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"Cheers to that," Simonagreed, lifting his own glass, and Roxanne nodded, echoing the sentiment.
Simon leaned against the kitchenisland, his eyes narrowing playfully at Liam, who was deftly flipping somethingsizzling in a pan.
Roxanne leaned against the kitchenisland, arms crossed over her chest, the picture of contentment. Her gazeflitted from Charlotte to Simon, an indulgent smile playing on her lips. Shereveled in the domestic harmony that had enveloped them since Charlotte'simpulsive move across the ocean—a tapestry of laughter, shared meals, and thesoothing rhythm of the coastal retreat they now called home.
The soft notes of a violin serenadedfrom the speakers, interweaving with the comforting sounds of bubbling pots andthe gentle scrape of Liam's knife against the cutting board. His culinaryprowess was a dance of precision and grace, each slice of the vegetable an odeto his enthusiasm for the craft.
"Simon, if you keep hovering likethat, I'm putting you on dish duty," Roxanne teased, tossing a dishtowelin his direction.
"Is that a threat or apromise?" Simon quipped, catching the towel with a flourish, but beforeanother playful retort could be lobbed, the room's energy shifted.
The door creaked open, hesitantly, asif unsure of its welcome. Henry Anderson stood there, the embodiment ofsheepish contrition. His eyes, mirrors of apology, scanned the roomtentatively, searching for an anchor in the sea of emotions his presence stirred.
"Hello, girls," he said, hisvoice barely more than a whisper, the title feeling foreign on his tongue afterso many years of absence.
Charlotte's hand stilled mid-stir, thespoon pausing in the air as she turned to face the figure in the doorway. Herheart thudded a chaotic rhythm, threatening to escape her chest. This was theman who had left them with nothing but questions and a void where fatherly loveshould have been.
"Dad," she acknowledged, theword tasting like stale bread. Her fingers tightened around the spoon handle,the warmth of the kitchen suddenly stifling.
Roxanne's reaction was slower, moredeliberate. She unfolded her arms, her posture erect and her face unreadable.The glint in her eye had dimmed, replaced by a wariness that spoke of oldwounds and barricades hastily assembled.
"Henry," she greeted coldly,her sassy veneer slipping just enough to reveal the guarded fortress beneath.
The inn held its breath, the wallsthemselves leaning in with a blend of curiosity and caution. The scent ofrosemary and roasted garlic lingered, a stark contrast to the suddenuncertainty that cloaked the room.
Charlotte and Roxanne exchanged aglance, a silent conversation passing between them. Here stood a ghost fromtheir past, a specter of abandonment and pain, yet also a threadbare hope forsomething lost long ago—perhaps not entirely beyond repair.
Silence draped over the gathering, adelicate veil that waited for the slightest touch to fall away.
Henry's hands, once the bearers ofmagic tricks and piggyback rides, now hung awkwardly by his sides, as if theytoo were uncertain of their place in this room. He took a deep breath, the kindthat reaches into the darkest corners of one's being, dredging up the courageburied beneath years of silence and distance.
"Charlotte, Roxanne," hestarted, his voice a mere whisper against the backdrop of the inn's cozyclamor. "I don't expect forgiveness or understanding, not after all theseyears." Henry swallowed hard, his gaze never wavering. "But I amtruly, deeply sorry for the pain I've caused you both."
The words lingered in the air, fragileyet laden with the gravity of a past that had left its indelible mark on thesisters. Charlotte's grip on the spoon slackened, her artist's mind whichusually swirled with colors and shapes, now clouded with the grey hues of doubtand the stark lines of old hurts. She saw her father's presence not only as adisruption to the evening but as an intruder into the cocoon of healing she'dspun within The Old Crown Inn's walls.
Beside her, Roxanne's sharp intake ofbreath was audible, her sassy confidence crumbling ever so slightly at theedges. Her boldness had always been her armor, but Henry's words were areminder of the vulnerabilities hidden beneath. Her chest rose and fell withthe tide of emotions, the pull to forgive warring with the tides of resentmentthat had ebbed and flowed over the years.
"Sorry doesn't change thepast," Roxanne finally said, her voice tight, betraying the turmoil thatraged beneath her poised surface. "It doesn't change the birthdays missed,the empty chairs at dinner tables, or the fact that Charlotte and I had to fendfor ourselves."
In the fraught stillness, the softstrains of music playing in the background seemed almost incongruous, a gentlemelody at odds with the discordant symphony of their shared history. Charlotteglanced out the window where the last light of day painted the English seasidein strokes of gold and amber. The beauty of Chesham Cove whispered promises ofnew beginnings, yet the shadows of yesteryear loomed, threatening to darken thecanvas of their tentative reunion.
"Roxanne's right," Charlotteadded, her voice barely above a hush, a stark contrast to the vibrant laughterthat had filled the inn just moments before. "We built our lives withoutyou, Henry. We learned to not need you."
The tension in the kitchen waspalpable, as thick as the stew simmering on the stove. Each heart beat a rhythmof confusion and longing, each breath drawn a question of what could besalvaged from the wreckage of their family. And as the ocean outside whisperedto the shore, so too did hope and despair dance delicately in the hearts of thetwo women before him, leaving Henry to wonder if the bridge to forgivenesscould withstand the weight of a past left unattended for far too long.
The tick of the grandfather clock inthe corner punctuated the silence, each resonant chime a heartbeat stretchingthe quiet into an eternity. Charlotte's gaze lingered on her father, tracingthe lines time had etched onto his face, seeking any trace of the man they onceknew.
"Forgive me," Henry murmuredagain, his eyes not quite meeting theirs, as if he were addressing the wornwooden floorboards that bore witness to their childhood laughter and tears.
Roxanne shifted beside Charlotte, theleather of the barstool creaking under the weight of her indecision. Herfingers curled around the edge of the kitchen island, knuckles whitening—asilent struggle against the surge of memories flooding in with the tide ofHenry's plea.
A seagull cried outside, its lone callswirling in the salt-laced breeze, mingling with the scent of rosemary andthyme that still hung in the air from their abandoned meal prep. It was asthough nature itself held its breath, awaiting the verdict of this fracturedfamily tableau.
"Can we... Could we ever goback?" Roxanne's voice cracked, a fissure through which her vulnerabilitypeeked, her usual sass subdued by the gravity of the moment.
Charlotte found her sister's hand,their fingers entwining—a lifeline amidst the emotional wreckage. Her ownheart, a ship long adrift, pondered the possibility of anchoring once more inthe safe harbor of forgiveness.
"Back? No." The words leftCharlotte slowly, heavy with the weight of truth. "But maybe...maybeforward."
