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The sound of waves crashing against the shore below brought her back to the present, a reminder of the endless cycle of life and its many struggles. As an artist, she had always found solace in nature's beauty, and now was no exception. She let the ocean soothe her, and moments later, she was ready to drift back off. She climbed into her bed and was asleep in moments—thankfully, the hours passed dreamlessly.
The next morning, Charlotte awoke to the sound of seagulls calling and the gentle light filtering in through her bedroom window. The Old Crown Inn was still and peaceful, its centuries-old walls holding her like a warm embrace. The scent of salt lingered in the air, a reminder of the sea's ever-present influence. There was nightmare, and no fear.
As she dressed and made her way down to the kitchen, the floorboards creaking beneath her feet, Charlotte blinked away the last vestiges of sleep, rubbing her temples as if to physically erase the unsettling images from last night.
Breakfast first, she thought.
As Charlotte cracked the eggs into a bowl, she focused on the rhythmic sound of the whisk beating against the ceramic, chasing away the last fragments of her dream. As she poured the mixture onto the sizzling pan, the aroma of butter and fresh bread filled the room, soothing her frazzled nerves.
As she ate, Charlotte's thoughts wandered to Simon – his strong hands, his kind eyes, the way his laughter seemed to fill a room. And as her heart rate finally began to slow, she thought back to the kindness in his eyes after their plumbing fiasco. That had been for her—not some phantom.
Hadn’t it?
But the phantom—his ex—was still out there, and the revelation was fresh, and Charlotte didn't know if she should add "Simon's ex from a nightmare" to her list of troubles. It seemed she'd be borrowing anxiety that was unfounded. But still, as she finished her breakfast, she couldn't push the possibility from her mind that there was a reason he hadn't mentioned his old love sooner.
CHAPTER EIGHT
With a sense of purpose, Charlotte retreated to the sun-drenched corner of the front living room she had claimed as her makeshift studio. The light spilled through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm glow over the easel that stood patiently waiting for her attention. The scent of linseed oil and turpentine hung in the air, mingling with the faint aroma of lavender that drifted in from the garden outside.
Charlotte paused for a moment, allowing herself to soak in the serenity of her surroundings. Then, with a deep breath, she began to unpack her tools. Brushes of varying sizes and shapes were removed from their protective pouches and laid out before her like soldiers awaiting their orders. A wooden palette soon joined them, groaning under the weight of thick, vibrant blobs of paint that would soon spring to life beneath her skilled hands.
As Charlotte's fingers danced nimbly from one item to the next, there was a sense of ritual in her movements – a quiet reverence for the process that had been her solace and her passion for as long as she could remember. And with each brush and tube of paint that found its place among her arsenal, the anticipation within her grew, until it felt as though her very soul was humming with the need to create.
With her supplies prepared, Charlotte stepped back to survey the room. Her gaze drifted outside, where the morning light kissed the rolling hills and the quaint village below. A gentle breeze caressed the delicate petals of wildflowers lining the garden path, their colors a symphony of nature's vibrant hues. She considered the breathtaking view from the inn, wondering if she could capture its essence on canvas.
"Perhaps I'll paint the landscape today," Charlotte mused aloud, her eyes lingering on the distant shoreline where the sea met the sky in an eternal embrace.
Lost in thought, she wandered to the open window and leaned against the sill, inhaling the sweet perfume of blossoming roses that mingled with the tangy scent of salt in the air. Below, the waves lapped gently at the shore, their rhythmic ebb and flow a soothing soundtrack to her musings.
"Ah, there it is," she murmured, as a flash of color caught her eye. An old rowboat lay nestled among the reeds by the water's edge, its once-vibrant paint now peeling and weathered by time. It was an unassuming subject, yet one that seemed to call out to her, whispering stories of bygone days and adventures untold.
Excitedly, she returned to her easel and squeezed generous dollops of paint onto her palette – deep blues and greens for the water, earthy browns for the boat, and an array of reds, oranges, and yellows for the flowers that encroached upon its resting place. With a brush poised between her fingers, Charlotte closed her eyes and let the sounds and scents of the world outside envelop her, allowing them to guide her hand as she began to create.
The bristles of her brush danced across the canvas, their delicate strokes transforming the blank surface into a world of color and texture. As the scene unfolded before her, Charlotte became lost in the rhythm of her work – the swish of the brush against the canvas, the scratch of the palette knife as she mixed her colors, and her own steady breaths as she focused on each precise movement.
After a while, Charlotte paused to take in the progress of her painting. The landscape had begun to take shape, the old rowboat and its surroundings emerging from the canvas like a memory brought to life. As she resumed her work, she couldn't help but feel a sense of contentment wash over her. In this quiet corner of England, far from the chaos of her past, she had found not only a place to heal, but also the freedom to express herself through her art. And although the future remained uncertain, for now, she was grateful for the chance to paint her world anew.
As she turned her gaze from her artwork to the scene before her out the window, her heart suddenly tightened in her chest.
A figure stood in the distance, his dark hair windswept, hands buried deep in the pockets of his coat. Charlotte blinked, her grip on the paintbrush faltering for a moment. Could it really be him? The man who had once been her world, only to shatter it into a million pieces?
I just thought I saw... Never mind, Charlotte thought, trying to brush off her unease. She glanced back at the figure, hoping her eyes had simply played tricks on her. But as the man walked closer, she couldn't deny it any longer. It was Daniel – here, in Chesham Cove.
Charlotte forced herself to breathe evenly as her pulse raced. Her thoughts churned like the restless ocean waves, questions swirling endlessly: Why was he here? What did he want? And why now, after all he’d out her through?
Charlotte watched as Daniel drew nearer, his familiar stride sending a shiver down her spine. The memories of their life together came flooding back, mingling with the raw emotions she still grappled with daily. She braced herself for the inevitable confrontation, her heart pounding in anticipation and trepidation, unsure of what would unfold when they finally stood face to face once more.
The wind picked up, carrying the briny scent of the sea as Daniel stepped onto the porch. The sound of his footsteps echoed through her, reverberating in her chest like a long-forgotten melody. She heard the front door open—he had simply walked right in—and then, he was standing there. She stared at him, wide-eyed and speechless; her paintbrush clattered to the ground, forgotten.
"Charlotte," he breathed, his voice a mixture of surprise and something she couldn't quite place. Time seemed to slow, stretching out before her like a vast expanse of sand, each grain a memory she'd tried so hard to forget.
"Daniel," she finally managed to choke out, her voice strangled with emotion. "What are you doing here?"
He hesitated for a moment, his brows furrowing as if searching for the right words. "I... I needed to see you. To talk to you." He took a tentative step forward, his eyes never leaving hers. "Can we talk?"
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a cacophony of longing and fear, as she grappled with the whirlwind of emotions threatening to consume her. What could he want from her now? Did he intend to dredge up the past, forcing her to confront the pain and heartache she'd sought refuge from in Chesham?
"Sure," she replied tersely, her hands trembling as she wiped them on her paint-stained apron. "You could have called."
