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The cobblestones gave way to a cushion of golden sand as Charlotte Moore stepped onto the beach, the morning light casting her shadow long and slender beside her. She wrapped her cardigan tighter against her body, not out of cold but comfort, as the salt-laden breeze played with wisps of her auburn hair. The rhythmic cadence of crashing waves provided an ambient soundtrack to her thoughts. With each step, the sand yielded gently beneath her boots, a soft surrender to her measured pace.
"Beautiful, isn't it?" she mused aloud to no one in particular, her voice barely rising above the whisper of the sea. "How endless it all seems."
She stopped, allowing the serenity to envelop her, watching as gulls swooped low, their cries punctuating the steady hush of water. It was here, amid the vastness of ocean and sky, that Charlotte felt the weight of her quest lighten. Her father's presence seemed both near and far, like the horizon itself—intangible yet ever-present.
"Maybe you're out there," she whispered, eyes tracing the line where blue met blue. "Watching the same sun rise."
With a sigh lodged in her throat, Charlotte turned and resumed her walk, this time back to the grocer’s for the Harrisons’ culinary supplies. An idea came to her as she walked, one that brightened up her tumultuous emotions. She was reminded of the basket she had packed back at The Crown. She would push aside her worries and, after the grocer’s, she would go to see Simon at the harbor.
CHAPTER FIVE
Amidst the bustling scene at Chesham’s harbor, Simon stood out like a lighthouse. He moved across the deck of his boat with an easy grace, his hands sure and steady as they coiled a rope with practiced efficiency. His weathered skin told tales of countless hours under the sun and wind, and his eyes held the depth of the ocean, reflecting both its calm and its storms.
Chesham Cove's port area was a circus of motion and sound, a living portrait of seaside life where the salty tang of the sea intermingled with the cries of seagulls. The fishing boats, painted in hues of blues and reds, bobbed gently on the water's surface, their masts swaying like dancers to the rhythm of the lapping waves. Nets lay stretched out on the docks, shimmering with droplets from their latest voyage, while lobster pots stacked in towers promised future bounties.
"Oi, Simon! That new net holding up alright?" called a fellow fisherman from a neighboring vessel.
"Like a dream," Simon replied, his voice carrying over the water, a rich baritone that seemed to resonate with the very timbers of his boat. "Best one in the fleet now, thanks to your handiwork."
He gave the net a final tug and turned his attention to a wooden crate filled with freshly caught fish, their scales glinting like silver coins. With an ease that spoke of years in the trade, he began sorting through the catch, setting aside the finest specimens with a discerning eye.
"Good haul today, then?" came another voice, this one tinged with the lilt of local gossip.
"Decent enough," Simon responded without looking up, his focus never wavering from his task. "The sea's been generous."
Charlotte's pulse quickened, the weight of the picnic basket in her hand a comforting anchor against her fluttering heart. The scent of salt and sea intertwining with the lingering aroma of her meticulously prepared lunch created an intoxicating mixture that seemed to charge the air around her. With every step closer to the water's edge, her anticipation grew, tinged with a nervousness that made her hands tremble slightly beneath the cloth napkin protecting her culinary creations. What if he didn’t like the food?
"Simon!" she called out, her voice barely rising above the coastal din as she approached the moored boats. He turned at the sound of his name, his expression shifting from concentration to curiosity when he spotted Charlotte making her way toward him.
"Charlotte! What brings you down to the docks? Not fleeing the country, I hope? Too homesick for America? Decided the weather’s too unpredictable in England?" His voice boomed with good-natured humor, the corners of his mouth lifting into a grin that softened the lines of his weather-beaten face.
"Very funny," she retorted, the playfulness in her tone belying the butterflies performing acrobatics in her stomach. "Actually, I've brought something for you." She presented the basket with a flourish, watching as Simon's brow rose in skeptical surprise.
"Is that so?" He eyed the wicker container warily as if it might contain a live eel rather than lunch. "What do we have here then? More of your... 'experimental' British cuisine?"
"Experimental?" Charlotte feigned offense, though the twinkle in her eye betrayed her amusement. "I'll have you know these are classic recipes, lovingly crafted with my own two hands." She lifted the lid, revealing an array of dishes nestled among checked linens.
"I see cheese and... what is this, exactly?" Simon poked gingerly at a Cornish pasty, his expression dubious.
"Careful now, that pasty might just bite back," Charlotte teased, watching as Simon cautiously sniffed the pastry. "It's simple fare but hearty. Perfect for a hardworking man like yourself."
"Never had one before," he admitted, still peering at the meal with the caution of a man who'd spent his life trusting the familiar fruits of the sea over those of the land.
"Then today's your lucky day, Simon Harris. Prepare to be amazed." Her words were light, but inwardly she hoped her efforts would be well-received. She wasn't just offering food; she was sharing a part of herself, a gesture of care wrapped in pastry. And, owing to her past experience—and perhaps a little unfair to Simon—she braced herself for criticism.
"Right, let's give it a go then," Simon said, hopping to the pier and settling onto a nearby bench. She patted the space beside him. Charlotte joined him, the warmth of his presence doing little to calm the excited pounding of her heart.
As they sat side by side overlooking the serene blue waters of the harbor, Charlotte watched as Simon gingerly unfolded the crimped edge of the pasty, his blue eyes reflecting a mix of amusement and trepidation. She bit her lip to stifle a giggle, leaning forward slightly.
"Think of it as treasure wrapped in golden dough," she coaxed, her voice a playful lilt that danced on the salty breeze. "Only instead of gold doubloons, you get steak and potatoes."
"Treasure hunt on a bench by the harbor, eh?" His chuckle was rich and warm, the sea breeze ruffling the hair at the nape of his neck as he glanced at her with a spark of mirth in his gaze. "You do know how to tempt an old sea dog."
"Old? Please, you're in your prime, Captain Harris." Charlotte's retort was swift, matched only by the twinkle in her eye. "Besides, I'm quite certain this particular voyage won't lead to scurvy."
"Ah, well, if there's no risk of scurvy..." Simon finally took a cautious bite, his teeth sinking into the flaky crust with a satisfying crunch. The action held a hint of surrender, a silent admission that he was willing to cast off into unknown culinary waters for her sake. Daniel, especially in the latter years of their marriage, had simply stopped making any effort for her.
Charlotte watched intently as Simon chewed thoughtfully, and she could see his initial skepticism melting away as the rich gravy coated his palate, the meat succulent and the vegetables cooked to a comforting tenderness. The seasoning—just a touch of rosemary and thyme—complemented the savory filling.
