The Art of Healing

Book 2: Coastal Dreams

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Contemporary Romance; Small-town Romance; small town romance; Second Chance Romance; small town romance series; Alexa Aston; Texas Romance; Coastal Dreams; Driftwood Bay; grieving heroine

Synopsis

Two wounded souls. One coastal town. A chance to heal together.

Keaton Maxwell has survived more than his share of hardship. After a childhood spent in foster care, he found solace in art—using paint and canvas to express the emotions he never learned to share. When a painful betrayal shatters his sense of stability, Keaton leaves the mountains of Wyoming behind and heads to Driftwood Bay, opening Gulf Coastal Gallery in search of peace and a fresh start.

Layne Larson's life unravels all at once. Her company is sold, her longtime relationship ends, and then she loses her parents—leaving her grieving, jobless, and suddenly the owner of the Bay Breeze Inn. Returning to her hometown was never part of the plan, but restoring the neglected bed-and-breakfast offers Layne a way to rebuild and reclaim control of her future.

When their paths cross in Driftwood Bay, the connection between Keaton and Layne is immediate—and unexpected. Drawn together by shared loss and quiet understanding, they find comfort in one another as they work side by side to bring the Bay Breeze back to life. Keaton's steady patience and empathy soothe Layne's fractured heart, while her strength and resilience give him hope he hasn't felt in years.

But healing isn't linear, and the shadows of the past don't fade easily.

Will fear and lingering grief pull them apart—or will Keaton and Layne find the courage to embrace the love that's growing between them and the future waiting just beyond the shore?

Meet the men and women of Driftwood Bay, a Texas coastal town where neighbors know your name and couples discover a second chance at life—and love. With quiet emotional depth and a tender, hopeful romance, Alexa Aston continues the Coastal Dreams series with a story about grief, renewal, and the courage it takes to open your heart again. The Art of Healing is perfect for readers who love character-driven small-town romances set along the coast.

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Release date: June 23, 2026

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Sample

PROLOGUE

Dallas

 

Even though it was a Sunday, Keaton Maxwell awoke at four. His body had long been tuned to rise well before the sun made an appearance. Usually, he headed for the shed in Miss Peggy’s backyard and worked for an hour. She had given him use of the shed years ago so that he had a place to paint. It was small, only ten by twelve feet, but it was a place he could create to his heart’s content.

Today, he had high hopes that he would sell some of his paintings.

He had always had an artistic bent, sketching in class when he should have been listening to his teachers. Because his attention wandered often, he had earned poor grades and had been labeled troubled. His parents hadn’t pressed him about grades because they were drug addicts. Their only interest was where their next fix came from. Keaton was some vague afterthought.

Because of that, he had grown resilient early. He fed himself with whatever he could find in the apartment or from the garbage can he scoured regularly. He’d learned to check the trash at restaurants, especially at closing time. The help dumped all kinds of things, and he reaped the benefits of what patrons had left on their plates. He also washed himself and kept his clothes as clean as he could. As he got older, he learned about the free breakfast and lunch program for disadvantaged kids. He asked someone in the attendance office for the forms when he was eight and filled them out, forging his mom’s signature.

By that time, his dad hardly ever came around. When he did, his parents fought. Not just verbally but knock your teeth out kind of fights. Keaton learned to avoid being around them when they were together because all they did was fight or get high. His big mistake had been calling out his dad when he came home after dumpster diving for dinner one night and caught the old man going through his worn backpack. Keaton kept what little money he earned in the backpack, collecting and selling lost balls from a local golf course. When he came home that night and found his dad stuffing money from the backpack into his own pocket, he lost it. He cursed at him. Tried to take the money away, knowing it would just go for the next fix. The next line of coke.

Even though his dad looked like a cadaver from his drug use, he packed a wallop of a punch. Keaton was used as a punching bag for several minutes, trying to fight back. His mom jumped into the fray, trying to steal the money while she was striking them both. Some neighbor called the cops, and the next thing he knew, he was being carted away and placed in temporary foster care. Temporary became permanent after a court case that dragged on for almost two years. His parents lost parental rights to their own flesh and blood when Keaton turned ten and entered the foster system permanently.

No one had to tell him that ten-year-old troubled boys weren’t the kind of kids who were eagerly adopted. He went from home to home. From bad to worst. Finally, he landed in a place with six foster kids, all boys. He stayed there for two years, until he turned eighteen and aged out of the system at the end of April. The asshole caregivers didn’t even let him finish out his final month of high school before they cut him loose. If it hadn’t been for Miss Peggy, who lived across the street and took him in, Keaton wouldn’t have earned his high school diploma.

