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Agnes sighed sympathetically. "I'm so sorry, Charlotte."
Everyone keeps saying that, Charlotte thought. But no one really understands.
"Thanks, Agnes. I'll keep looking." Charlotte ended the call, feeling a profound sense of loneliness envelop her. The tourist's mistake, coupled with the lack of news from Agnes, left her feeling more lost than ever.
Charlotte suddenly wanted to talk to her sister, but the time difference—Roxanne wouldn’t likely pick up. She texted her anyway, asking to talk. She needed to hear the voice of the one person who would truly understand.
She stood there for a moment, trying to gather her strength, the sounds of the sea and the cries of the seagulls a distant background to her troubled thoughts. Her father's absence, the unresolved questions, and now this fruitless chase – it all seemed too much to bear.
With a heavy heart, she began her walk back to the harbor, to Simon. He would be there, waiting, ready to offer comfort and support. But even the thought of his steadying presence couldn't dispel the sadness that clung to her like a shadow.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Charlotte headed home in the darkening evening after spending an hour or so with Simon. Chesham Cove sprawled out before her like an open book, each person a sentence, every building a paragraph—but Charlotte felt unfinished, a rough draft. But somewhere within these pages might be the answer to the question that had suddenly reignited within her heart.
Her boots clicked a steady rhythm on the cobblestones as she made her way through the familiar maze of streets. With each step, anticipation coiled tighter inside her chest, a mix of hope and trepidation knitting together.
"Could it really have been him?" The thought kept pace with her strides. It was ludicrous, the idea that her estranged father would appear here, of all places. Yet, the universe had a sense of humor, placing her at the edge of the world she once knew, only to tease her with echoes of her past.
She passed by shop windows reflecting a woman who looked composed, yet her pulse fluttered like a caged bird, eager for the freedom of answers. Charlotte tucked a stray auburn curl behind her ear, a small gesture of fortitude.
As Charlotte continued her walk, the evening air crisp and cool around her, the quaint charm of Chesham Cove took on a different hue in the fading light. The street lamps cast a soft glow, painting the cobbled streets in a warm, inviting light. Despite the beauty, Charlotte's mind remained preoccupied, wrestling with the possibility of her father's presence in this small corner of the world.
Turning a corner, she paused, her breath catching in her throat. There, ahead of her, stood a man in a plaid scarf and navy coat, distinctly different from the tourist she had mistaken earlier on the cliffs. This man's posture, the way he stood gazing into a shop window, the set of his shoulders - it all struck a chord in Charlotte's memory.
Her heart pounded in her chest as she stood frozen, observing him. Could this really be her father? The distance between them felt like a chasm filled with years of absence and unanswered questions. She took a tentative step forward, her mind a whirlwind of emotions.
The man turned slightly, and for a brief moment, their eyes met. Charlotte's heart skipped a beat. There was something familiar in that glance, a fleeting connection that tugged at her heartstrings. The man's face was partially obscured by the shadows, making it hard to discern his features clearly.
Compelled by a mixture of hope and fear, Charlotte moved closer, her steps hesitant. As she approached, the man turned away, continuing down the street. Charlotte quickened her pace, not wanting to lose sight of him, her mind racing with questions. Was this a mere coincidence, or had fate brought her face to face with her past?
She trailed behind the man at a discreet distance, her gaze locked on his broad shoulders as they moved with an air of casual certainty. He navigated Chesham Cove's cobbled streets with ease, as though he knew every brick and crack by heart. She kept herself half-hidden behind clusters of chatting tourists and locals still bustling about the evening streets, using them as a living screen to mask her presence.
"Hey-o!” the man called out, his voice carrying over the hum of the crowd.
"Hello, stranger! How goes it?” replied an elderly gentleman from his perch outside the barbershop, newspaper in hand.
"It’s going well, thanks.”
Charlotte watched the exchange, her heart tapping a staccato rhythm against her ribs. Each word from the man's mouth was like a drop of rain on the parched soil of her curiosity. The sound of his voice, warm and affable, was not quite how she remembered her father's, but then again, memories could be deceitful, especially those marinated in time.
She quickened her pace as the man turned down a narrow lane.
"Stay back, stay quiet," she coached herself, a mantra to keep her steps careful and her breath even. The man had become the axis on which her world currently spun, each rotation feeding her anticipation, stretching it thin. Charlotte tucked another unruly strand of hair behind her ear, a nervous tic she barely noticed anymore. She pressed on, driven by the fragile hope that this stranger might hold the key to a door long closed in her heart.
"Please," she whispered to no one, "let this not be another dead end."
The shadow of the church steeple stretched long across the cobblestone as Charlotte followed the stranger into the quiet solace of St. Mary's graveyard. The man paused by a weathered tombstone, tracing the name etched upon it with a tender finger. Charlotte held her breath, waiting, watching from behind an ancient yew tree, its branches a haven for whispered secrets.
"Geraldine," the man spoke softly, his voice carrying in the still air, "my love, bet you're having a laugh up there."
Charlotte's heart plummeted—her mother's name was not Geraldine. Her stomach knotted with the sharp twinge of disappointment; she had been wrong. With a heavy sigh, she stepped out from her hiding place, her presence an unspoken apology to the somber tranquility she'd disturbed.
"Excuse me," she called out, her voice unsteady, betraying her dashed hopes.
The man turned, a gentle confusion in his eyes. "Yes, miss? Can I help you?"
"I—I thought you were someone else," Charlotte admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, her gaze flickering away. "I'm sorry for intruding."
