly rounded abdomen. “Thank you for letting me stay, Mr. Abernathy. I can help sort inventory or manage the register if you need compensation beyond the rent.”
“Nonsense, child,” the old man chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. “A bookstore on the coast doesn't need workers; it needs ghosts and good listeners. Make yourself at home. The kettle is always hot in the back.”
Over the next two weeks, Amy settled into a rhythm that felt entirely foreign to her former existence. She woke up with the sunrise, brewed loose-leaf black tea, and sat by the harbor window watching the trawlers head out into the mist. She walked along the rocky shore, collecting smooth sea glass and polished pebbles. She ate simple meals of locally caught salmon and crusty sourdough bread from the bakery down the street.
May you like
For the first time since she had discovered she was pregnant, the persistent knot of anxiety in her stomach began to loosen. She bought a small notebook from the stationary shop next door and began sketching out nursery ideas, writing down names she liked, and chronicling her changing body without the looming shadow of a man who treated family like an item on an overflowing spreadsheet.
She was healing, cell by cell, tide by tide. But back in New York, the foundation of Daniel Harrison’s empire was beginning to crack under the weight of his own sudden, frantic desperation.
