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Dawn's tender light spilled through the mullioned windows of The Crown Inn's dining area the next morning, christening the mahogany tables and the terracotta tiles underfoot. Charlotte moved with quiet grace around the room, her thoughts as meticulously arranged as the cutlery before her. She had always believed that breakfast was more than just the first meal of the day; it was an artist's palette, an opportunity to paint the morning with flavors and colors.
"Good morning," she murmured, almost to herself, as she adjusted a vase of fresh daffodils, their yellow heads bobbing cheerfully at each table. Her fingers trailed over the petals gently. She placed a platter of sliced fruits next to a basket woven with an assortment of freshly baked bread. The scent of the pastries intertwined with the salty sea breeze that snuck in whenever the door swung open, bringing with it the promise of another day.
"Is the coffee Arabica or Robusta?" Mr. Harrison called out from the buffet line, peering over the steaming pots.
"Arabica, sourced from a small plantation in Colombia. It has a smoother flavor," Charlotte answered, her voice carrying the subtle pride of someone who valued the story behind each detail. In the way she presented the breakfast options, one could see the same care that had once gone into her canvases—each choice a stroke of intent. But the thought reminded her of how busy she’d been so far this summer, with little time to paint.
Mr. Harrison nodded, satisfied. As Charlotte adjusted a tray of cheeses, her mind drifted briefly to the life she'd left, where painting had been her only escape—here, every morning was a canvas awaiting her touch. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and checked the consistency of the porridge simmering on the stove, ensuring it was just right.
"Charlotte, do you have any of that splendid marmalade left?" asked another guest, his eyes hopeful.
"Of course, Mr. Bennett. I made extra this week," she replied, her lips curving into a smile that reached her eyes. She opened a cupboard and handed him a jar, the golden contents catching the sunlight, and watched as he spooned it onto his toast with relish.
Charlotte took a moment, leaning against the kitchen counter, to observe the guests as they filled their plates. Her heart swelled with a sense of accomplishment, seeing them savor the offerings she'd prepared. Each satisfied sigh and contented murmur was a balm to her nurturing spirit.
It was then that Isla Wagner pushed open the kitchen door, her entrance silent but for the soft click of the latch falling back into place. She stood framed by the doorway, a tall silhouette clad in a flowing dress that whispered of affluence and elegant indifference to the quaintness surrounding her. Her gaze, cool and observational, swept over the room before settling on Charlotte with a spark of curiosity.
"Good morning," Charlotte greeted, offering a smile as Isla approached the buffet. "I hope you find everything to your liking."
"Quite," Isla replied, her voice smooth, yet it carried an undercurrent of something more—a prying intent disguised as casual conversation. "You've done wonders with the place. It has an... authentic charm." She turned to face Charlotte, her eyes appraising the innkeeper standing amidst her culinary creations.
"Thank you," Charlotte said, feeling the weight of scrutiny but choosing to focus on the compliment. "I felt this old house deserved a chance to shine again."
"An artist from New York running a British B&B? That’s quite a shift." Isla leaned against the table, plucking a grape from the fruit platter. "What made you leave the city for Chesham Cove?"
So she’s read the website, Charlotte thought.
Charlotte paused, measuring her words with care. "Life can surprise you with unexpected turns," she admitted. "Sometimes, you have to follow where they lead, even if it brings you to the edge of the world."
"Why this edge?" Isla queried, a half-smile playing at the corner of her lips.
"Perhaps it was fate." Charlotte arranged the silverware with meticulous attention, creating a momentary barrier between herself and Isla's probing gaze. "Anyway, I believe there's beauty in new beginnings."
"Indeed." Isla's eyes narrowed slightly. "And do you plan to keep this... beauty all to yourself? What are your aspirations for The Crown?"
Charlotte glanced out the window, watching a seagull glide effortlessly on the sea breeze. "I want my guests to feel at home, even if they're miles away from theirs."
"Admirable," Isla conceded, her tone implying she understood more than she let on. "And does this vision have room for expansion? Or will you keep it as a well-kept secret?"
"Expansion isn't always synonymous with improvement," Charlotte countered gently, aware of the stakes such discussions held in a small community like Chesham Cove. Her thoughts went immediately to Thomas Windnell, and she had a sudden, horrifying thought—what if Isla was somehow a spy for the posh Brit? Sent to sabotage or gather intel for Windell? "I value intimacy and authenticity over grandeur. The inn is more than just a business; it's a personal investment."
"Personal..." Isla repeated softly, the word lingering between them like a shared secret. Her eyes seemed to hold a glimmer of respect—or was it merely a reflection of the sunlight?
Charlotte offered a plate of pastries to a—thankfully pleased—Mrs. Harrison, allowing the interaction to provide a natural pause in their conversation. She could feel Isla's persistent curiosity, but beneath the surface, there was also something akin to recognition—an understanding that journeys, no matter how different, often shared the same destination: a longing for purpose and a place to call home.
Isla's eyes wandered over the room before fixing back on Charlotte. "And has your daughter taken to this rustic life as well as you have?"
The question, innocuous as it might have seemed, sent a prickle of discomfort skittering down Charlotte's spine. She poured steaming coffee into a porcelain cup with practiced care to avoid betraying her unease. "Amelia is... embracing the change," she said cautiously, feeling the scrutiny like a spotlight. “She heads back across the pond to college soon.”
How does Isla know Amelia is here?
"Embracing, hmm?" Isla's eyebrow arched, a silent prompt for more.
"Wholeheartedly," Charlotte insisted, even as her mind whispered doubts.
Before the conversation could delve deeper, the brisk patter of footsteps announced Amelia's serendipitous approach. The young woman appeared at the doorway, her hair pulled into a haphazard bun that suggested a hurried morning.
"Morning, Mum," Amelia chirped, snagging a piece of toast from a passing tray. Her eyes flickered to Isla, offering a polite nod before darting away. Amelia took a travel mug from a nearby cupboard and filled it with coffee.
