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"Sorry about that," the mansaid gruffly, his face reddening as he bent to retrieve a rogue orange.
"Accidents happen," shereplied, her voice steadier than she felt. As they both knelt among thescattered items, the scent of spilled herbs and bruised fruit filled the air, atangy reminder that life in Chesham Cove could be just as unpredictable as thebustling streets of New York she'd left behind. He looked up at her then, andthere was something in his gaze, a flicker of recognition or perhaps shock,that caused Charlotte's breath to hitch.
His eyes widened like storm cloudsbreaking, revealing a sky of emotions behind them. There was a palpable pauseas the world around them seemed to hold its breath. It was as if the rollingtides and the whispering winds of Chesham Cove had conspired to bring them tothis very moment. Recognition dawned in his eyes, casting a shadow across thefeatures that mirrored her own. They stood there amidst the spilled groceries,two souls caught in the tide of a past that had long since receded, yet leftits mark upon the shore of the present.
"Charlotte?" His voicecracked like old paint on the weather-beaten shutters of her inn, carrying theweight of years lost and moments never shared.
Charlotte's fingers trembled slightlyas they reached for a jar of pickles, the glass cool and indifferent beneathher touch. Her father—this man who had become little more than a figment of herchildhood imagination—stood before her, a living reminder of years spentwondering, questioning, yearning.
"Hi, Henry. Here," she said,her voice finally wavering as she placed the jar back into his basket, avoidingthe intensity of his gaze. She could feel the weight of his eyes on her, heavywith emotions too complex to unravel in the canned goods aisle of a grocerystore.
"Thank you," he murmured, hishand brushing against hers as they both reached for a can of beans that hadrolled under the shelving unit. The contact was brief, but it sent a joltthrough her, igniting a spark of anger for the absentee years, followed swiftlyby the dull ache of hope that perhaps not all was lost.
"Of course." The words wereautomatic, civility etched into her like the delicate lines of her artwork backhome—no, not home, she reminded herself. Chesham Cove was home now; The OldCrown Inn, with its crumbling facade and salt-kissed air, was where she waspiecing herself back together.
Their hands met again over a box ofcereal, and this time Charlotte allowed herself a moment longer to acknowledgethe connection, however fraught. His hands were older, lined with life'setchings, yet there was a familiarity in the way his fingers closed around thecardboard. It was strange, she thought, how blood could tug at your senses,whispering truths you hadn't realized you'd known all along.
The air between them crackled withtension, each item they picked up heavy with the weight of unspoken questions.Why had he left? Where had he been? And did he ever think of her, his daughter,sculpted from his absence into a woman whose resilience was born of necessity?Or of Roxanne—always putting on a strong front, even when the pain she was inwas obvious?
"Been a while since I've hadanyone help me with groceries," he said, attempting a weak smile thatdidn't quite reach his eyes.
"Yeah, bet you didn’t think ofthat beforehand," she replied, her tone neutral, though inside her heartraced with questions and accusations clawing at her throat. Before he’d leftthem—disappearing right after their mother had died. But this was neither thetime nor the place, and Charlotte Moore was nothing if not composed, even whenher world seemed determined to spiral out of control.
"I did not," he said softly,almost to himself, as they righted the last of the fallen items.
Charlotte straightened up, feeling thepull of muscles in her back, a reminder of the physicality of the situationthat grounded her whirling thoughts. She brushed a stray lock of hair from herface, a nervous habit that betrayed her calm exterior.
"Everything back where it shouldbe," she announced, offering a small nod of finality, though the knot ofunresolved history remained firmly lodged between them.
"Thank you, Charlotte." Hepaused, the sound of her name in his mouth still a foreign concept."Really."
She nodded, her gaze flitting over hisface once more, catching a glimpse of what might have been regret in hiseyes—or perhaps it was just the fluorescent lighting playing tricks. Sheoffered him a tight-lipped smile, one that spoke of politeness rather thanwarmth. "You're welcome."
Charlotte tucked a strand of hairbehind her ear, grounding herself in the present. There was an understanding,however tenuous, that their conversation hovered on the edge of a precipice.Charlotte glanced away, focusing on the brightly colored labels and the mundanetask at hand.
"Take care," she finallysaid, her voice steady though her insides trembled with the effort ofmaintaining decorum. It was a knee-jerk reaction, and she felt the oddness ofit after having looked for him for so long—but she couldn’t make herself sayany of the things she had planned to say, if this day ever happened.
He opened his mouth as if to say morebut then closed it. Charlotte turned, feeling the pull of her cart. Charlotte'sfingers brushed against the cold metal of the basket as she placed a last canof tomatoes beside the loaf of bread, her movements deliberate, almostmechanical. The cool draft from the freezer section swept past, carrying withit an aroma of fresh produce and more bakery goods, but Charlotte was hardlyaware of the comforting scents. Her mind spun like a whirlwind, each thoughtcolliding with the next in a chaotic dance.
"Everything alright?"Roxanne's voice sliced through the storm in Charlotte's head, laden withconcern.
"Fine, just fine," Charlottelied, her gaze shifting back to her father's stooped figure. He seemed smallernow, less like the towering figure from her childhood memories and more like aman who had weathered too many storms.
She watched as he adjusted the basketon his arm, his movements betraying a frailty she hadn't noticed before. Inthat instant, she could almost see the years of his absence laid out beforeher—a map of missed birthdays, unshared milestones, and silent dinners wherehis other chairs remained empty.
"Charlotte?" Roxanne pressed,reaching out to squeeze her shoulder, pulling her back from the edge of herreverie. “What just happened?”
Charlotte’s heart pounded a rhythm offear. If Roxanne spotted Henry, there would be no stiff, polite, shockedreunion where both parties walked away. Her sister could not see theirfather right now.
CHAPTER NINE
Roxanne's grip on Charlotte's shouldertightened, her brows knitting together in a mix of concern and impatience."Charlotte, you look like you've seen a ghost. What's going on? Who wasthat man?"
Charlotte hesitated, her throat tight.The words felt like boulders, heavy and immovable. How could she explain yearsof absence, of hurt and questions, in a grocery store aisle? "Roxanne,it's... it's complicated," she managed, her voice barely a whisper.
But Roxanne was not to be deterred. Hereyes, so much like Charlotte's, flashed with determination. "Complicated?Charlotte, you're pale as a sheet. Was that guy rude to you? Is he—" Shepaused, a new thought dawning. "Wait, do you know him?"
Before Charlotte could muster aresponse, Roxanne's patience snapped. With a huff that mirrored the fiercenessof their late mother, she brushed past Charlotte, her steps quick and decisivetoward the next aisle.