Not that he had many options once he graduated. He’d sleepwalked through school, doing the bare minimum to get by. Though he loved his art classes, he couldn’t afford to go to some fancy art school. He was good with his hands, though, and Miss Peggy had a friend who ran a construction crew. Frank Peterson did remodeling jobs in Highland Park, an exclusive enclave surrounded by Dallas. Highland Park folks were mostly white, obscenely rich, and had a penchant for constantly having their homes redone. It didn’t take long for Keaton to learn how to do all kinds of physical handiwork. He painted interiors and exteriors. Learned how to put in kitchen sinks, backsplashes, and new countertops. He laid wood flooring and then learned to build cabinets, which also led to jobs redoing people’s closets.

That had been the last dozen years of his life. Living in a room he rented from Miss Peggy. Working on Frank’s crew. Getting up early to paint mornings and reading books Miss Peggy checked out for him at the library after she fed him dinner at night. She was interested in all kinds of topics. History. Architecture. Art. Politics. When she saw how little education he had retained, Miss Peggy embarked upon a crash course of educating Keaton. He read the books she brought home. They talked about them.

That was his life.

Now, though, he had begun testing the waters with his paintings. He’d signed up and paid for the booth space at two arts and crafts shows this spring. Surprisingly, he had sold five of his paintings. Today he had space at a festival held downtown at Klyde Warren Park, a public park built on top of a freeway by some billionaire. It was an oasis of green space, running three city blocks, and dedicated to the public. It had children’s areas. Reading spaces. Fountains and game areas. Food trucks of all types were always parked around its edges. It was the cool, go-to place for many Dallasites and even people from the surrounding suburbs.

And Keaton hoped that today his art would be noticed.

Klyde Warren was on the edge of Dallas’ Arts District. It also had some fancy restaurants on its perimeter and nearby. He’d heard some art galleries sent employees to scope out new artists. If someone recognized that he had talent, he might be able to hang up his tool belt and finally devote himself to his art. Of course, that was the pipe dream. In reality, he simply wanted to sell some paintings. Maybe cut back from working on Frank’s crews from six days a week to five. Having Saturdays to himself in order to paint would be a luxury.

He dressed quickly and went to the shed, loading paintings into his ten-year-old sedan, then locking it. Returning inside, he showered, putting on fresh clothes, and shaved. When he went to the kitchen, Miss Peggy was already seated at the table, sipping a cup of coffee.

“Got the car loaded?” she asked.

Keaton nodded. “I’m taking twenty paintings to display. Have easels for two.”

“And payment?”

“The last couple of shows I let people Venmo or Zelle me, but I talked to a guy about Square. I got the app, so I can use it to sell today. People can just tap their card.”

“I hope some good comes out of today, Keaton. You’ve devoted yourself to your art for a long time.”

He put a pod into the coffeemaker. “Yup. A dozen years now.”

She got up and went to the counter, lifting the lid off something. Lifting it, she brought it toward him.

It was a cake.

“You remembered,” he said, his eyes misting over.

“I would never forget your birthday, young man. Although can I say young? After all, you are thirty today,” she teased. “Should I start looking for gray in your hair?”

He laughed and then grew serious. “Thank you, Miss Peggy. Not just for the cake, but for everything. You gave me not only a place to live. You gave me a home. You’ve been both friend and mentor to me.”

She set down the cake. Making light, she said, “I’m just glad you put up with my foolishness. I know I’ve tried to cram a ton of info into you over the years.”

“You have,” he agreed, taking his mug of coffee and turning off the coffeemaker. “But I’ve learned about everything from the Renaissance to how Wall Street works to how to make an omelet. The cooking lessons have fed me physically. The book knowledge has fed my soul.”

Miss Peggy touched his cheek. “I wish I had money. I wish I could give you some so that you could travel. See places around the world. Draw inspiration.”

“Hey, we watch Rick Steves all the time on PBS. He’s shown us everything from cities along the Danube to the Hagia Sophia. It was a helluva lot less expensive that way, watching from the couch.”

Keaton took a sip of the coffee. “And if I do start selling my paintings, who knows? Maybe I’ll make enough to up and move to Italy for a year and paint. You could come with me. Learn how to make pasta and drink really good wine.”

“I’d like that,” she said wistfully.

