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Samantha beamed, her cheeks flushing with happiness. "It's been a pleasure meeting you, Charlotte. Welcome to Chesham Cove. We're lucky to have you here."
With a final exchange of smiles, Charlotte gathered her new art supplies and stepped back outside the cozy hobby shop. She took a deep breath of the crisp spring air, feeling the cool breeze brush against her cheeks like a gentle caress. She knew exactly what she wanted to do now.
She wanted to paint The Crown Inn—and that was exactly what she was going to do.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Charlotte stood in the yard of The Crown, her fingers eagerly touching the new, smooth wooden handle of her paint brush. The sun was shining overhead, casting perfectly angled rays of light that danced through the leaves of the surrounding trees and illuminated patches of lush grass beneath her feet. A gentle breeze rustled the branches above.
As Charlotte began to unpack her new supplies, she took a moment to appreciate the serenity of the scene before her. The inn seemed to be in perfect harmony with the natural world around it. The weathered brick walls and ivy-covered facade spoke to a history rich with stories, and the slightly crooked windows only added to its charm.
Birds sang their melodies from hidden perches, providing a soothing soundtrack. The yard itself was a treasure trove of inspiration for Charlotte's wandering artist's eye. A low stone wall separated the inn's property from the neighboring meadow, adorned with moss and wildflowers that seemed to grow from the very cracks between the stones. An old oak tree cast its shade over a corner of the yard, inviting visitors to rest beneath its vast canopy and lose themselves in daydreams. The vibrant colors and textures of the scene beckoned Charlotte, urging her to capture the beauty on her canvas.
As she set up her easel and carefully arranged her brushes and paints, Charlotte could feel her excitement building. She knew that this place held something special, and she couldn't wait to immortalize it in her art. With each stroke of her brush, she would not only be painting the inn and its surroundings, but she would also be capturing the essence of a life she had only just begun to explore.
As Charlotte carefully lifted her paint tubes from the Hobbs’ Hobbies bag, her pulse quickened with anticipation. The colors spread before her like a vibrant rainbow – deep cadmium reds, warm ochres, and cool cerulean blues. She inhaled deeply, savoring the potent smell of oil paints mingling with the scent of freshly cut grass.
"Ah, the joy of a fresh canvas," she mused to herself as she gingerly slid her fingertips across the pristine surface, feeling the slightly rough texture that would soon be filled with color and life.
Charlotte selected a few brushes from her collection, each one an extension of her creative hand. She ran her fingers through the bristles, feeling their soft tips, knowing that soon they would dance across the canvas, creating magic with every stroke. Taking a moment to center herself, Charlotte closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath. She could feel the sun warming her face, the gentle breeze rustling her hair, and the symphony of nature that surrounded her. She opened her eyes, dipped her chosen brush into a small dollop of paint, and brought it to the canvas with a steady hand.
As she began to lay down the first strokes of color, Charlotte felt herself fitting together with the scene before her, as if each brushstroke was weaving her deeper into the fabric of this idyllic place. With every dab and stroke of pigment, she could feel her excitement growing.
Charlotte stepped back, surveying the yard as she considered the best angle to capture the inn's charm. The aged bricks? The vines that crept along its walls? Both softened the lines of time etched into the building.
"Perhaps from here," she mused aloud, moving her easel and canvas toward the corner, where the garden met the cobblestone path. She adjusted the height and angle of the easel before stepping back once more, squinting her eyes to envision the final outcome.
"Perfect," Charlotte whispered, a small smile playing on her lips as she turned her attention to the inn itself.
With the focus and concentration of an artist determined to do justice to her subject, Charlotte studied every detail – the way the window shutters framed the worn glass, the intricate carvings adorning the eaves, and the inviting entrance that beckoned visitors to step inside.
The sunlight shifted, casting new shadows and revealing previously unnoticed elements, like the tiny chip in the paint on the front door. Charlotte thought of her own house—the paint chip on the doorframe. And as she painted, Charlotte knew she was not only capturing the inn's essence but also finding her own place within its walls and the hearts of those who called it home.
Was there a place here for her?
With a deep breath, Charlotte steadied her hand and dipped her brush into the soft gray paint. The initial brushstrokes were cautious, yet purposeful, as she outlined the shape of the inn's roof and walls. She continued to build on this foundation, adding windows and doors, each stroke imbuing the canvas with the essence of the historic building. As she worked, her thoughts wandered back to the day she first arrived at the inn, seeking solace from the painful collapse of her marriage. Painting the inn felt like an homage to the nascent healing it had brought her.
As Charlotte added details to the eaves and shutters, her thoughts drifted to the people she'd met during her stay. Each interaction, whether it was sharing a cup of tea with Marge or swapping stories with Simon, had been an opportunity to grow beyond her past. She carefully painted the delicate tendrils winding their way up the side of the inn. She imagined the years of growth and change the ivy had witnessed, much like herself.
As the painting took shape, Charlotte felt a sense of fulfillment and gratitude wash over her. The inn was now a symbol of her resilience, her growth. She could feel the bristles' gentle resistance against the canvas, leaving behind streaks of color that seemed to breathe life into her painting. Each stroke felt like an extension of herself, her emotions pouring out and merging with the hues on the canvas.
As the hours passed, the painting continued to evolve under Charlotte's skilled hand. She occasionally stepped back, her eyes scanning the canvas critically, making adjustments and refining details as needed.
Charlotte dipped her brush into the vibrant red paint, and she began to add depth and texture to the inn's brick walls. The crimson hue blended seamlessly with the soft beige mortar, each stroke capturing the character of the old building. With each layer of color and detail, the inn seemed to come alive. Charlotte skillfully applied highlights to the windows, giving them a warm glow that seemed to beckon passersby inside. The lush greenery surrounding the building appeared to sway gently in the breeze, and even the cobblestone pathway seemed worn and well-trodden.
As Charlotte neared the completion of the portrait, she was overcome by a sense of satisfaction and accomplishment unlike any she'd ever experienced. It wasn't just the physical act of painting that brought her joy, but the knowledge that she had managed to capture the essence of a place that had come to mean so much to her. With the final brushstroke applied, Charlotte felt a deep sense of fulfillment wash over her.
It was then that Charlotte realized—she didn’t want to go back to New York.
She didn’t know if sheeverwanted to go back.
Oh, my.
Charlotte needed some advice, and fast.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Charlotte's fingers trembled slightly as she picked up her phone, the device feeling heavier than usual in her hand. Her heart pounded in her chest as she dialed Roxanne's number, a mix of anxiety and excitement coursing through her veins. She bit her lip nervously, mentally rehearsing what she wanted to say.
