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Shaking off the concern for the moment, Charlotte focused on the task at hand. She knew she could talk to Amelia later, perhaps over dinner, and gently probe if anything was amiss. For now, the priority was ensuring the Harrisons' stay at The Crown Inn was as comfortable and complaint-free as possible.
CHAPTER FOUR
As Charlotte parked outside the grocer’s in Chesham, her phone dinged with a message. She checked it absently as she climbed out of the car, and her breath caught when she saw an email from the ancestry website she had been frequenting as of late.
Could it be?
"Probably nothing," she murmured to herself. And when the message turned out to be a renewal reminder, she whispered, “Just be patient.” The words were a mantra, a lifeline that she had grasped through the tumult of divorce and change. They were also a promise, one that extended beyond the inn's restoration to the mending of her own fragmented history—the message had not been one from her father, nor had it contained any hint of where he might be. The mystery lingered.
Charlotte's fingers hesitated above the glossy screen of her smartphone, a modern oracle that remained stubbornly silent. The device lay cold and unyielding in her palm, its surface reflecting the pale morning light filtering through the lace curtains. She swiped through her other notifications with a flicker of impatience—the usual promotional emails, a reminder for an online art supplies sale, but nothing of the substance she sought. No whispers or digital breadcrumbs leading to her father. Her thumb hovered over the refresh icon, willing it to reveal some clue, any clue, but the inbox remained as barren as before. No new news.
"Nothing," she murmured, the word dissolving into the quiet air, tinged with disappointment.
Perhaps Sally has heard something, she thought, envisioning the bakery's warm glow and the scent of fresh bread as an antidote to the uncertainty gnawing at her heart. A restless energy propelled her forward past the grocer’s, the soles of her boots clicking against the sidewalk. Charlotte knew that Sally, with her flour-dusted apron and ever-percolating pot of community news, might hold the key to the longed-for family reunion.
With each step toward the high street, Charlotte wrapped herself tighter in the cocoon of hope that had begun to unfurl within her chest. It was a delicate thing, easily torn, yet it pushed her past storefronts and the greetings of locals with optimism in her heart.
With each step along the cobblestone streets, she admired the quaint cottages, their gardens a riot of colors, bursting with life—a stark contrast to the sterile high rises of New York.
"Morning, Charlotte!" called Mr. Jenkins from his perch outside the corner shop, his newspaper folded neatly under his arm.
"Good morning," she replied with a smile, her American accent still drawing the occasional curious glance, even after months in the cove.
"Beautiful day, isn't it?" he remarked, his eyes twinkling behind spectacles that had seen many a sunny morning in this little town.
"Absolutely stunning," she agreed, her gaze lingering on the azure expanse of the sky, a canvas she longed to capture in oil and pigment.
Ambling past the flower shop, she waved to Mrs. Donnelly, who was arranging a bouquet of dahlias, their vibrant hues spilling out onto the pavement like drops of paint from an artist's palette. "Lovely blooms!" Charlotte called out.
"Thanks, love! Just wait 'til you see the roses," Mrs. Donnelly beamed, her pride in her work unmistakable.
Charlotte's heart swelled at these small exchanges; they were the threads that tethered her to this place. But beneath the surface of pleasantries, her mind churned with thoughts of the father she barely knew—a mystery man whose recent alleged sighting in London, according to her Cousin Agnes here in Chesham, had sparked a fire of curiosity within her.
"Morning, Charlotte!" called Mr. Henley from his perch outside the post office, his voice cutting through the solitude of her thoughts.
"Good morning, Mr. Henley!" she replied, her voice laced with polite warmth.
"Off to see Sally?" he ventured, his knowing eyes twinkling behind thick spectacles.
"Indeed, I am. Hoping she’s got some fresh scones left," Charlotte answered with a small smile, though her stomach churned not with hunger, but with anticipation.
"Best hurry then. You know how quickly they disappear," he chuckled, returning to his newspaper.
"Will do. Have a good day," Charlotte tossed over her shoulder, hastening her pace.
The door to the bakery chimed cheerfully as she entered. The space was alive with the rhythmic dance of Sally’s practiced movements—tending to the oven, sliding a tray of golden croissants onto the counter, brushing a lock of hair from her forehead with the back of her hand.
"Ah, there she is, our own New Yorker!" Sally exclaimed, placing the tray down with a clatter. "What can I get for you today, dear?"
"Just your delightful company, Sally," Charlotte quipped, though her eyes betrayed the true purpose of her visit. She leaned against the counter, observing the ebb and flow of patrons—each familiar face a reminder that she was no longer an outsider, but part of this community.
"Busy as ever, I see," she noted, her voice tinged with the lightest strain of fatigue—not from the early hour, but from the weight of unanswered questions that lingered at the back of her mind.
"Always, love. Can't have the good folks of Chesham Cove starting their day without a proper bit of sustenance," Sally responded, casting a knowing glance at Charlotte. "But you're not here for my scones, are you? You've got that look about you—the same one when you decided to buy that old inn."
Sally's observation drew a soft chuckle from Charlotte, the sound dancing amidst the clinking ceramics and hushed conversations. "You know me too well," she admitted, her fingers tracing the grain of the wooden countertop. "I'm searching for pieces of a puzzle that's been missing far too many bits."
Charlotte’s words hung in the air, suspended like the fine dust motes caught in the sunbeams streaming through the front window.
