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Her gaze shifted beyond the window, where the cove lay draped in a shawl of mist, the sea whispering secrets to the rugged cliffs. Here was the natural beauty she had sought—a stark contrast to the chaos she left behind in New York. Its wild tranquility was a balm, yet within these walls, that peace felt just out of reach.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The afternoon sun filtered through the stained-glass windows of The Old Crown Inn, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on the faded wooden floor. Charlotte Moore stood behind the reception desk, her fingers mindlessly tracing the intricate carvings in the oak as she pondered a new color scheme for the lobby. A vibrant palette, perhaps, to breathe fresh life into the old bones of the manor house.
"Charlotte, darling," a voice as smooth as clotted cream interrupted her reverie. Isla Wagner appeared like a summer storm—sudden and impossible to ignore—with her windswept hair and an enigmatic smile that never quite reached her eyes.
"Can I help you with something, Isla?" Charlotte asked, forcing a polite smile while bracing herself against the brewing undercurrent.
"Actually, yes." Isla leaned against the counter, her gaze sharp and assessing. "I've been meaning to ask how you're finding little Chesham Cove. It's quite the change from bustling New York, isn't it?"
"Indeed, it is," Charlotte replied, noting the precision in Isla's inquiry, as if each word were a chess piece moved with intent. "But there's healing in the quiet, don't you find?"
"Of course," Isla purred, brushing a lock of hair behind her ear. She tilted her head slightly. Charlotte returned to the patterns of light on the floor, seeking solace in their transitory beauty. Yet, even as she contemplated the hues before her, her mind was awash with a different spectrum—shades of doubt and trust, intermingling. The faint buzz of Charlotte’s phone broke through the tension, a lifeline thrown into turbulent waters. She glanced down to see Simon's name flashing on the screen, his call disrupting the rhythm of her heartbeat.
"Excuse me," she murmured, grasping the phone as if it were the hand of a rescuer pulling her from quicksand. She stepped around the corner into the quietude of the adjoining parlor, leaving Isla's calculating gaze behind. The intricate patterns of the carpet blurred beneath her feet, every fiber urging her to distance herself from the woman who held pieces of Simon's history she had yet to read.
"Hello?" Charlotte's voice was a hushed whisper, a contrast to the cacophony of emotions clashing within her.
"Hey, Charlotte," came Simon's warm timbre, a soothing balm to the sting of Isla's words. "Hope I'm not interrupting anything?"
"Ah, no, just... handling some inn business." She angled her body away from the foyer, pressing her free hand against the cool wall, craving its solidity against her palm. A lie so white it almost glistened in the dim room, but necessary.
"Good to hear." His laugh was a low rumble, the sound of earth settling after a quake. "We still on for later?"
"Of course," she confirmed, her voice steadying with each syllable. In the safety of his virtual embrace, the shadows cast by Isla's intentions began to dissipate.
"Can't wait." His words held a promise, an unspoken understanding of the refuge they found in one another's company.
"Me neither," Charlotte whispered, her heart finding its rhythm anew. Amidst the chaos Isla stirred, Simon was her constant, the lighthouse guiding her through fog-laden paths. "Listen, Charlotte," Simon's voice broke through the static of anticipation, "I’d rather not come back to the inn tonight while she's still around."
The words tumbled into the quiet space between them like stones into a still pond, and Charlotte felt the ripples cascade through her chest. She glanced up, catching Isla's reflection in the window pane – an oil painting of poise and curiosity, framed by the waning light.
"Let's go out instead," Simon suggested, a note of eagerness threading his words.
Charlotte exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the glass for a moment before dissolving into nothingness. "That sounds perfect," she replied, the corners of her mouth lifting in a small, secret smile.
"Great. I'll pick you up at seven?"
"Seven it is." She allowed herself to imagine the evening ahead, a canvas waiting to be colored with memories yet to be made.
"Look forward to it," Simon said, his warmth wrapping around her like a soft shawl on a cool evening.
"Me too," she whispered, sealing their plan with a promise woven from shared anticipation.
As she slipped the phone into her pocket, Charlotte turned to find Isla's gaze upon her, a blend of suspicion and curiosity etching her features. In that moment, Charlotte was acutely aware of the masquerade they both performed – one seeking solace, the other answers, both cloaked in polite indifference.
"Who was that?" Isla asked, tilting her head slightly to the side, her voice laced with feigned nonchalance.
"Old friend," Charlotte lied smoothly, feeling the weight of truth pressing against her conscience, urging her toward transparency. But this was not the time for candid revelations; the air was already thick with unsaid words and unasked questions.
"Must be nice, having friends nearby," Isla remarked, the edges of her lips curling with a hint of something unreadable.
"It is," Charlotte agreed, her response a life raft she clung to amidst the turbulent waters of Isla's probing.
"Anyway, I should get going," Isla announced abruptly, as if deciding there were no more secrets to unearth here.
Charlotte nodded, watching Isla's retreat with a sense of relief that left her knees weak. She was free, if only for the rest of the afternoon, to prepare for an evening with Simon where the only eyes that mattered were those filled with understanding and affection.
