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"Yes." The bitterness inRoxanne's tone was palpable. "Just like before, no explanations, nothing.As if we're still those girls, waiting, wondering when daddy will comehome."
Charlotte reached out, her fingerswrapping around Roxanne's trembling hands, grounding them both. She could feelthe tremors of Roxanne's anger interlaced with fear, the uncertainty that camewith the ghosts of their father's absences.
"Roxie, I'm so sorry."Charlotte's voice carried the warmth of empathy, woven with the cool resolve ofsomeone who had weathered similar storms. "It's not fair to you, to any ofus."
Roxanne shook her head, her fieryspirit flickering in the dappled sunlight that filtered through the leavesoverhead. "And Liam! He left Liam, right?”
Charlotte nodded.
“I don't think I can trust him—notafter everything."
Charlotte listened, her eyes neverleaving Roxanne's face, seeing the strong woman who had always been herprotector now grappling with vulnerability. "You don't have to do thisalone," she murmured, squeezing Roxanne's hands tighter. "We've bothbeen hurt, but we're here together now. We'll face whatever comes, side byside."
"Simon and Liam will be wonderingabout us," Charlotte said, standing and brushing the sand from her jeans.The thought of Simon's rugged face creased with concern brought a flutter toher chest, an affirmation of the growing bond she felt toward him.
Roxanne rose beside her, nodding as shewiped her cheeks, the salt of her tears mingling with the ocean's air."You're right. Don’t keep them waiting. I just need... I need some time.I’m not sure what I think about all of this."
And with that, Roxanne turned and beganto walk—away from Charlotte, away from The Crown, and away from the crisis thatCharlotte would have to go back and face without her sister.
Unless…
CHAPTER TWENTY
The golden afternoon sun dapplesthrough the high windows of Thomas Windnell's hotel, dancing upon the opulentlobby where Charlotte Moore stood hesitantly. The plush crimson carpets muffledthe steps of well-heeled guests, and the air carried the delicate scent offresh peonies arranged in vases on polished mahogany tables. Wrapping herfingers around the strap of her bag, Charlotte approached the front desk, asleek marble affair attended by a young man in a crisp navy uniform.
"Excuse me," she began, hervoice betraying a hint of urgency beneath its practiced calm. "I'm lookingfor my sister, Roxanne Anderson. Has she checked in yet?"
The clerk offered a polite but detachedsmile, the professional veneer as impenetrable as the glass that gleamed fromthe counter. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we're unable to disclose anyinformation about our guests," he replied with an apologetic tilt of hishead.
Charlotte bit her lower lip, a subtlefurrow forming between her brows. She understood privacy policies, of course,but this was family; this was different. She would find Roxie—who she suspectedwas staying here—and convince her she should come home to The Crown.
Her gaze drifted over to the grandstaircase, where the soft murmur of conversation beckoned like the rollingwaves back in Chesham Cove. She ventured further into the lobby, the heels ofher boots sinking slightly into the thick carpet, her senses alert for anytrace of Roxanne's sassy confidence or bold laugh. Under the guise of admiringthe hotel's lavish décor, Charlotte studied the faces of those lounging invelvet armchairs or sipping tea at low-set tables. None held the familiar sparkof her older sister's vivacious presence.
"Excuse me," she venturedagain, this time addressing a couple perusing a brochure of local attractions."I'm sorry to bother you, but have you, by chance, seen a woman with redhair, probably wearing something that makes a statement?” Her hands gesturedvaguely, mimicking Roxanne’s flair for the dramatic.
The woman shook her head, sympathytouching her features. "No, I can't say we have. But we'll keep an eyeout," she offered kindly.
"Thank you," Charlotte said,mustering a grateful smile as she moved away, leaving the couple to theirplans.
As Charlotte continued her discreetinquiries, she felt the weight of concern press against her chest. It wasn'tjust about bringing her sister back; it was about restoring a fragment of thelife they once shared.
Charlotte's heels clicked against thesmooth stone tiles as she made her way through the wide glass doors that led tothe pool area. The space opened up before her, a symphony of water's gentlelapping and distant laughter under the caress of a warm sun. Luxurious loungechairs dotted the deck, each one cradling a hotel guest soaking up the rays orlost in the pages of a novel. Charlotte's gaze swept over the scene, the softbreeze playing with loose strands of her hair, carrying the scent of chlorine andsunscreen. With each empty chair, her heart sank a fraction more.
"Roxanne?" she whisperedunder her breath, almost willing her sister to materialize from the shimmeringheat haze above the water. But the figure she sought—a vibrant, sassy presencethat could command attention in any setting—was nowhere among the sunworshippers. Her eyes lingered on a splash of red by a far umbrella, but it wasonly a child's floatie bobbing innocently on the water's surface.
With a sigh, Charlotte turned away fromthe pool. She traversed the tiled floor back into the cool shade of the hotel,the sound of her footsteps now muffled by the plush carpet as she entered therestaurant.
It was an elegant space, walls adornedwith soft lighting and artwork that whispered of a cultured touch not unlikeher own tastes. Tables draped in crisp white linen and gleaming silverwarestood in quiet anticipation of the evening rush. She paused at the entrance,allowing her artist's eye to take in the play of light and shadow, seekingamidst the tableau the one figure that mattered most.
It was a nice place—the very place shehad sent Daniel packing back to New York with a “no” on reconciling theirmarriage.
"Excuse me," she foundherself saying to a waiter gliding by with a tray of sparkling glassware."I'm looking for my sister. She's—"
"Madam, I'm not at liberty todiscuss our guests," the waiter cut in, though not unkindly.
"Of course," Charlottereplied, nodding with understanding even as frustration knotted her insides. Itseemed the staff here were well-trained in the art of discretion.
Undeterred, Charlotte began to walkbetween the tables, her eyes darting from one diner to another. Couples engagedin quiet conversation, families sharing the day's adventures; none bore thedistinct mark of Roxanne's bold energy. Her search was methodical, every faceexamined and dismissed in turn, until she had covered the length and breadth ofthe restaurant.
