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Charlotte's face brightened at thesuggestion. "Shepherd's pie it is," she said with a genuine smile."I happen to have made some and have loads of it left."
As they all began to move toward thekitchen, a figure appeared at the entrance. Roxanne stood there, her postureless rigid than before, her expression a complex tapestry of emotions thatCharlotte couldn't quite decipher. The tension in the air was palpable, asilent standoff between past grievances and the possibility of reconciliation.Charlotte's heart skipped a beat, unsure of how her sister would react to thecurrent dynamics unfolding within the walls of the inn.
Roxanne's eyes moved from Charlotte toHenry and then to Liam, taking in the scene before her. Then, almostimperceptibly, her stance softened, a subtle shift that spoke volumes. "Iguess shepherd's pie sounds good," she said, her voice carrying a cautiousnote of truce. "I might as well join you."
The simple statement, laden withpotential, hung in the air like a promise. Charlotte felt a surge of hope, asense that perhaps, just perhaps, they were on the cusp of something profound.
"Great," Charlotte replied,her voice laced with relief. "It'll be nice... eating together."
It wasn't just about the food; it wasabout the act of coming together, of setting aside differences and hurt, ifonly for a moment, to share in something as universal as a meal. The kitchen,with its worn wooden countertops and the comforting smell of herbs hanging inthe air, welcomed them. Roxanne, still tentative, took a step closer, her eyesmeeting Charlotte's in a silent acknowledgment of the olive branch beingextended.
After dinner, a tense but uneventfulaffair, Liam, who had been mostly quiet throughout the meal, finally spoke up."I think I'll head upstairs," he said, his voice soft but carrying aweariness that went beyond the physical. "It's been a long day." Hiseyes, shadowed with the exhaustion of not just the day's events but perhaps thecumulative strain of recent weeks, looked to Charlotte for understanding.
"Of course, Liam," Charlottereplied, giving him a gentle smile. "Let me know if you needanything."
After Liam excused himself, Henrylingered at the table, his fingers tracing the rim of his now-empty plate. Theroom settled into a quieter atmosphere, the absence of one voice making thespace feel larger, somehow more intimate. He cleared his throat, capturing theattention of both Charlotte and Roxanne, who had remained seated, their ownplates pushed aside.
"Could we... talk? Just the threeof us?" Henry's voice was tentative but underscored with a determinationthat piqued Charlotte's curiosity and, from the look on Roxanne's face, herinterest as well.
Roxanne exchanged a glance withCharlotte, a silent conversation passing between them. After a moment, shenodded, albeit with a hesitance that spoke to the complex swirl of emotions shewas navigating.
Charlotte felt a mix of apprehensionand hope as she agreed. "Yes, let's talk."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Charlotte led her father and sister toa secluded sitting area in the frontmost parlor so that there was no chance ofthem being overheard by Liam. She lit a fire in the fireplace and pulled over awingback chair, its wooden legs scraping gently against the stone floor, andsat down, her heart drumming a nervous rhythm.
Henry, his face etched with lines thatspoke of years of untold stories, lowered himself into the chair opposite her.His hands, once steady and sure, now trembled slightly. He didn't look at them,didn't meet their eyes, those windows that might reflect too much of the pasthe'd left behind. Instead, he stared at a knot in the wood of the side tabletabletop, as if it held answers to the silence that hung heavy between them.
Roxanne, whose presence was as bold andforthright as the crashing waves against the cliffs outside, took her seat witha grace that belied her sassy demeanor. Her eyes, alight with a fire temperedonly by concern for Charlotte, flicked from Henry to his trembling hands. Shecrossed her arms, her posture rigid, like the standing stones that dotted theEnglish countryside, weathered but unyielding.
"Henry," Charlotte began, hervoice threading through the quiet tension, "it's been so long." Shesearched his face for some sign of the man who once chased away the shadowswith bedtime stories, who taught her to find beauty in every stroke of herpaintbrush.
Henry shifted in his chair, the oldwood creaking softly under his weight. His gaze flitted to Charlotte and thenquickly away, settling on a painting of Chesham Cove that hung near theirtable. There, the sun dipped below the horizon in an explosion of color, thewaves reflecting the last embers of daylight. It was a scene Charlotte hadcaptured on canvas many times.
"Too long," Roxanne added,her voice low but laced with an edge that cut through the cozy haze of theinn's surroundings.
Henry said nothing—yet.
The silence stretched on, andCharlotte's thoughts swirled like the tide pools at the edge of the village,brimming with life yet obscured beneath shifting sands. She wanted tounderstand, to forgive, but the questions lodged in her throat like stones.
"I'm sorry," Henry said atlast, though his words felt hollow, not quite reaching the depths whereapologies could take root and grow.
Charlotte watched her father, the linesof his profile softened by the glow of the table lamp. For a fleeting moment,she allowed herself to imagine a time when they could sit together without thespecter of his abandonment looming over them. A time when the inn, with itspromise of second chances, would weave its magic around her fractured familyand knit them back together, stronger and more beautiful for the breaking.
Roxanne's hand slammed down on thewooden side table, the force causing a decorative bowl to clatter in protest."Where have you been, Henry?" Her voice was a whip-crack in the stillair of the parlor, each word laced with years of pent-up anger and frustration.
The inn's rustic charm seemed to shrinkaway from the heat of her outburst, the quaintness of its decor—a blend ofnautical whimsy and old-world elegance—suddenly incongruous with the tensionthat now hung between them like a heavy tapestry. The walls, adorned withpaintings of ships braving stormy seas, bore silent witness to the familytempest unfolding within.
"Roxanne, please," Charlottesaid, her voice weaving through the charged atmosphere like a soothing balm.Her gaze shifted to Henry, softening as she considered the man who had oncebeen their anchor before he had unmoored himself from their lives. She feared arepeat of the grocery store outburst.
"Dad, we just want tounderstand." She tilted her head slightly, taking in every detail of hisworn face, searching for the familiar father she remembered. "How aboutyou start by telling us about Liam?"
Henry's fingers traced the grain of thetable, his voice barely above the gentle hum of the ocean breeze sneaking itsway through the slightly ajar window. It carried the salty tang of the sea,mingling with the scent of blooming flowers from the inn's manicured garden.
"I made mistakes," he began,the words coming slowly, as if dredging them up from a deep well of regret."And Liam... he needed me. I suppose, in some way, I needed him too."His voice faltered, the admission hanging between them like the delicatethreads of a spider's web glistening with morning dew.
Charlotte's heart ached at thevulnerability she glimpsed in her father's eyes, the same shade of blue as theChesham Cove waters that both soothed and roiled outside the inn's sturdywalls.
