snap. It was time to clear her mind, stretch her legs, and truly take in Trailer Estates — from her feet. She knew forcing the story wouldn’t work; she had to let it form natu- rally. She’d learned that trick back in her college days, when late-night scribbling sessions gave way to morning walks, when creativity felt just out of reach until she relented by letting her body move. Grabbing her keys, she locked her front door and set off southward down Tarpon Lane. The air carried the briny scent of Sarasota Bay mingling with the faint sweetness of freshly cut grass and the lingering aroma of someone’s morning bacon. The faint hum of an outboard motor in the distance mixed with the rhythmic chirping of palm war- blers. Maggie Sloan, her real estate agent, had been right —despite Trailer Estates’ prime coastal location, there were only a handful of true waterfront properties, those lucky few lots with a channel running directly be- hind them. Most of those homes had never once hit the open market since the park opened in 1955, passed down among fami- lies of the original owners. Kat slowed her pace, taking in the variety around her. Each home felt like a story, re- flecting its owner’s personality. Some still sported their original mid-century charm, while other homes had been modernized be- yond recognition, with sleek siding and raised decks meant to withstand the unpre-
dictable Florida weather. Yards ranged from meticulously landscaped oases to paved pa- tios with garden gnomes and twinkle lights to more eclectic displays — pink flamingos, carved driftwood signs, and even a full-scale wooden pirate perched next to someone’s front steps. She smiled to herself. Quirky, coastal, and deeply personal. It was no wonder people rarely left this place, or held onto them as seasonal or vacation homes. Her sandals crunched softly over the crushed shell shoulder of the quiet street as Tarpon Lane curved into East Beach Drive at the south end of the community. Catching glimpses of the serene bay through gaps between homes, Kat breathed deeply. The air here felt different — softer, saltier, and reminiscent of childhood days. Turning onto East Bayou Lane, Kat slowed her pace, taking in the morning quiet. A group of dog walkers ambled toward her, chatting easily as their dogs trotted ahead, tails wagging. One, a tiny Yorkie with a fluffy white-and-apricot coat, suddenly lunged forward, straining at its leash, eager to meet her. “She just wants to say hello,” a silver -haired woman laughed, loosening the slack. Kat knelt, extending her hand. The Yorkie wiggled excitedly before pressing its damp nose against her fingers, then rewarded her with a quick, eager lick. “Well, aren’t you a sweetheart?” Kat cooed, scratching behind its ears.
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