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"Ah, let me guess. Looking for a bit of gossip to go with your coffee?" Sally teased, placing a scone on a plate and pushing it across the counter with a wink.
"Something like that," Charlotte conceded, accepting the scone. "Actually, I was hoping you might've heard anything about my father?”
Sally's brows knitted together in concentration, her lips pursed as she sifted through the myriad of conversations stored in her mental archives. The pause stretched between them, filled with the clinking of cups and the murmur of patrons enjoying their morning reprieve.
"Henry? Sorry, love. Haven't heard hide nor hair about him," Sally finally said, her tone apologetic. "But you'll be the first to know if I do. Nothing from your cousin Agnes, then?"
"No, unfortunately not. And she’s usually the one he bunks with when he blows into town. Thank you, Sally. I appreciate it," Charlotte replied.
In the quiet aftermath of thwarted hopes, Charlotte bit into the buttery scone, its flakiness a small comfort. She looked around the bakery, taking solace in the steady rhythm of life that pulsed around her—a life she had chosen, and one that was supposed to have quieted all of her turmoil. But there was still the lingering question of her estranged father’s whereabouts—and the years-old questions of why Henry Anderson had become a ghost, separate from his family, his silence as telling as though he had actually died.
Tomorrow is another day, she reminded herself. And I’ll keep searching, one scone, one rumor at a time.
“Charlotte,” Sally finally said after a beat. The other woman’s eyes held hers for a heartbeat, two. "Let's sit down for a minute, dear." Sally gestured toward a small table tucked away in the corner, away from the lingering customers. The simple act of sitting seemed to bear the weight of ceremony, and Charlotte followed, her movements mirroring Sally's own—smooth and deliberate.
As they settled, the symphony of the bakery resumed around them—the quiet rustle of paper bags, the gentle clink of China, the muted conversations of patrons lost in their own worlds. Charlotte's gaze remained fixed on Sally, her heart thrumming a silent drum of hope against the stillness of her exterior.
"Rumors come and go like the tide here," Sally began. "But if there's anything to be known, Charlotte, trust that you'll be the first I tell."
Charlotte nodded, her lips curving into a half-smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. She clasped her hands together, feeling the cool press of her wedding band—a token of a life she had left behind. She wasn’t quite sure why she hadn’t taken it off. She realized, in a moment of shock, that she now had no use for the ring.
"Ah, well," Charlotte murmured, her gaze drifting to the window where morning light danced upon the glass in playful patterns. “Maybe it’s for the best.” She watched as a couple strolled by, their laughter seeping through the bakery walls, threading through the air with an easiness that tugged at something wistful within her.
"Anything else stirring in Chesham Cove?" Charlotte asked, her voice lilting into a more casual tone, inviting the kind of chatter that filled the spaces between searching and finding.
"Stirring? Always," Sally chuckled, leaning back into her chair, the familiar creak sounding like an old tune played on a well-loved fiddle. "Let's see, the Brown twins have started walking now. Little terrors, they are—into everything."
"Twins have a special sort of magic," Charlotte mused, a smile finally lighting up her face as she pictured the toddlers' shared mischief. "Double the trouble, but twice the joy, I'd imagine."
"Indeed," Sally agreed, eyes twinkling. "And did you hear about Mr. Fletcher's prize roses? The blue ribbons this year went straight to his head, he's been parading around like a peacock!"
Their laughter mingled, and Charlotte found solace; the ebb and flow of village life provided an anchor amidst her own tumultuous sea of emotions.
"Peacocks and roses," Charlotte echoed thoughtfully, a wry grin appearing. "The tamest of drama. Things never change around here, do they?"
"Speaking of changes," Sally continued, lowering her voice conspiratorially, "have you seen the renovations they're doing over at the vicarage? Quite modern. It's got some of the old guard in a tizzy!"
"Change can be good," Charlotte replied softly, her gaze turning inward. "Sometimes it's the only way to find what we're looking for." Her fingers traced the rim of her teacup, circling round and round—a physical manifestation of her thoughts spiraling toward possibilities yet unseen.
"True enough," Sally nodded, her wise eyes locking onto Charlotte's. "Except Thomas Windnell’s place. Not a one here in Chesham happy about that place. A monster of a hotel, it is. And getting bigger! I swear, every time you put on a new shingle at The Crown, Windnell adds another wing to his behemoth.”
Charlotte's smile faltered at the mention of Thomas Windnell's sprawling resort. The image of the grand, ever-expanding hotel down the coast from Chesham loomed in her mind, casting a shadow over her quaint, beloved Crown Inn. The man himself—who she'd had a few unfortunate run-ins with—seemed a brilliant businessman but a rotten person. He seemed to only see dollar signs and not the people he would be affecting in Chesham with his megahotel. They had developed a mutual distaste for one another. She set her teacup down with a gentle clink, her fingers lingering on the porcelain, suddenly cold.
"Windnell's resort," she echoed, her voice carrying a hint of unease. The thought of that corporate giant, with its endless resources and appeal to a different class of clientele, gnawed at her. Charlotte had poured her heart into The Crown Inn, nurturing it into a haven. But could it withstand the competition from Windnell's impersonal yet luxurious titan?
Her mind raced with troubled thoughts. The Crown Inn was more than just a business; it was a symbol of her new life, her resilience, her passion. It represented everything she had worked so hard to build and become. The idea of Windnell's resort overshadowing her efforts, luring away potential guests with its flashy allure, was disheartening.
Charlotte forced a smile, trying to mask the sudden surge of worry. "Well, The Crown has its own charm, doesn't it? We cater to those who seek a more personal touch, a bit of history and heart."
Sally nodded, her expression understanding. "That's true, love. The Crown has something special that no fancy hotel can replicate. But Windnell’s place... it's changing the landscape around here. Not just physically, but... the feel of the village."
Charlotte sighed, her heart heavy. The challenge was greater than she had anticipated. It wasn't just about maintaining her business; it was about preserving the essence of Chesham Cove, the very thing that had drawn her to this place. She would need to be clever, resourceful, and perhaps even a little bold to ensure The Crown Inn not only survived but thrived in the shadow of Windnell's place.
“Well, we just won’t let that happen, will we, Sally?” Charlotte offered a small smile, her mind racing. She rose from the stool. Her movements were deliberate. "Thank you for the chat and the company. And the scone."
"Anytime, love," Sally replied, her warm smile a beacon in the cozy bakery.
As she stepped out of the bakery, the cool breeze kissed Charlotte’s cheeks, whispering promises of revelations to come. With each footfall on the cobblestone street, Charlotte reaffirmed to herself that this search for her father was not in vain, that every small interaction, every piece of gossip, might be a breadcrumb leading her—and maybe him—home.
