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"Roxanne," she called softlyonce more, a plea disguised as an invocation. But the murmur of dinerscontinued unabated, unperturbed by the solitary figure of Charlotte Moore, whostood with the ghost of a life's turning point whispering across her shoulders.
It was there, in the polished echo ofthe restaurant, that Charlotte felt the full weight of the distance from hersister.
Charlotte's eyes, glazed with the sheenof quiet desperation, finally alighted on a tableau that cut through the diningmurmur like a lighthouse beam through fog. There, in the secluded alcove at thefar end of the restaurant, sat Roxanne. Her laughter, rich and unapologetic,was a siren song amidst the clinking of fine china. Opposite her, engaged inthe dance of banter, was Thomas Windnell—his posture as impeccable as his suit,every thread screaming sophistication.
As Charlotte approached, reliefunfurled within her, softening the tightness that had gripped her chest. Herewas her sister, seemingly untouched by the gravity of the situation that haddriven Charlotte across the hotel's opulent threshold. Though it painedCharlotte to see Roxie laughing and flirting with Thomas—the snake.
"Roxanne," Charlotte said,the timbre of her voice threading through the conversation and pulling it apartwith gentle urgency.
Both heads turned, and Roxanne'sexpression shifted from amusement to surprise, a flicker of annoyance crossingher features before being tucked away behind a practiced smile. Thomas regardedCharlotte with polite curiosity, the kind reserved for an unexpected footnotein an otherwise predictable narrative.
"Charlotte, what are you doinghere?" Roxanne asked, her tone measured, keeping the undercurrent of theirshared history at bay. “I told you not an hour ago to go back home.”
"Roxie, I need you to come back toThe Crown Inn," Charlotte implored. ‘It’s an emergency.”
The words seemed to hang between them.
Roxanne's fingers traced the rim of herwine glass, a red halo against the linen tablecloth. She regarded Charlottewith a calm that seemed out of place amid the urgency.
"Charlotte," Roxanne began,her voice as steady as the lighthouse beam that pierced Chesham Cove's nightlyfog, "I've made a decision. This hotel, it's where I need to be. Iunderstand your concerns; I do, but we all must choose our own paths." Hergaze didn't waver, even as the words carved a divide between them.
"Roxie," Charlotte replied,the nickname falling like leaves from a tree too soon in autumn, "I don'tunderstand. How can you stay here when everything is falling apart?"
Roxanne reached for a piece of breadfrom the basket, her movements deliberate, as if illustrating her resolve."Sometimes, Char, people find strength in solitude. You know that betterthan anyone." She offered a half-smile, a bridge to cross or to burn.“Isn’t that why you came to England so suddenly? Unlike you, though, I’m not awoman who can abide solitude.”
"Solitude?" Charlotte echoedthe word a stranger in their shared history of raucous sisterly gatherings andwhispered late-night confessions.
"Thomas has invited me todinner," Roxanne said suddenly, as if reading the question in Charlotte'seyes. Her fingers traced the stem of her wine glass, a casual display ofnonchalance. "I'm curious about what he has to say about this vision hehas for the cove. I might have some good investment strategy for him.”
"Vision?" Charlotte'svoice wavered, a subtle tremor betraying her composure. She pictured therolling hills and rugged cliffs of Chesham Cove, the way the sunset paintedthem in hues of gold and amber—a natural masterpiece that needed no alteration."But Roxanne, his plans could change everything we love aboutChesham."
"Perhaps," Roxanne conceded,locking eyes with her sister, "but maybe change is exactly what we need. Iwant to understand him, to see what lies beneath the surface." Her gazeflicked to Thomas, who observed their exchange with an unreadable expressionand a smirk.
Charlotte felt the weight of her ownheart as it sank, her sister's words echoing like the distant toll of a bellmarking the end of an era. The slow dance of flames in the fireplace cast awarm glow over the room, yet Charlotte shivered, grappling with a chill thatseeped into her bones.
"Roxanne, I... I can't make youcome back with me," Charlotte admitted, the taste of defeat bitter on hertongue. "But don't let this—whatever this is—drive a wedge betweenus."
"Take care then," Roxannesaid, standing up and draping her coat over her arm. She paused, offering afinal, lingering look, and then waited for Thomas to stand with her. He offeredRoxie his arm, and they both silently swept away. Each step away from thetable, away from her sister, Charlotte felt the threads of their shared paststretch and strain, yet not quite breaking.
What was she going to do? Roxanneseemed to have gone cold so quickly. Charlotte needed to regroup at The Crownand talk to Simon.
CHAPTER TWENTY ONE
Charlotte’s heels clicked a more somberrhythm on the cobblestone path leading back to The Crown Inn. Each step seemedto echo her internal dissonance, a symphony of frustration and the low hum ofguilt that never quite left her. The brisk sea breeze whipped around her, as iftrying to cleanse away the day’s failed attempts at mending the fractureswithin her once tightly-knit family.
Upon reaching the weathered door of theinn, she hesitated. The Old Crown was both her impulsive leap towardindependence and her canvas of new beginnings, yet the weight of her past nowclung to her like the salty air to her clothing, threatening both.
With a deep breath, Charlotte pushedopen the door. The familiar creak was drowned out by the bubbling laughter thatcascaded through the entryway. A warm glow spilled from the main room, spillingacross the dark wood floors and up the grand staircase that Charlotte hadlovingly restored.
She peered inside the parlor and therethey were: Liam and Simon, huddled over a game of draughts, their heads closetogether in camaraderie. Liam’s youthful exuberance met Simon’s gentle charm inequal measure, creating an atmosphere that felt miles away from the turmoiloutside. The sight was like a balm to Charlotte's spirit.
"Gotcha!" exclaimed Liam, atriumphant grin lighting up his face as he jumped one of Simon's pieces.
"Ah, you're a natural strategist,aren't you?" Simon replied, ruffling the boy's hair affectionately. Hiseyes twinkled with genuine delight, the kind that reached deep into his souland resonated with anyone lucky enough to be near.
Charlotte leaned against the doorframe,unnoticed, watching the scene unfold. The old wooden boards underfoot, wornsmooth by generations of patrons, felt solid and reassuring. It struck herthen, how this 18th-century inn had seen countless stories of loss, love, andlaughter etched into its very bones, much like her own life’s tale. She was notthe first to have her sorrows housed here—nor her joys, like the ones beforeher.
"Careful now," Simon saidwith mock sternness, "I might just make a comeback."
