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"Goodbye, Charlotte," he replied quietly, his eyes searching hers for something she couldn't quite decipher before he turned away, disappearing down the steps of the porch. He didn’t look back.
As the physical distance between them grew, a strange sense of relief washed over Charlotte. She knew she had made the right choice, that she needed to keep her distance if she was ever going to truly move on from their failed marriage, but that knowledge did little to ease the tumult of emotions still churning within her like the restless waves just beyond the cliffs.
With Daniel gone, the air seemed to shift around her, and Charlotte took a deep breath as she turned her gaze toward the horizon. Her gaze momentarily caught on a gleaming black luxury car parked along the narrow road. The sleek vehicle seemed out of place in the sleepy English village, and it was undoubtedly the mode of transport that had brought Daniel to Chesham Cove. She couldn't help but wonder where he was staying while he was here.
"By the way, Charlotte," Daniel called over his shoulder, pausing for a moment as he reached the driver's side door. "I'm staying at The Bluffs - you know, that new five-star hotel down the coast? It has quite the view."
"Of course you are," Charlotte muttered under her breath, though she knew he couldn't hear her. The contrast between his luxurious accommodations and the humble inn she was working to restore only served to emphasize the differences in their lives now. Daniel waved before sliding into the car.
She watched as the car pulled away and disappeared around a bend in the road. Turning back toward The Crown Inn, she let out a long, slow breath, feeling the tension in her shoulders easing ever so slightly. The encounter with Daniel had left her rattled, and as she crossed the threshold into the dimly lit inn, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling that had settled in her chest. The quiet stillness of the old building seemed louder somehow, the shadows deeper and more menacing than they had been before his arrival.
What’s he really doing here? she wondered, her fingers tracing the worn edges of a dusty book that lay open on the foyer desk. His claim of being in town for work felt dubious at best, and she couldn't help but suspect there was something more to his presence in Chesham Cove.
As she moved through the inn, her footsteps echoing against the creaking floorboards, Charlotte found herself contemplating the impact Daniel's visit might have on her new life. Would he try to interfere with her plans for The Crown Inn? Or worse, would he attempt to win her back?
His dismissive tone, his haughty expression from when they’d toured the house—it all grated on her. Charlotte would prove to Daniel, and to everyone else who doubted her, that she was more than capable of breathing new life into The Crown Inn.
CHAPTER TEN
The sound of waves crashing against the rocky shore below filled Charlotte's ears as she stood in the once-grand ballroom of The Old Crown Inn, planning in her mind. It was a daunting task ahead, but she refused to be disheartened by the enormity of it all.
She leaned over the notebook on the worn wooden table nearby, flipping it open to a blank page. Sketching out rough blueprints of the ballroom, Charlotte allowed her artistic talents to flow freely onto the paper. Her mind buzzed with possibilities as she envisioned the space transformed into a grand, elegant retreat for future guests.
"Maybe this can be a library instead," she mused, sketching floor-to-ceiling bookshelves in one half of the room. "And over there, a reading nook by the window overlooking the sea..."
As the ideas poured forth, Charlotte found herself growing more and more excited about the potential in every inch of the inn. Each stroke of her pencil brought new life to the decaying building, and she couldn't help but smile at the thought of what The Old Crown Inn could become under her loving touch.
"Amelia would love this, I just know it," she said to herself, thinking of her book-obsessed daughter. A pang of longing filled her chest at the thought of the distance between them, but she quickly shook it off. Now was not the time for doubt or second-guessing; now was the time for action. She would make this place so irresistible that Amelia would flock to it every break she got from college.
With renewed energy, Charlotte moved through the inn, sketching layouts and jotting down notes for each room. She paused in the old dining room, running her fingertips over the ornate oak molding that framed the walls. "I can't let this go to waste," she thought, envisioning a grand feast shared by the warm glow of candlelight—and remembering George’s advice
As Charlotte continued her planning, she couldn't help but feel the growing parallels between her own past and The Old Crown Inn. In its crumbling state, it was like a reflection of her own life: broken and tired, yet filled with potential for something beautiful. And just as she was determined to rebuild herself after her marriage had fallen apart, so too would she breathe new life into this old manor house.
"All right, you old thing," she whispered, patting the wall affectionately, "let's do this together."
Charlotte settled into a worn but comfortable armchair by the window in the ballroom, cradling a steaming mug of tea in her hands. She began to sort the stack of papers and sketches strewn about the small table beside her. It was time to bring a little of her old self back—the “call somebody” Charlotte. As much as she wanted to DIY everything, she had to admit when help was needed, even if she was scared of what it might cost.
Taking a deep breath, she picked up her phone and began dialing.
"Hello, Mr. Beckett? This is Charlotte Moore from The Old Crown Inn. I'm looking to get a quote for some HVAC work," she said, her voice tinged with trepidation. As she outlined her needs and listened to the contractor buzz on the other end, she scribbled down numbers and notes on one of her many lists, her brows furrowing with each new zero.
"Thank you, Mr. Beckett. Yes, I'll let you know." She hung up and sighed, feeling the weight of the financial burden pressing down on her. "Well, that's another one out of my budget," she muttered under her breath, crossing off the contractor's name and moving on to the next.
Charlotte called various suppliers and services, each conversation adding to the growing concern in her heart. It became clear that the cost of materials and professional help would stretch beyond her means.
Midway through her list, her phone pinged with a text—it was Cousin Agnes.
Lunch tomorrow?
Smiling, Charlotte texted back her acceptance. It would be nice to get out and try to shake off the encounter with Daniel. Agnes, her father’s cousin, was a motherly and comforting figure. The perfect person to soothe Charlotte’s troubled mind. Agnes sent a restaurant location on the far end of Chesham, and Charlotte put a reminder in her phone.
Determined not to give up on the house repairs, Charlotte turned to the internet, searching for ways to do as much of the work herself as possible. Her eyes scanned endless articles and videos, absorbing every tip and trick she could find. The HVAC work was well beyond her, but she could likely fix some plumbing. The repair she and Simon had done in the kitchen had held so far—but it was temporary. If this bathroom fix worked, she could apply the same in the kitchen.
So she decided that, today, it would be the sink in the frontmost guest room in the east wing. Maybe even get some fresh paint on the walls in there. Gathering her tools and materials, Charlotte prepared herself. She had scoured the inn's storage room, dusting off old paintbrushes, rollers, and trays, and collecting various hammers, screwdrivers, and other essentials she'd need to tackle the endless tasks ahead. The musty smell of the storage room clung to the well-worn tools, but their age only inspired her; if they had survived so many years, then perhaps she too could make it through this daunting challenge.
"All right, first project," she announced to the empty room, her voice echoing off the peeling wallpaper. As she carefully laid out her tools on a worn tarp on the bathroom floor, Charlotte pulled up a YouTube tutorial on her phone. It was an amateur video by a cheerful plumber with a thick Northern accent, his enthusiasm contagious as he demonstrated how to repair the problem at hand.
"Okay, step one," Charlotte said, mimicking the plumber's accent with a wry smile. "Turn off the water supply."
