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Charlotte lingered at the reception desk, her fingers tracing the grooves of the polished oak as she listened to the Harrisons ascend the stairs, their conversation a murmur lost in the grandeur of the foyer. The Crown Inn buzzed with the gentle hum of other guests settling in, yet Charlotte's attention remained fixed on the distant echo of the American couple's footsteps. A frown creased her forehead as she contemplated the precarious balance between accommodation and capitulation. She envisioned the scathing review that might spread like wildfire across the internet, tarnishing the reputation she'd so painstakingly built.
With a deep breath that did little to quell the tide of apprehension, Charlotte turned from the desk and made her way to the sanctuary of her office—a small room tucked away behind the scenes, filled with the comforting scent of lavender and aged paper. She sank into the embrace of her high-backed chair, the leather cool against her skin, and booted up the computer, its screen casting a soft glow in the dimly lit space.
Her inbox greeted her with the fruits of her labors: a string of new reservations scattered over the summer months and her first glowing testimonials from travelers who'd already stayed within the Crown Inn's walls. She clicked through to the message, the five-star rating and heartfelt comment warming her from within.
"Look at this, Amelia," she whispered, though her daughter was not there to hear. "They love what we've done with the place."
Her gaze swept over the numbers, imagining the steady climb of occupancy rates, and the future peaks of seasonal bookings. It was all there in black and white—the validation of her vision, the affirmation that her impulsive leap across the Atlantic had been more than just a flight of fancy.
Daniel would have said something derisive—just as he always had with her painting. But there was no criticism ringing in her ears now. Even amid the digital praise, though, the specter of the Harrisons' potential dissatisfaction loomed large. Charlotte reread the new review, which praised the inn's 'exceptional personal service,' and her throat tightened.
We cannot afford to slip, she thought, her fingers drumming a staccato rhythm on the desk. "Not now. Not with so much at stake."
She stood, paced before the window that framed a view of the untamed garden, its wildflowers swaying in the coastal wind. The Crown Inn was a living thing, and she, its caretaker, had coaxed it back to health. Yet, like any creature, it needed constant nurturing to thrive.
Turning from the window, Charlotte gathered the notes she had scribbled about the Harrisons' needs. Almond milk and no-gluten bread. She would need to visit town.
“Mom?" Amelia's voice pulled Charlotte from her reverie. She turned to find her daughter in the doorway, dressed but not quite looking awake.
A smile danced on Charlotte's lips. "Ah, she lives?" she mused. “Sleep well?”
Amelia closed the distance between them. "Yes," she conceded, "like a log. Way better than at the dorms. It’s bustling out in the main house! You should have heard the couple in room six gushing about the four-poster bed and the view of the garden."
"High praise indeed," Charlotte acknowledged, her gaze drifting to the doorway. There were so many other rooms with spectacular views, just waiting to be renovated and put to use. But time—and money—were limiting factors. “We should start on the east wing next, don’t you think?”
"Come on, let's take a walk outside," Amelia suggested, nudging Charlotte toward the French doors that led to the gardens. "Fresh air, and you can tell me about your plans for the east wing."
Together, they stepped out into the sunlight, the breeze tousling their hair as they walked along the manicured pathways interspersed with wildflowers. Charlotte’s gaze lingered on the building that represented her new beginning.
"Look at it, Amelia," she murmured, pride threading through her words. "It's already so much more than I imagined when I first laid eyes on it."
Amelia squeezed her mother's hand. "It's not just the inn that's transformed, Mom. You are too."
Charlotte allowed herself a moment to bask in the truth of Amelia's observation before the practicalities of running an establishment reasserted themselves. The Harrisons, those demanding guests, would be expecting everything to be perfect. She could almost hear Mr. Harrison's brusque tone, requesting his myriad specifics for comfort. Charlotte quickly caught Amelia up on the morning’s drama.
Amelia's eyebrows rose. "Wow, high maintenance much?"
"You have no idea," Charlotte replied with a wry smile. "But we'll manage. They're just... particular," she said, choosing her words carefully. “So I need to head to town to get a few things. You want to come?”
Amelia shook her head. “I was going to gather shells. Maybe head into town later. But you go on.”
Something prickled at the back of Charlotte’s mind at the casualness of Amelia’s tone, but she brushed it aside. Charlotte nodded, understanding her daughter's desire for a bit of solitude. "Alright. Make sure to have some breakfast before you go, okay? There's fresh fruit and yogurt in the kitchen."
Amelia smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. "I will. And I'll leave some for the Harrisons."
Charlotte chuckled, appreciating her daughter's lighthearted approach to the situation. "Thank you. I've got to grab a few things from the kitchen, but then I’ll be back soon."
With a final squeeze of Amelia's hand, Charlotte hustled back into the house. In the kitchen, she took a picnic basket from the cupboard. Today, she was packing a classic Cornish pasty, its flaky crust cradling a hearty blend of beef, potatoes, and swede. Her heart fluttered like the wings of a caged bird at the thought of Simon tasting her creations. Her mind wandered to Simon’s rugged hands—so adept at mending nets and guiding his boats through churning waves—perhaps cradling her pasty with an approving nod. A smile tugged at the corners of her lips. He was kind, handsome, and so very English, a far cry from Daniel with his New York polish and predictable routines.
With the pasties wrapped up, Charlotte turned her attention to the coronation chicken, filling a lidded container with the creamy curry-infused sauce and tender chunks of poached chicken. She retrieved a crusty loaf of bread and some produce. She imagined Simon’s surprise at the exotic yet homey taste. Charlotte arranged the lunch items with precision in the wicker basket lined with a red-and-white checkered cloth. She nestled the pasties next to a mason jar of pickled onions and a wedge of mature Cheddar cheese, the sharpness of which would complement the rich meaty pies. She placed the coronation chicken and other ingredients for sandwiches in, making sure not to forget the crisp lettuce leaves in parchment paper.
Will he appreciate this? she pondered, her hands hesitating as they arranged a small pot of clotted cream next to a cluster of fresh strawberries. It was all so different from anything Daniel would have eaten, but Simon wasn't Daniel. He appreciated the rugged cliffs and wild seas of Chesham Cove; perhaps he'd appreciate this too.
"Can't forget these," Charlotte added, slipping a pair of Bakewell tarts into the basket. Their sweet almond frangipane and raspberry jam filling would be the perfect end to their meal.
She stepped back, taking in the sight of her carefully curated offering. Pride swelled within her chest—a pride mingled with a dash of trepidation. She secured the basket's lid and hoisted the basket, feeling the weight of hope resting comfortably in its woven depths.
As she turned to leave and headed toward her car, her mind already ran through the list of items she needed to pick up for the Harrisons. And as Charlotte drove away, her thoughts lingered on Amelia's sudden desire for solitude. It was unlike her to pass up a trip into town. Was there more to Amelia's request to be alone? Was she simply enjoying some quiet time, or was there something else on her mind?