For a moment, he caught something in her eyes. Something she was holding back. He didn’t press her, though. If Miss Peggy had something to share with him, she’d do it in her own sweet time. She’d always respected his privacy, and it was something he had done, as well.

“Well, I’m going to get ready for church,” she declared. “It’s my turn in the rotation to set out the coffee and donuts after Sunday school this morning. Good luck today.”

“Thanks.”

She left the room, and he whipped up some scrambled eggs and toast for himself. Miss Peggy never ate breakfast. In fact, she didn’t eat much, despite being a fine cook. She never had much of an appetite, but lately, she seemed to not eat at all. Now that he thought about it, she was thinner than usual.

A sense of dread filled him. Keaton told himself not to go there. To focus on one day at a time—and today was all about his art.

He left the house and drove to downtown, parking in a lot which had been designated for vendors. Another guy had a flatbed dolly cart and even let him borrow it, saving him trips to and from his car. Keaton set up his paintings and took in the table display stand with his name and prices listed on it. If today proved to be a success, he was even thinking about claiming a domain and creating a website for himself.

The festival started at ten, but people already roamed the park. Throwing frisbees. Dancing to music. A tai chi class was taking place nearby. He found a pretty girl in her mid-twenties and watched as she gracefully executed the moves.

Slowly, others began to arrive, the ones meant to take advantage of the festival. Glancing around, he saw booths with grapevine wreaths. Candles. Children’s clothing. Jarred salsas and jellies. Several other artists were also present. One guy was drawing caricatures. Another displayed black and white photographs. A woman in her early forties had crafted silver and turquoise jewelry, while another was a sculptor. He also counted two other painters, one who seemed to specialize in places throughout Texas, while the other displayed quirky cityscapes.

Everyone seemed way more prepared than Keaton. They displayed signs with QR codes for their websites. They passed out business cards and swag such as stickers and pens and magnets. Some vendors even had brochures spotlighting their work. All of that took extra cash, though, and he’d rather sink his money into his art. Still, the idea of having a website was looking better and better to him.

Fortunately, two individuals stopped by his booth, perusing what he offered. Each bought a painting, and pride swelled within him as he completed the sales. He watched the pair, who were friends, leaving with his paintings in tow. Hope filled him, and he thought this festival might be the beginning of a new chapter in his life.

“Keaton? Is that you?”

He swung his gaze to a woman who had stopped at his table. She was dressed casually in a sleeveless silk shirt and capris, with blood red on her toenails and dozens of bangles on each arm. Her engagement and wedding ring set cost more than he had made in his lifetime.

“Mrs. Winslow. It’s good to see you,” he said politely, giving the Highland Park housewife a smile.

“Monica, please,” she insisted. “You did enough work in our house, we should be on a first-name basis. Well, it was our house. It’s mine now.” She flashed a satisfied smile.

“Divorced or widowed?” he asked.

She laughed, a deep, throaty chuckle. “Well, it was going to be number one—until my husband dropped dead on the golf course. He’d initiated divorce proceedings. Found a gal who resembled me from twenty years ago and was ready to trade me in for that newer model. Thankfully, the paperwork was in the early stages of being drawn up. Since it was never completed, much less filed, I got everything—minus the trust funds for our two children.”

“Well, being single looks good on you,” he complimented.

Her gaze turned to one of his paintings on display. “I didn’t know you were a painter. Of landscapes, that is. I know you painted the house more than once. And I simply love the cabinetry you designed and built. I recommend you to all my friends.”

“Let me tell you about this one,” he said smoothly, transitioning from his work on her house to his art.

For the next few minutes, Keaton showed her the paintings he’d brought with him. Monica seemed impressed.

“I’m going to buy that one with the bluebonnets and sunset.” She glanced around. “And I think I’ll also take the one which looks like an English garden.” She frowned, her eyes looking at his sign. “Is this what you’re charging?”

“Yes, ma’am. I didn’t want to overprice myself.”

“Why, that’s criminal, Keaton. Your work is worth ten times that—and that’s how I’m going to compensate you.”

A thrill ran through him. He’d always thought he had talent, but he had no idea how to market himself.

“Is this the first time you’ve sold your work?” Monica asked.

“I did a couple of arts and crafts shows last month. One in Plano. Another in Richardson.”

She looked at him shrewdly. “You don’t know the gold mine you are sitting on. All my friends would buy your work. Joy. Evelyn. Persephone. And Jacqueline. Definitely, Jacqueline.”

