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“Okay,” Amelia said slowly, doubt in her voice. “I was going to wade along the shore, maybe read at the beach. Want to come?”
“No, dear. Thanks for the invite. I have to prep some things in the kitchen for our particular guests.”
Amelia giggled and scampered away, and Charlotte's gaze fell once again to the doorway where Thomas had exited, and the tiny fissure in her armor ached—a reminder of the fragility of new beginnings and the relentless tide of change threatening to sweep them away.
The last echoes of Thomas Windnell's caustic laughter had barely faded when the door to The Crown creaked open, announcing a new presence. Charlotte steeled herself to see Windnell again, but through the archway, shafts of afternoon light streamed in, catching on the strands of golden hair that framed the face of the woman who entered—a vision so startlingly beautiful it seemed as if Aphrodite herself had traded the ocean's foam for the quaintness of Chesham Cove.
"Good afternoon," she said, her voice smooth and measured, with an enigmatic lilt that held notes of places far beyond the English coast.
Charlotte, now lingering by the reception desk, was struck by the woman's statuesque poise. She stood tall, her posture impeccable, draped in a fitted trench coat that reeked of elegance and class. Charlotte couldn't help but feel dwarfed by this stranger's grace, especially when her own spirit felt so depleted from Thomas's barbs.
"Welcome to The Old Crown Inn," Charlotte replied, mustering a professional warmth. "May I have your name?"
"Of course." The woman's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Isla Wagner."
"Ms. Wagner," Charlotte echoed, tapping the name into the aged computer with a practiced rhythm. The name sparked nothing in her memory, offering no clues as to why the hairs on the back of her neck stood on end. The inn's ledger hadn't mentioned anything about a Wagner due to arrive, and yet here she was—unexpected, unannounced, and undeniably unsettling.
"Is there a husband or family joining you?" Charlotte inquired, part of the check-in dance she'd learned since taking up the mantle of innkeeper.
"No, just me," Isla stated simply, shifting her weight ever so slightly, the movement fluid and intentional. Her gaze swept across the room, absorbing the details of the worn furniture and the paintings that Charlotte had lovingly hung upon the walls.
"Ah, I see." Charlotte nodded, hands clasping and unclasping beneath the desk. She felt exposed under Isla's scrutiny, vulnerable in a way she hadn't expected. This woman carried with her an air of mystery, and Charlotte found herself both intrigued and intimidated.
"We do have a single room left. Is there a specific reason you've chosen us for your stay?" Charlotte ventured, unable to contain her curiosity, though she would never let it show on her face.
"Let's call it a personal retreat," Isla responded, her tone noncommittal as she glanced out the window toward the craggy coastline. "This place has a certain... allure."
There was a depth to Isla's words that hinted at layers yet to be uncovered, and Charlotte could not shake the feeling that there was much more behind that serene facade. What sort of past did one need to escape from that led them to the doorstep of The Crown? Charlotte herself had come after personal tragedy, so she imagined all sorts of things that might have led Isla here.
"The room is already ready," Charlotte said, handing over a brass key with an ornate fob. "Dinner will be served at seven in the dining hall. Sea bass is the catch of the day—it's quite lovely. How long are you planning to stay with us?"
"Thank you," Isla replied, accepting the key, her fingertips brushing against Charlotte's hand—an unintentional touch that sent an inexplicable shiver down Charlotte's spine. "I look forward to dinner." She seemed to purposefully avoid answering the question of duration.
As Isla ascended the staircase, her silhouette cast long shadows against the floral wallpaper, each step measured and sure. Charlotte watched her disappear around the corner, a sense of unease coiling in the pit of her stomach.
Who was Isla Wagner? And what had truly brought her to The Crown? Charlotte shook her head gently, trying to dispel the disquiet that clung to her like the mist rolling in from the sea. But try as she might, Charlotte knew that some questions would demand answers, whether she was prepared to hear them or not.
An hour later, the attic boxes were sorted and the late afternoon light filtered through the bay windows of The Crown, casting a warm glow that seemed to dance across the mahogany floorboards. Charlotte busied herself straightening a stack of brochures on Chesham Cove's local attractions and was updating the online bookings when Isla reappeared, descending the staircase with the quiet grace of a wraith.
"Ms. Moore," she began, her voice smooth like clotted cream, "I was wondering if you could tell me a bit about the history of this inn?"
Charlotte turned to face her guest, clasping her hands in front of her to still their sudden tremble. The question, innocent as it was, felt probing beneath Isla's intense gaze. "Certainly," she managed with a practiced smile. "The Crown dates back to the 18th century. It served as a private residence for a wealthy sea captain and his family—some say he made his real money privateering—before being converted into an inn almost a hundred years ago."
"Ah, I see," Isla said, tilting her head slightly as if studying an intricate painting. "And what about you, Ms. Moore? Your accent hints at a story far from English shores."
"New York originally," Charlotte replied, the words slipping out with a hint of nostalgia. "But I suppose I was seeking a different kind of life—slower, more deliberate." She paused, feeling the weight of Isla's scrutiny. "Chesham Cove seemed like the perfect place to start over."
"Starting over," Isla echoed softly, moving closer to examine a vase of fresh-cut peonies on the reception desk. "That's a brave choice."
Charlotte noted the way Isla's fingers traced the delicate petals, leaving them trembling gently in her wake. "Sometimes life doesn't give us much choice," she said, her voice dropping to a near whisper.
"Indeed," Isla murmured, her eyes lifting to meet Charlotte's own.
"Was there something particular you were escaping from?" The question, wrapped in the guise of casual conversation, struck a nerve. A chill ran down Charlotte's spine, mirroring the one from Isla's touch earlier.
"Let's just say I needed a change of scenery," Charlotte replied, her composure fraying at the edges. She’d had enough today—of the Harrisons, Thomas, and now this woman. "And you, Mrs. Wagner?" She couldn't suppress the curiosity that surged within her, nor the unease that knitted her brows together.
"Change of scenery," Isla repeated, a half-smile playing on her lips as she withdrew her hand from the flowers. "Yes, let's call it that."
