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But there was nothing. No furthercreaks disturbed the stillness, no signs of movement betrayed an unseenpresence. It was as though the noise had been a figment conjured from thedepths of her slumbering fears, leaving behind only the echo of its mystery.
"Get a grip, Charlotte," shechided herself, a soft huff of laughter escaping her lips, tinged with theabsurdity of it all. What had she expected to find? An intruder? A house elf?
In the solace of her bedroom once more,Charlotte sank onto the edge of her mattress, the cool fabric of the sheets acontrast to the warmth of her skin. She drew the covers around her, cocooningherself against the lingering disquiet that refused to dissipate. Her eyelidswere heavy, demanding closure, but the darkness behind them did not promiserest.
With a deep, steadying breath, sheturned her face toward the window where the first blush of morning painted thehorizon. There, on the cusp of a new day, Charlotte lay awake, ensnared in thegossamer threads of her thoughts and the haunting question of what might havebeen—or what might yet be—in the quiet corridors of The Old Crown Inn.
Her thoughts turned to Liam—his paleface in the dim light, the tremor in his hands. It was more than just anightmare that shook him; it was a shared disquietude that seemed to hang overthem both.
Charlotte lay in the dim pre-dawn,wrapped in her blankets, her mind a whirlpool of thoughts and emotions. Sheturned over, seeking comfort in the familiar softness of her pillow, itstexture a small solace in the vastness of her concerns. The fear of revisitingher nightmares hovered at the edges of her consciousness, a cliff drop waitingto plunge her back into the depths of her anxieties.
Yet, as she lay there, her breathinggradually found a slower rhythm, and the initial tension that had her bodycoiled tight began to dissipate, replaced by a weary relaxation that seepedinto her bones. Charlotte allowed her eyes to close, surrendering to theexhaustion that blanketed her senses. The fear of nightmares lingered, a thinveil of apprehension, but the need for rest was overwhelming, pulling her downinto the embrace of sleep with gentle insistence.
As sleep finally claimed her,Charlotte's last conscious thought was a hope that the dreams awaiting her onthe other side of wakefulness would be kinder. Perhaps, in the quiet sanctuaryof her own mind, she could find a momentary reprieve, a space where thecomplexities of her life at The Old Crown Inn and the unresolved tensions withher family could be smoothed away by the soothing balm of dreamless rest.
And so, in the soft glow of theapproaching dawn, Charlotte drifted back into sleep. The fear of nightmaresremained a distant whisper, overshadowed by the profound exhaustion thatenveloped her. In the safety of her bed, with the first light of morning beginningto seep through the curtains, she found a fragile peace, a temporary shelterfrom the storm of her waking hours.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The morning light crept through thegauzy curtains of the Old Crown Inn, casting a soft glow on the antiquenightstand where a single piece of paper lay discarded. Charlotte Moore, herhair tousled from sleep, blinked her eyes open and stretched, her arm brushingagainst the cool, empty space beside her in the bed. She turned, expecting tosee Roxanne’s familiar form, but was met with nothing but rumpled sheets—anomen of solitude.
Sitting up, she reached for the note,her fingers trembling slightly as they unfolded the paper. The words"There's something I have to do, be back when I can" stared back ather in Henry's hasty scrawl. Confusion furrowed her brow. Worry knotted herstomach. Frustration clenched her heart.
"Darn it, Henry," shewhispered into the quiet room, the sea breeze carrying her words away.
Charlotte threw back the quilt—apatchwork of deep blues and greens reminiscent of the turbulent Chesham Covewaters—and hurriedly pulled on a worn sweater over her pajamas. She grabbed herphone from the nightstand, its screen glaringly bright in the dim morning calm.She saw a cancellation notice on her scheduling app—almost a relief, since shewasn’t up to receiving guests today—but cleared it to load her call list. Herthumb hesitated above Henry's contact before pressing down decisively.
The phone rang once... twice...thrice... then surrendered to voicemail. Her pulse quickened, the rhythm out ofsync with the calm she usually found in her seaside refuge. She held the phoneto her ear, listening to the impersonal beep and voicemail greeting, then hungup without leaving a message. What could she say that would encapsulate thewhirlwind of emotions?
You’re doing the same thing you didbefore—abandoning your family.
How could you do this to Liam?
Don’t bother coming back.
Instead, Charlotte began to type, hermessages a cascade of concern and anger.
Where are you? Please come back.
Is everything okay?
Talk to me, Dad.
She hit send after each one, her phonebecoming a messenger for her anxious heart.
With each silent minute that passed,her worry gave way to a subtle sense of betrayal. Henry's disappearance yearsago had been a jagged rip in the fabric of their lives, and now, his abruptdeparture felt all too familiar. Yet, here she was, still reaching out to theman who epitomized her past's unresolved endings.
Charlotte stood by the window, thephone heavy in her hand. Her gaze swept across the cove, taking in the ruggedbeauty that had been her solace since leaving New York. The waves whisperedsecrets, and somewhere within their timeless language, she sought the strengthto face the uncertainties of the day.
"Come home, Dad," shemurmured to no one, her voice barely louder than the rustle of the morningtide. It was a wish cast into the vastness of the ocean—a hope that, despitethe odds, might find its way back to her.
"Naive," she whispered, theword a bitter taste on her tongue. Her heart ached with the familiar pang ofabandonment, the echo of a young woman who once waited for a father who nevercame back.
Charlotte shook her head, dispellingthe ghosts of memories best left untouched. She couldn't afford to be thatwoman anymore. With a deep breath, she reached for her phone again, not toplead with Henry, but to call someone who represented the stability Henry nevercould—Simon.
"Good morning, beautiful. I wasworried about you," Simon answered, his voice carrying the comfortingtimbre of the sea's depth.
"Simon." Her words werethreaded with an urgency that made her voice tremble. "I'm sorry to botheryou, but it's my father... He's gone."