Keaton was familiar with every woman she named. They were all friends of hers who had houses he had worked on in one capacity or another over the last dozen years. All had more money than they knew what to do with.

“Have you ever heard of an artist-in-residence?” she asked.

“Traditionally, the concept can be traced back to the sixteenth century and the Duke of Florence, a Medici,” he immediately responded and then paused. “But you don’t want a history lesson, do you?”

“Certainly not. But I do know talent when I see it. You shouldn’t be working construction, Keaton. You should be spending your time devoting yourself to painting. I’m actually part-owner in a local gallery a few blocks from here.”

Monica pulled out her phone and sent a quick text message.

“I know the manager is there now. I’ve told him to come and meet us.” She paused. “I have more money than I know what to do with, Keaton. My kids are both in college and rarely come home. I’m looking for something to fill my days.” She grinned. “And I’ve decided you’re my new project.”

An hour later, Monica had insisted that he quit his construction job. She would be bankrolling him as her personal artist-in-residence. The gallery’s manager would view any completed paintings and have the first option to purchase them or pass, then Keaton would be able to sell them on his own if he wished. Monica said her lawyer could draw up the contracts and asked Keaton to commit to a two-year period of association with her gallery.

“You’ll want your own lawyer,” she advised. “Mine is good, and he’ll favor me. I want you to also be taken care of.” She dismissed the manager and then smiled at Keaton. “I don’t need to make money off you. I just recognize your talent and want to help you learn how to sell your work—and yourself.”

Monica said that he would need studio space to work from and that she would fund that portion for him. They could look together for a place to rent once he turned in his notice to Frank. He fought her on the idea of simply going in and quitting tomorrow, though.

“Frank gave me a job straight out of high school. I’m not going to do him dirty and walk away without notice, Monica.”

“Okay, I get it. But once you have an end date, we’ll start planning for your future. I’m going to make certain Dallas—and beyond—learns who Keaton Maxwell is.”

He shook hands with her. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“I haven’t done anything yet, honey.” She smiled. “But I will. I love a good project, and you will be easy to sell. You’ve got mad artistic talent, plus you’re easy on the eyes. And I’m not flirting with you. Actually, I’m already seeing someone. He’s a few years older than I am, but he makes me very happy.”

“I guess I’ll go now and drop off the rest of these canvases at the gallery,” he told her since she had told the manager that Keaton would do just that. “I’ll be in touch.”

They traded cell numbers, and he borrowed the dolly again, taking the paintings which had yet to be sold back to his car. He’d moved two of them before Monica had shown up, and he couldn’t help but think now that those individuals had paid a pittance to what a Keaton Maxwell painting would go for in the future.

He returned the dolly to his new acquaintance and grabbed the tabletop sign. Deciding he didn’t need it anymore, he tossed it in the trash. On his way to the car, he stopped at a food truck and ordered a Cuban sandwich and Dr Pepper. He ate the sandwich on the way to his car, washing it down with the cold, canned soft drink, then made his way to the Clifford Gallery three blocks away. The manager was waiting and helped Keaton carry in the canvases.

“I’d say it’s a case of right place, right time,” the older man said. “You’re really good. I’ll be able to move all these quickly, but I think I’ll only make three or four available to begin with. Whet the appetite of the art-loving crowd.”

They discussed a few subjects for future paintings he might attempt, and then Keaton said goodbye. He drove home, on top of the world. His days in construction were over. He was going to actually make a living being an artist. He couldn’t wait to tell Miss Peggy.

When he got home, though, an ambulance was sitting in front of the house. Neighbors had gathered on the sidewalk and across the street. Keaton leaped from the car and saw two EMTs carrying a stretcher.

The body and face were covered.

Choking on a sob, he rushed over. “Is that … Miss Peggy?”

“Yes,” one replied. “Are you a relative?”

“No. I’ve rented a room from her for over a dozen years, though, and she’s like family to me.”

The EMT gave him a sad smile. “Then I’m sorry to tell you that she passed away. It was sudden. A heart attack. Nothing could’ve been done.”

“Where are you taking her?” Keaton asked, feeling lost as never before.

“To the morgue,” the other guy replied. “Hold on a minute, and we’ll get your contact information. They’ll be in touch with you.”

He watched them carry the stretcher to the ambulance as dozens of people looked on. Their next-door neighbor, Alicia, came over and slipped an arm about him.

“I was with her, Keaton. She was watering the roses. One minute, we were talking, and the next? She let go of the hose and crumpled to the ground. I called 911. Tried to do CPR.” Her eyes welled with tears. “I’m so sorry for your loss.”

