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"Would you look at that, Mom? Mrs. Calloway is coming back next month. She left such a lovely review." Amelia's voice was tinged with pride as she pointed to the booking.
"Her words were kinder than I ever expected," Charlotte whispered, fingertips tracing the screen. Inside her chest, a small knot of anxiety loosened, the unease that clung to her like morning fog dissipating just a bit more. It was more than the fresh coat of paint or the new furniture that signaled progress; it was the seeing how others appreciated this place the way Charlotte did.
They stashed their day’s treasures and moved through to the common area, where Amelia set a fire that crackled invitingly in the hearth. "Tomorrow, let's put some of the shells in a jar for the mantlepiece," she suggested.
"Perfect," Charlotte agreed. "It'll be like having a piece of the sea with us, even indoors."
As they sat in wingback chairs and enjoyed the fire, some tea, and generous plates of the Wellington leftover from the previous night, Charlotte's mind wandered to the future – not the distant, uncertain horizon, but the tangible tomorrow filled with the promise of continued growth and healing. The Crown stood firm around them, its old bones sighing and creaking as the day cooled. The house had been her leap of faith, her canvas to transform, and now it was becoming home, proof that she could start anew.
"Hey, Mom?" Amelia's voice pulled her from her reverie. "I'm really glad we did this today. Just you and me."
"Me too, darling. Come here," she murmured, opening her arms.
Amelia sank into the embrace, her presence a balm to Charlotte's soul. In the quiet of the living room, with the remnants of the day fading into twilight, they held each other close. There was no need for words; their bond spoke volumes.
"Love you, Mom," Amelia whispered against her shoulder.
"Love you more, my girl," Charlotte replied, her voice steady even as emotion thickened her throat. Then, grinning against Amelia’s hair, she added in her most serious voice, “Now, do you want to paint or do plumbing tomorrow?
Amelia’s laughter was only slightly muffled against Charlotte’s shoulder.
CHAPTER THREE
The afternoon sun cast a golden hue across the newly polished floors of The Crown Inn, transforming the lobby into a tapestry of light and shadow. Laughter bubbled from the lounge where Charlotte’s newest guests congregated around the hearth, its crackling fire offering comfort. It was an ordinary yet bustling day at the inn, with each ring of the brass bell above the door heralding new arrivals seeking refuge in this coastal haven. So far, Charlotte had two of her four available rooms filled, and the couple currently admiring the fireplace was her third and final check-in for the week.
"Darling, look at this place! It's charming, isn't it?" Mrs. Harrison's voice cut through the congenial silence like a knife through butter. Charlotte, stationed behind the reception desk, smiled in greeting as the American couple approached from the formal living room.
"Quite," Mr. Harrison agreed, though his eyes darted about as if cataloging every detail for future scrutiny. His gaze sharpened and swung to Charlotte. "We expect our stay to be nothing short of exemplary."
"Of course, Mr. and Mrs. Harrison," Charlotte replied, her tone warm but tinged with wariness. She had a feeling about this couple. "We will do everything we can to ensure your comfort."
Mrs. Harrison propped designer sunglasses atop her head, revealing eyes that were keen and assessing. "We've traveled quite extensively," she announced, as if bestowing a challenge. "And we know what we like."
"Absolutely." Charlotte nodded. She stood behind the polished oak reception desk, a beacon of calm in the eye of the check-in storm. The Crown Inn hummed with activity, its walls echoing with laughter and chatter, yet she remained focused on the couple before her. The Harrisons had an air about them, one that spoke of accustomed luxury and unspoken—but exacting—expectations.
She regretted letting Amelia sleep in—Amelia would have loved to gawk at the Harrisons and their pretentious flashiness. They had come from Los Angeles, the same as the poetry book, but the Harrisons were decidedly less of a welcome find. Charlotte had plunged into innkeeping to stitch together a life frayed by divorce, and every satisfied guest was a patch in her quilt of reinvention—but the Harrisons, with their air of entitlement, threatened to tug at her stitching.
"Your room is ready," Charlotte assured them, hoping her efforts at online marketing hadn't attracted guests whose expectations towered above the quaint charm of The Crown Inn.
"Let's hope so," Mr. Harrison said, leaning in, a whiff of expensive cologne enveloping Charlotte. "We're here to relax, not to wait."
"Indeed," Charlotte echoed, her smile unyielding as she handed them their key. Inside, she felt the stirrings of a familiar resolve, the kind that had propelled her across the ocean to start anew. She had a feeling that Mr. Harrison was waiting for her to react to his sharpness, but he underestimated her. Their presence was a test—one she intended to pass with grace.
"Would it be too much trouble to have some extra towels sent up to our room?" Mrs. Harrison asked, twirling a strand of hair around her finger. Her voice was honeyed but carried an edge of command.
"Of course not, Mrs. Harrison," Charlotte responded with practiced ease, her fingers already dancing across the computer keyboard to note the request. "We want you to feel as comfortable as possible."
Mr. Harrison interjected, his tone less dulcet, more direct. "And the room must be kept at exactly seventy-two degrees. We find that to be the optimal sleeping temperature."
"Absolutely," Charlotte replied, her internal monologue recounting the steps she would take to achieve this precise climate control. She imagined herself like the artist she was, carefully mixing colors—only now she blended amenities and accommodations to create the perfect guest experience.
"Lastly, we adhere to a very strict diet—gluten-free, dairy-free, and we prefer organic fruits." Mrs. Harrison's eyes locked onto Charlotte's, searching for any hint of hesitation.
"Your dietary needs will be given our utmost attention," Charlotte assured them, her thoughts tumbling like waves against Chesham Cove's rocky shore. She considered the local suppliers, the freshest produce, visualizing the breakfast spread that would satisfy these stringent requirements.
"Very well," Mrs. Harrison said with a curt nod, the ghost of a smile gracing her lips. "We appreciate your... flexibility."
"Flexibility" was a word Charlotte had come to embrace in her new life. But she had a feeling that the Harrisons were about as flexible as an iron fence. As they departed toward the grand staircase, she made a mental checklist of everything needed to cater to their demands.
