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Charlotte hesitated on the threshold, her nose wrinkling at the mention of Amelia going back to The States. The summer couldn’t last forever, but Charlotte could at least ignore that it would end, for now. Fall semester would encroach soon enough.
Her gaze swept across The Crown's transformed facade. The once-dilapidated walls now boasted a fresh coat of paint, a soft cream that seemed to have absorbed the calmness of the sea itself. The new porch furniture, arranged thoughtfully. A splash of color caught her eye, and she smiled at the vibrant flowers blooming with abandon, their petals a kaleidoscope against the inn's renewed exterior.
"Look at this place, Mom," Amelia said, her voice laced with pride. "You've really turned it into something special."
"We’re not done yet, darling," Charlotte replied, her satisfaction evident as she admired the fruits of her labor. "But it feels like a different world from when we first arrived."
Charlotte allowed herself a final glance back at The Crown, and then, with a deep breath, she turned toward the promise of the day, Amelia by her side, and together they ventured toward the quaint heart of Chesham Cove. Together, they strolled along the stone path weaving through the garden, the crunch of gravel underfoot punctuating their silent reverie. Her thoughts wandered, almost helplessly, to thoughts of Daniel. It was hard not to think of him with Amelia here.
"Mom?" Amelia's gentle inquiry drew Charlotte back from her introspection. "Are you okay?"
"Of course," Charlotte responded, her smile returning as she met Amelia's concerned gaze. "Just thinking about house stuff.”
Amelia nodded, seemingly understanding the unspoken in her mother's words. They continued their walk, and Charlotte's heels clicked against the cobblestones, a rhythmic accompaniment to the cheerful buzz of Chesham Cove's morning. Shops with awnings in hues of ocean blue and sandy beige unfurled like petals, greeting the day alongside the women. The scents of salt and blooming hydrangeas mingled together, wrapping around Charlotte and Amelia as they meandered through the streets, laughter spilling from them.
"You used to pursue the pigeons down at Central Park," Charlotte teased, her voice laced with warmth.
Amelia chuckled, shoulders shaking with the memory. "I was convinced they had a secret pigeon society. And I wanted in."
"Seems you've always been an adventurer," Charlotte replied, squeezing her daughter's hand. They both knew the paths they walked now were far different from those childhood chases—and Charlotte leaned on Amelia’s reassurances that their new paths would always intertwine.
Their stroll led them past quaint storefronts until they came upon a bookstore nestled between a bakery and a florist near the pier. Its windows displayed stacks of well-loved novels and new releases begging to be explored. With a shared glance, they entered, a bell tinkling above the door announcing their arrival.
"Smells like history and dreams in here," Amelia mused, taking a deep breath.
"Bound up in leather and paper," Charlotte added, trailing her fingers across the spines of books that lined the shelves. They lost themselves among the rows, each title a whisper of another world. Then, Amelia pulled out a slim volume, its cover worn.
"Look, Mom, it's that poetry book you used to read to me when I was little."
"Ah, yes." Charlotte took the book, flipping it open to a dog-eared page. "I told you the selection here was great. This one might have traveled far," she added, pointing to a stamp in the front of the book that said “Los Angeles Public Library.”
"Speaking of going far...I know Dad's decision hit you hard," Amelia said, the playfulness in her tone giving way to gentle seriousness. Charlotte felt the weight of her daughter's gaze, earnest and searching. “Were you thinking of him when we left the house? Does it bother you, remind you, since I’m here?”
"Life throws us curveballs, doesn't it?" Charlotte whispered, her eyes locked on the faded print, not really seeing the words. “Yes, I was thinking abut your dad. About how we failed. But I am nothing but overjoyed that you came to England.”
"Mom," Amelia began, hesitantly, "you're more than just Dad's ex-wife. You're this incredible, strong woman who started over in a new country, who's making The Crown into something beautiful."
"Amelia, I—"
"Let me finish," Amelia interjected softly. "We might not be the family we once were, but we're still a family. And I support you, no matter what."
Charlotte closed the book, setting it back on the shelf, and enveloped Amelia in a tight embrace. "My sweet girl, your faith in me is my greatest strength."
"Always," Amelia whispered, echoing the promise from before.
With the bookstore behind them, they continued on, finding their way to a local art gallery. The hushed space was filled with canvases splashed with color and sculptures that seemed to pulse with life. Charlotte's artistic soul ignited as she surveyed the pieces, each brushstroke a record of someone else's vision.
"Your work should be up here too, Mom," Amelia said, admiration evident in her voice.
"Maybe one day," Charlotte responded, allowing herself a moment to dream of such a future. But for now, she savored the present. Moving to Chesham had reignited her passion for painting, but she still struggled with the artistic rejection she'd felt back in The States—Daniel's sour stance on her art, the rejection of galleries. She just wanted to enjoy her newly rediscovered zest for the arts without pressure.
The day was waning as Charlotte and Amelia made their way back to The Crown, the coastal air now carrying a hint of evening's coming chill. Arms full of packages wrapped in brown paper and twine, they navigated the cobbled street with an easy grace that spoke of contented exhaustion. Each parcel held a bit of the day's discoveries – books that smelled of must and mystery, delicate seashells from the beach souvenir shop, and handmade scarves and other trinkets from the town's artisans.
"Look at us," Amelia chuckled, balancing a precarious stack of packages as she unlocked the door. "We could open our own little shop with all these finds."
"Or at least host one grand party," Charlotte replied, her eyes crinkling with mirth.
Stepping through the weathered door of The Crown, there was an audible exhale, a mutual release of breath that seemed to acknowledge the relief of returning. The inn enveloped them in a familiar embrace. A quick glance at the website admin page on the reception desk laptop revealed a new entry – a booking for the suite overlooking the garden in a few weeks, guests surely drawn by the riotous blooms that now graced the once barren flower beds.