He squeezed her hand. “Thank you for what you did, Alicia.”

“Let me know what I can do. You know she didn’t have any family. She’s been renting this house for over twenty years. I’m sure the landlord will be here and take possession as soon as he can. If I were you, I’d remove whatever you want of hers, otherwise that greedy bastard will keep it and sell it.”

“Okay,” he said numbly, heading toward the EMT who now approached him.

He received a sheet of paper, and it contained a number to call for more information. Keaton also provided his name and cell number to the health worker.

“Again, sorry for your loss,” the EMT said.

“Thank you,” he said faintly, looking around and seeing the crowd dispersing. It included the couple who had fostered him. They still lived across the street, and he had never spoken to them since the day they told him to leave.

Keaton returned inside, the good news he had been ready to share now seeming like nothing at all.

“No,” he said aloud. “Miss Peggy would’ve been proud of me. She always told me I would make something of myself as an artist. Now, I’m going to do just that.”

The last word faded, and Keaton gave into the tears. He had lost his best friend today. The door was closing on his past.

And he needed to look to his future.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

Dallas—Four-and-a-half years later …

 

Layne Larson removed her two diplomas from Southern Methodist University from the wall behind her desk and placed them in the small box sitting on her desk. This day was bittersweet. The company she had worked for since obtaining her BBA in accounting from SMU had been sold an hour ago. She was making out like a bandit, being given a severance package worth two years’ salary, plus COBRA health benefits for a year. While she had started in accounting at the small firm, she had quickly moved over to the tech side. Several of her innovations and creations had caused the company to increase in profits and prestige, and she would be leaving with a sterling reputation as its CFO and enough from the buyout to take her time before deciding where she wanted to work next.

She would like to take some time off and travel. She came from a small town on the Texas coast, twenty miles from Corpus Christi. Driftwood Bay was a sleepy place, and she had been eager to leave it. Everyone knew everyone’s business in a small town, and she had been thrilled to win a Presidential Scholarship to SMU. She had hoped for a sports scholarship since she was a terrific soccer player, but the academic full ride to a prestigious university such as SMU was too good to pass up.

Knowing this day was approaching, Layne had taken home a few things here and there over the past two weeks. She pulled a few photos from the walls now, adding them to her box. Pictures of her at various charity events with players from Dallas’ professional sports teams. One of her and the city’s mayor. Another with her and fellow board of trustees members at SMU. Though she was only thirty, she had packed a lot of business into her twenties.

Now, she wanted to play a little. Maybe go to Europe. See Paris. Rome. London. Take a river cruise down the Danube. She’d love to see the pyramids of Giza and the Northern Lights in Iceland. Every day—weekends included—had been work, work, work. It was time to take a step back and reassess her life. Aim for more of a work/life balance.

She only wondered if Jeremy would be a part of this next chapter.

Jeremy Riggs had been her boyfriend the past five years. They had lived together three of those. While Layne had gone to night school at SMU to earn her MBA, Jeremy had taken two years off to attend classes during the day—with her footing the bill. Jeremy was forever broke, despite working in several high-profile, high-paying jobs. He never seemed happy at any of them. He never remained employed long, always complaining about his boss or the workload or anything else he could think of. Everything was always someone else’s fault, and he never seemed happy in his professional life.

Layne was the one who had bought the house in Lakewood. She paid all the bills, from utilities to streaming services. When she asked, he would kick in half of that month’s mortgage, but plenty of months had gone by without Jeremy contributing a cent. At least she had only put her name on the deed.

She slipped into her wool coat and gathered her box in her arms and stood at the door, saying goodbye to her corner office with its spectacular view. Her assistant was wiping away tears as Layne hugged her and passed over her keys to the leased car which had been provided to her.

“Here’s the keys to the Lexus. I’m going to miss driving that car.”

Her assistant accepted them, as well as the office ID badge. “I’ll miss you, Layne.”

“I’ll miss you, too.”

As she made her way to the elevator, she waved at various people. Some, like her assistant, would be staying on. Most of the higher ups were being let go. They had built the company from its infancy to world player, but now their baby had outgrown them. She knew she would find a new challenge after she took a much-needed break.

In the elevator, she heard Christmas music playing. Christmas was on a Sunday this year. Her dad had hinted about her coming home to Driftwood Bay for the holiday, but she had told him that she needed to stay in town and finish up all her obligations to her company. Her dad was the only person she had confided in regarding the company’s sale and her compensation package. He had told her how proud he was of her and all her many accomplishments and how much he loved her.

