Page 1 of Love Takes A Tumble
Chapter One
The morning air hung thick with salt and possibility as Audrey Whitaker made her way down to the beach. Dawn had barely broken, casting the world in watercolor hues of pink and lavender that seemed to soften the edges of her thoughts. She'd always been an early riser. A habit formed through decades of opening the library before the rest of the world had properly woken. But here on Palmar Island, morning felt different. Sacred, somehow.
She stepped onto the cool sand, her toes curling into its silky texture. Two weeks she'd been at the Pelican Inn, and each morning began with a solitary walk as the sun climbed higher, notebook tucked under her arm, pen ready to capture whatever wisps of inspiration the ocean might offer. It had become her ritual, her quiet defiance against the voice that still echoed in her head. Her mother's voice.
This writing business is just a hobby, Audrey. Not something to build a life around.
The tide was pulling back, revealing a stretch of wet sand perfect for walking. Audrey adjusted her light cardigan against the morning breeze and began to stroll, her eyes tracking the delicate patterns left by the retreating waves. Forty-nine yearsold and only now learning to put herself first. The thought still felt foreign, almost rebellious.
She opened her notebook, flipping past pages filled with her neat handwriting. Character sketches, dialogue fragments, scenes that refused to connect despite her best efforts. The novel was coming—slowly, stubbornly—but it was coming. After three decades of helping others find their stories in the hushed corners of her library, she was finally writing her own.
If only she could silence the doubt that followed her like a shadow.
A sandpiper darted past, its thin legs a blur as it chased the receding water. Audrey smiled, reminded of herself. Always chasing something that seemed to be constantly moving just beyond reach. Perfect metaphor material. She quickly jotted it down, her handwriting less precise than usual as she tried to capture the thought before it evaporated like morning mist.
"Three months," she whispered to herself, the sound instantly carried away by the ocean breeze. "That's all you need."
Three months at the Pelican Inn to finish her manuscript. Three months to prove to herself—and perhaps, in some lingering, childish way, to her mother's memory—that she wasn't wasting her time. That the stories she'd carried inside her all these years deserved to exist outside the confines of her mind.
The innkeepers, Elise and Jacob, had been unexpectedly kind when she'd explained her purpose in booking a long-term stay. Not that she'd told them everything. She hadn’t mentioned the years spent caring for her increasingly bitter mother back home in Ohio. Or the dreams deferred for so long they'd nearly suffocated. Not when she was facing the terrifying freedom that came with inheritance money and no one left to disapprove of how she spent it.
No, she'd simply said she was writing a book. And somehow, in their eyes, that had made her a real writer.
Audrey paused, realizing she'd walked farther than usual, past the curve where the beach bent toward the old lighthouse. The sun had climbed higher, burning away the morning's gentle palette and replacing it with the stark clarity of full daylight. She should head back soon, get some actual writing done rather than just thinking about writing.
That had always been her problem. Thinking rather than doing. Planning rather than living.
Her fingers brushed against the silver strands now liberally threaded through her chestnut hair. Not that there was much living left to do at her age. She'd had her chance, hadn't she? Made her choices. Or rather, let circumstance choose for her. Now it was about making the most of what remained. Finding purpose in words, if not in connections.
A flash of something caught her eye. A piece of driftwood lay half-buried in the sand, its shape twisted into something almost sculptural by years of ocean currents. Perfect for the mantlepiece in her room, a little souvenir of morning walks and new beginnings. She bent to examine it, her thoughts already drifting back to her protagonist's dilemma in chapter twelve, the words forming and reforming in her mind as she reached for the weathered wood.
She never noticed how her foot caught in the hollow beneath the driftwood, never registered the shift in her balance until it was too late. The world tilted abruptly, the sky and sea changing places in a disorienting blur. Her notebook went flying as her arms windmilled uselessly, and then came the jolt of impact. Her ankle twisting beneath her with a sickening wrench as she tumbled into the sand.
The pain was immediate and breathtaking. Audrey gasped, momentarily stunned by both the fall and the sharp throb radiating up from her ankle. Embarrassment followed swiftly, though there was no one around to witness her graceless tumble.
She sat up slowly, sand clinging to her cardigan and hair, and gingerly touched her ankle. It was already beginning to swell, a bad sign. With a grimace, she attempted to stand and promptly sank back down as pain shot through her leg.
"Well," she muttered to no one, "this is certainly not how I planned to spend my morning."
The beach stretched empty in both directions, the tide creeping back in toward her feet. Her notebook lay a few feet away, pages fluttering in the breeze like the wings of some wounded bird. And the Pelican Inn was at least a quarter mile back, suddenly seeming impossibly distant.
For the first time since arriving on Palmar Island, Audrey felt acutely, uncomfortably alone.
Audrey bit her lip against a wave of frustration. Of all the foolish, clumsy things to do. She'd prided herself on always being careful. She was the responsible one, the planner, the woman who never needed anyone's help. And now here she was, stranded on a beach with a rapidly swelling ankle, all because she'd been too lost in her own thoughts to watch where she was stepping.
She'd have to find a way to make it back. The thought was mortifying, but she refused to sit helplessly waiting for rescue. Gathering her determination, she began to maneuver herself into a position where she might be able to stand, using the very piece of driftwood that had betrayed her as a makeshift support.
"That looks like a bad idea."
The deep voice startled her so badly she nearly toppled over again. Audrey's head jerked up to find a man standing a few feet away, watching her with an expression caught between concernand something that looked irritatingly like amusement. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with salt-and-pepper hair that the morning breeze had tousled into attractive disarray. The kind of man who looked entirely at home against the backdrop of sea and sky.
And he was witnessing her at what was possibly her least dignified moment in years.
"I'm fine," she said automatically, the words clipped and defensive. "Just taking a moment to... rest."
His eyebrows rose, the creases at the corners of his eyes deepening. "On the wet sand? With your ankle turning purple?"
"It is not turning—" She glanced down and winced. It was, in fact, starting to bruise rather spectacularly. "It's nothing serious."
