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For these few precious hours, Charlotte's worries could not reach her. The chaos surrounding Isla, the rift with Amelia, the crumbling state of the inn - all of it faded away. There was only the quiet rhythm of her heartbeat and the rise and fall of her chest.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The laptop wobbled on the worn oak desk in Charlotte's makeshift office, where she sat poised before the screen. With a soft click, the screen came to life, and her fingers danced nimbly over the keyboard, initiating the video call software with practiced ease. Her gaze, a blend of concentration and artistic intuition, scrutinized the camera angle – a tilt here, a swivel there – until her image was perfectly framed within the bounds of the digital window.
"Let's see," Charlotte murmured to herself, tapping at the volume icon on the screen. The small test chime echoed crisply through the room, a satisfactory herald to their impending conversation. She adjusted the microphone setting, ensuring her voice would carry clearly across the ocean that lay between her and Roxanne.
"Come on, Roxie," she whispered as the seconds ticked by, her anticipation bubbling like a delicate champagne fizzing in her chest. The cursor blinked in the corner of the chat window, its rhythm a silent metronome to her rising eagerness.
Through the open window, a sea breeze teased the edge of her papers, carrying with it the scent of salt and the distant murmur of waves against the shore. The Old Crown Inn, with its crumbling walls and whispers of yesteryears, seemed to hold its breath alongside Charlotte as she waited in the midday hush.
Her thoughts began to drift, unfurling like the tendrils of ivy that clung to the inn's façade. Isla. The name brought an involuntary tightening to Charlotte's features – a mixture of wariness and a hope she couldn't quite smother. Could Isla truly be seeking closure, or was this some ploy, a shadow from Simon's past reaching out to disrupt the fragile peace they'd begun to build?
"Darn it," Charlotte sighed, pressing a hand to her forehead. The questions multiplied, each one a tiny incision in the fabric of her trust. If only Roxanne could help her untangle the knot of uncertainties that tightened with every thought of Isla.
A soft ping snapped Charlotte back to the present, and she looked up to see Roxanne's familiar username pop into the 'waiting room' of the call. A smile touched Charlotte's lips, but it was a soldier's smile – ready, resolute, and tinged with the gravity of the upcoming discourse.
"Connecting..." The word flashed on the screen, a digital drumroll to the moment she'd been waiting for, and suddenly Roxanne's face appeared, vibrant and reassuring as always.
"Charlotte! There's my intrepid sister," Roxanne exclaimed, her sassy tone a welcome melody that swept through the static distance.
"Roxie, I'm so glad you're here," Charlotte replied, the relief in her voice mingling with the undertow of worry. "There's something I need to talk to you about – it's about Simon." Her fingers fidgeted with the hem of her blouse, a telltale sign of the nervous energy that pulsed beneath her calm exterior.
"Spill it, Char. You know I've got your back," Roxanne said, her eyes sharp but kind, the bond of sisterhood a beacon in the fog of Charlotte's unease. “And I’m sorry about the text—work has been so crazy this week.”
The sun dipped lower outside the window, painting the room in hues of fading orange and pink, as if the sky itself lent its ear to the confidences about to be shared. And there, amid the echoes of a life she'd left behind in New York and the rugged beauty of Chesham Cove that whispered promises of healing, Charlotte readied herself to bare her soul.
Charlotte's gaze was locked onto Roxanne's image on the screen, the glow from her laptop casting a spectral sheen across the canvas of worry etched upon her face. "Roxie," she began, her voice quivering like a violin string pulled too taut, "I know you got the text, but there’s more. I want to believe that this woman, Isla, who’s staying at The Crown is just looking for closure with Simon. That this surprise visit isn't going to stir up old ghosts."
"Charlotte, darling," Roxanne's voice was firm, unwavering, "Most ex-wives are not the sort to look back, much less seek closure. They are always playing chess, thinking three moves ahead."
Charlotte's heart did a slow, torturous somersault. Her fingers stilled, the hem of her blouse now lying forgotten in her lap. How could she reconcile the desire to see the good in someone with the stark reality painted by Roxanne's words?
Roxanne leaned closer to the camera, her eyes reflecting a history of protective instincts. "You can't let your guard down, Char. Not around her."
A sigh escaped Charlotte, trailing into the quietude of the room. The Old Crown Inn seemed to hold its breath alongside her, the walls steeped in stories of bygone days and echoes of whispers that might well have been her own doubts crawling along the aged woodwork.
"Part of me wonders if I'm just being paranoid..." Charlotte murmured, more to herself than to Roxanne. She wrapped her arms around her torso as if to steady the fluttering uncertainty within. "If maybe—just maybe—she really has moved on."
"Paranoid? Charlotte, you're the most level-headed person I know." Roxanne's lips thinned, a line drawn in sisterly solidarity.
"True," Charlotte conceded, her eyes drifting to the view out the window. It was a painter's dream, but today it only mirrored the muddled palette of her thoughts.
Her mind teemed with the memories of conversations past, laughter shared over wine glasses, promises made under starry skies—all with Simon. Could Isla's return shatter the delicate peace she'd built in this quaint coastal refuge?
Okay, Charlotte," Roxanne's voice finally broke through the speakers, "you need to be smart about this. Isla’s a fox, sly and unpredictable. Start by gathering some intel, nonchalantly. You live in a small town now; use that to your advantage."
"Intel?" Charlotte echoed, her brow furrowed as she considered Roxanne's suggestion. Her fingers ceased their tapping, instead now tracing the grain of the wood beneath them. "You mean like... asking around?"
"Exactly!" Roxanne's face lit up with enthusiasm. "People talk, Charlotte. There's bound to be someone who's seen her, knows her routine. And you've got that charming innkeeper persona – play it up."
A hesitant smile tugged at the corners of Charlotte's lips. She could picture herself, a detective in her own drama, casually inquiring about Isla under the guise of polite conversation over breakfast scones. "I suppose I do have a knack for making people feel comfortable enough to spill their secrets," she mused aloud.
"See? You're a natural." Roxanne leaned forward, her eyes earnest. "Just remember, whatever you find out, communication with Simon is key. Secrets between you two will only give Isla an edge if she's plotting something."
The mention of Simon sent a warm flutter through Charlotte's chest, a stark contrast to the icy knot of uncertainty that had taken residence there. She was conflicted—and she wondered if she could trust him. She wanted to, but…
"I know," she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper. "I don't want any barriers between us. Trust is the foundation we're building on. But that’s not all up to me."