 Maybe she and Jeremy could catch a flight tomorrow and join her parents for the weekend. Then again, flights were probably booked. They could drive, but Jeremy whined if any car trip lasted over an hour. Besides, her parents didn’t like him and made no secret about it. Dad had told her Jeremy was using her as a sugar mama.

As she was slowing down and reevaluating her life, Layne was beginning to agree.

Her mom had been acting distant lately anytime Layne called. She couldn’t quite place her finger on what was wrong, but Mom just wasn’t acting like herself. Maybe she could go down to the coast for a week or so after Christmas, minus Jeremy, and get in a good visit with her parents. Hopefully, she could spend some time with Mila, too. Her longtime friend had just married Driftwood Bay’s basketball coach three weeks ago. Layne had flown down the morning of the wedding, played maid of honor, celebrated briefly at the reception, and then returned to Dallas, where she and Jeremy had then spent Thanksgiving with his family two days later.

 

Piper, her other good friend from kindergarten, wouldn’t be in Driftwood Bay. She performed in musical theater and was always crisscrossing the country. Piper had worked her way up the ladder from chorus to secondary to leading roles ever since graduating from college. She was now touring in a production of Chicago, which had just finished a run in Chicago and would be heading to the West Coast. Seattle would be its first stop, with shows starting two days after Christmas. Layne thought the company was headed to Sacramento next.

Layne owed both Piper and Mila a long FaceTime chat, especially since she was now unemployed. Maybe they could take a girls’ trip somewhere once Piper’s latest tour ended. Or she and Mila could surprise Piper and fly out to the West Coast. Since Mila’s volleyball had ended, hopefully she could take a few days off from school. Then again, her friend was a newlywed and probably wouldn’t be interested in leaving Carson and Lily for a few days.

In the lobby, she brought up her rideshare app and placed an order for a car since her company car was a thing of the past. Living in Dallas, she would need a vehicle to get around. She added car shopping to her to-do list as she waited in front of the building for four minutes. Her driver arrived, and she gave him the code texted to her to confirm he was the correct driver for her trip.

As he drove through downtown Dallas, decorated with Christmas wreaths, Layne faced a reality she had put off for far too long. She and Jeremy had become more like roommates than lovers. When she got home, she would confront him about that and see if she really wanted a future with him.

Her gut told her no. That moment of clarity let her know it was time to cut ties. Enjoy being on her own for a while before looking for a new partner.

She thanked her driver, giving him a five-star rec and tipping him generously as she headed up the sidewalk and let herself inside. As she shed her coat, Layne heard rap music blaring and knew Jeremy was already home. Setting her box on a table in the entryway, she made her way to the kitchen and poured herself a glass of Moscato as she slipped off her black stilettos. She promised her feet she wouldn’t put on a pair of heels for at least a month.

Jeremy wandered into the kitchen, barefoot, wearing nothing but sweatpants. She recalled him saying that he had Friday and Monday off for Christmas, but this was Wednesday. Her gut told her that he had probably quit another job and had yet to tell her.

“You’re home early. It’s just now three. I can’t remember the last time you left work in the middle of the afternoon.”

Suddenly, everything about him bothered her. Yes, he was definitely easy on the eyes, his body being the only thing he was truly dedicated to. Jeremy worked out religiously, lifting weights and running on alternate days. He had toned muscles and a handsome face, but for the life of her, Layne couldn’t remember what she had seen in him. It made what she was about to discuss suddenly easier.

“I’ve got some news,” she said loudly. “Can you turn the music off?”

He slipped his cell from his pocket and hit a button. Blessed silence filled the air.

Going to the fridge, he took out a beer and popped the top before taking a seat at the kitchen table.

“What news? A raise?” he asked, his eyes gleaming with interest.

“No.”

Suddenly, Layne didn’t want to tell him about the severance package. About wanting to take some time off to relax. All she could see was greed in his eyes.

“My company was sold earlier today,” she announced.

His eyes narrowed. “Did you know that was coming?”

“Yes. I’ve been a part of the plans.”

Anger sparked in his eyes. “Babe, we could’ve made a killing. Sold your stock. Make a tidy profit. I’m pissed you didn’t say anything.”

“Uh, that’s illegal, Jeremy,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “No one ever cares about that stuff.”

“Well, I do,” she said, downing the rest of her wine and setting the glass on the counter. Layne leaned against it, deciding to test him, wanting to see if he would respond differently from what she expected.

