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"I know," Charlotte replied."And I'm here for you too. That's what sisters are for. And to tell youthat it's good for the soul to slow down and connect with nature."
Roxanne nodded, breathing in the brinysea air. "You're right. I feel more centered already." She gaveCharlotte a playful nudge. "I guess I have you to thank for that, luringme out to this sleepy little village."
Charlotte laughed. "It's not sosleepy! Well...maybe compared to the city that never sleeps."
Charlotte's phone buzzed. SeeingAgnes's name again, she took a deep breath and resisted rolling her eyes.
"Everything okay?" Roxanneasked, noticing Charlotte's change in demeanor.
"It's Agnes," Charlottereplied. "She sometimes pocket-dials me by accident when she puts up herphone after we talk."
Roxanne chuckled. “Should we head back?What do you want to do for dinner?”
“How about we cook together? We canstop by the grocer’s.”
“Perfect.”
And with one last glance at the shiny,modern beachfront resort looming above them, Charlotte turned with Roxie backtoward Chesham Cove, thoughts of Thomas Windell’s behemoth hotel and the secretbetween herself and Agnes swirling in her mind.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The rustic charm of Chesham Cove'slocal grocery store was a far cry from the fluorescent-lit, bustlingsupermarkets Charlotte—and Roxanne—were accustomed to back in New York.Charlotte trailed behind Roxanne, their shopping cart emitting a rhythmic squeakas it wobbled over the uneven tile floor, loaded with the necessities thatwould fill the pantry of The Old Crown Inn.
"Look at this bread, Lottie,"Roxanne said, her voice warm and inviting, "Reminds me of Mom’s baking.Remember how she used to hide chocolate chips inside?"
A tender smile played upon Charlotte'slips as she picked up the loaf, the familiar ache of nostalgia mingling withthe sweet anticipation of starting anew. "She always knew how to make agray day brighter," she replied, placing the bread beside a bundle offresh thyme and a wedge of mature cheddar.
As they continued down the aisle,stocked with glass jars of local jams and tins of rich tea biscuits,Charlotte's gaze settled on an older man standing by the display of cannedsoups. His silver hair was tousled, as though he had run his hands through itin frustration or fatigue, perhaps both. A thick sweater hung loosely aroundhis tall frame, its elbows fraying.
"Rox, do you see—" Charlottebegan, but her voice tapered off as the man turned slightly, revealing aprofile that uncannily mirrored her own—the same strong jawline softened byage, the curve of the nose, the slope of the brow.
"See what?" Roxanne asked,peering over the top of a jar of pickled onions she had been inspecting.
"Never mind," Charlottemurmured, her artist's eye catching the way the store's soft lightingaccentuated the lines of worry etched into the stranger's face, casting him ina pensive solitude amidst the mundane task of grocery shopping.
"Lottie, if you're going to startsketching every interesting face we come across, we'll never get out ofhere," Roxanne teased, her voice a lifeline back to the present moment.
"Sorry, old habits,"Charlotte replied, though her attention remained tethered to the older man, thedisheveled hair, the way he held himself—a posture weighed down by unseenburdens. It was as if the universe had conspired to arrange this very scene, atableau vivant set against the backdrop of a simple village market, where livesintersected in the most unexpected ways.
Charlotte edged closer to the shelves,feigning interest in a row of artisanal jams. Her gaze remained locked onto theman, who had now shifted his attention to a selection of teas. She tilted herhead slightly, trying to catch a clearer glimpse without making it obvious thatshe was staring. The resemblance was striking—did he have the same stubbornchin she often bemoaned when applying makeup? The same high cheekbones thatAmelia had inherited?
Roxanne whispered, "you're notbeing as stealthy as you think."
"Shh," Charlotte replied, herfocus unwavering. There was something about his eyes, a hue of stormy sea bluethat matched hers so closely, it sent a shiver down her spine. She reached fora jar of strawberry preserve, simply to give her hands something to do.
"You know him?" Roxanneasked, her voice low and conspiratorial.
“No, I don’t think so,” Charlotte said.
“Well, stare all you want. I’m going tocheck out the wine selection a few aisles over. Red or white?”
Charlotte took a steadying breath.“Both.”
Roxanne flounced off, oblivious toCharlotte’s suddenly racing thoughts. As Charlotte lingered by the condimentsalone, the scene unfolded with an abruptness that startled her. The man stood,and his grip on his basket loosened, and for a moment time seemed to slow, hisfingers brushing against the woven plastic before it tumbled. Jars clatteredagainst one another as they descended, followed by the dull thud of producehitting the linoleum floor.
"Goodness!" Charlotte gasped,her heart lurching. The store fell silent but for the cascade of groceriesrolling away.
"Here, let me help you," shefound herself saying, the words out of her mouth before she could think. Theromantic notion of fated encounters swirled around her, mingling with the morepractical desire to simply aid someone in need.