“Where do you see us in a year? Five years? Ten?”

A scowl immediately appeared. “I don’t need that kind of pressure coming from you,” he said flatly.

“Do you at least think we’ll be living together? Engaged?” she pressed.

His jaw set stubbornly. “Marriage is old-fashioned. We don’t need that.”

“Then what about goals? For our relationship. The direction we’re headed. Have you ever thought about having kids?”

“No way. Kids are messy. They take up all your time with sports practices and tournaments. Music lessons. School programs. I like it just being us.”

It struck her that they never did anything as a couple. True, she was always working, but he went out for drinks. Dinners. Football games and movies with his friends.

“When was the last time we went on a date?” she asked.

“Date?” He looked at her blankly.

“Yes. Just the two of us. Going to dinner. Seeing a movie. Walking in the park.”

He rolled his eyes.

And that caused something to snap in Layne.

“Give me your key,” she demanded. “Go to a hotel tonight. I’ll pack up the rest of your things, and you can pick everything up tomorrow.”

“What? Are you serious?” he asked, shooting to his feet. “What brought this on? Wanting to get engaged. Having kids. Losing your job. This is upsetting me, Layne. I don’t like how you’re pushing me.”

She placed her hands on her hips. “You bet I am. Right out the door. We’re done, Jeremy. We’ve been done for a long time. I just didn’t see it or want to acknowledge it. You don’t care about me. I can’t remember the last time you told me you loved me. The last time you did a little something special for me. Instead, you ride my train, letting me pay for everything.”

“You are such a bitch,” he said, hate flaring in his brown eyes. “I do plenty for you.”

“Name one thing. Just one.”

She glared at him defiantly. He glared right back, but she saw he had nothing.

“See? You’ve used me. I paid for your MBA. I’m sympathetic when you complain about work. I’ve watched you quit job after job, trying to find yourself. I’ve been nothing but supportive, financially and emotionally, and you’ve given me nothing in return. I can’t believe I’ve wasted so much time on you.”

Jeremy threw his beer can at her. Layne ducked in time, and it hit the wall, beer splashing everywhere.

“You’re never home,” he shouted. “You are the most emotionally unavailable person on the planet. All you do is work. You’ve never even taken time to put up a Christmas tree. You say you’ve been here for me, but when’s the last time we had sex?”

She frowned—and couldn’t come up with an answer.

“See? That’s why I’ve been screwing around on you. For years, Layne. Years! And you haven’t even noticed. You’re a coldhearted, selfish—”

“Enough!” she shouted, humiliation filling her, learning he had been with other women.

And that some of what he said about her rang true.

“Keys,” she said. “Now. You’ve got five minutes to get out before I call the police. And don’t think I won’t. My name is on the deed. I’ve asked you to leave. I never want to see you again, you asshole.”

He stormed from the room, cursing the entire while. Layne willed herself not to cry, knowing he would view that as a victory over her. Jeremy had always thought crying was a sign of weakness. She used to cry at movies they watched or books she read. He had made fun of her enough times that she finally stopped. She had become what she thought he wanted, something that was so far from who she was that she didn’t even recognize herself anymore.

All she wanted to do was curl into a ball and sob. Her twenties were gone. At thirty, she might be thriving professionally, but her personal life had just imploded.

Layne went to wait by the door. Jeremy appeared with his gym bag. It wasn’t even zipped. Clothes spilled from the top of it.

“I’ll have your clothes sitting out front in boxes by nine tomorrow morning,” she told him. “Don’t bother ringing the doorbell.”

“What about my other stuff?”

“What other stuff?” she demanded. “I’ve paid for every stick of furniture in this house. Every dish and glass in the kitchen. The food in the pantry and refrigerator.”

“My golf clubs,” he threw out.

She didn’t bother pointing out that she had paid for those, as well, although they had been a Christmas gift for him. It struck her that she’d been so busy with work that she hadn’t even shopped for a present for him—and she knew he hadn’t gotten anything for her.

“The clubs will be waiting,” she said, deflating, the anger leaving her, replaced by an emptiness.

Jeremy threw the kiss at her feet and left without another word, slamming the door behind him. She would need to change the locks because she didn’t trust that he didn’t have another key squirreled away somewhere. Oh, she needed a change. A big change. Traveling sounded good. Going places and being anonymous. Eating great food and drinking even better wine. And when all that was done, she was selling the house and leaving Dallas. Maybe she’d find work in Houston. Or somewhere really different. Chicago. L.A. Even New York. She’d gained contacts and wouldn’t be shy about using them. Her life was going to take a whole new turn, and she was ready to end her time in Dallas for good.

Layne wanted to call Mila and Piper, but she was afraid she would start bawling like a baby when she saw their concerned faces. Instead, she told Alexa to play Christmas music and spent the next hour packing Jeremy’s things. She wanted every trace of him gone from the house. She decided she’d sell the house as soon as she could. Everything here reminded her of her ex. She’d picked out furniture he liked. Painted the walls in colors he wanted. It was time to take charge of her life and find out who she really was.

The doorbell rang, surprising her. She bristled with anger, thinking Jeremy was crawling back, ready to make nice with her and try to win his way back into her good graces. Hell, no. That was not happening. Not now. Not ever. Any argument he brought up, Layne would shoot down. She’d been on the debate team in high school and could argue logically and passionately.

She would make toast of him.

When she opened the door, ready to let Jeremy have it, she froze.

Elmo Roberts stood on the porch. Piper’s dad. From Driftwood Bay. The moment was surreal, as if he were a mirage. She hadn’t a clue why he would be standing on her porch four days before Christmas.

“Layne?” he said, his voice deep and rumbling.

“Mr. Roberts? What are you doing here in Dallas?”

“Can I come in?”

“Of course,” she said quickly, ushering him into the foyer and closing the door to the cold air coming in.

“Layne, honey. I’ve got some bad news,” he began. “The kind of news you need to hear in person.”

She shook her head. “You’re not making any sense, Mr. Roberts.”

He took her elbow and led her into the den. She took a seat on the sofa, and he sat next to her.

“There’s no good way to say this. Your mama and daddy are gone.”

“Gone?” she asked, still confused by his sudden appearance.

“Layne,” he said more firmly, and she realized he was speaking in his police chief voice. “Your parents are dead.”

Shock reverberated through her. “Dead?” she echoed, repeating—but not comprehending—the word.

Mr. Roberts took her hand, squeezing it. “Yes, honey. I thought you needed to hear it in person and not over the phone.”

“You drove all the way up here to tell me,” she said dully, reality beginning to set in. “What … happened?”

“I think this might explain things,” he said, removing an envelope from his coat’s inner pocket and handing it to her.

With trembling fingers, she opened it, withdrawing the single page and unfolding it. Layne recognized her father’s writing and began to read.

 

Layne –

I know you’re going to have a lot of questions, and I’m sorry I won’t be around to answer them for you. The most important thing to know is that we love you.

Your mama has a brain tumor. The doctors said it’s the inoperable kind. It’s been pressing on her brain, and I’ve watched her becoming a different person. Not the warm, loving gal I married all those years ago, but a stranger. Distant. Unemotional. The doctors said her personality might change, and it has. The last few days, she’s become angry. Out of control. And it was only going to get worse.

I couldn’t stand by and watch her become something she would loathe. I also couldn’t lose her and be left alone. Lark has been my everything, from the first night we met and danced together, every step matching, even our heartbeats in sync. She’s my whole world.

Because of that, I decided to take matters into my own hands. By the time you read this, we’ll both be gone. She didn’t suffer. I crushed up a bunch of pills she’s been taking and put it in her tea. I didn’t have enough for me, but I looked on the internet and figured out that one shot, aimed at the right place, was all it would take and that it happens so fast, it wouldn’t hurt.

I’m just sorry we didn’t get to see you one more time, baby. Know that we’re both proud of you and all you’ve accomplished. You are the best thing we ever did together, and I only hope that you’ll find your soulmate, the same as we did.

Everything we have went into the Bay Breeze. The inn is now yours to do with as you wish. Keep it and hire someone to run it. Sell it and not have to worry about the responsibility it brings. The decision is yours to make.

We love you, Layne.

                                                            Daddy

 

Layne looked up to Mr. Roberts, tears streaming down her cheeks. She would never see her parents again. Never share good news or bad with them. Smell Mama’s perfume or Dad’s aftershave. They were gone, a murder-suicide. Guilt flooded her, and she wished she had taken more time to call. To investigate and press harder when her mom seemed off.

She’d spent too much time wrapped up in work. It had become everything to her, and now she was left with nothing.

At the same time, Layne realized that she’d been given a second chance, with the Bay Breeze Inn going to her. She would make the most of this second chance.

And start a new chapter of her life in Driftwood Bay.