Page 8 of A New Chance

"Mr. Windnell, I appreciate your concern, but I believe in the potential of The Old Crown Inn. I've faced challenges before, and I'm not afraid to face them again," she replied firmly, her eyes meeting his.

"Very well, then," Thomas said, a hint of amusement playing on his lips. "I wish you the best of luck, Miss Moore. You'll need it."

With a curt nod, he turned on his heel and left the store, leaving Charlotte alone with her thoughts and the echoes of whispers behind her. She stared after him for a moment, then shook her head, trying to dispel the lingering doubt that clung to her like a heavy fog.

Charlotte carried her basket of carefully chosen ingredients to the checkout counter, feeling a mixture of indignation and newfound determination. She bristled at the condescending way he had spoken to her, as though she were a naive child playing with matches in a tinderbox. True, she was new to Chesham Cove, and renovating the inn would be a massive undertaking, but she had never been one to back down from a challenge.

"Seems like he's got his nose so high in the air, he'd drown in a rainstorm," she muttered to herself, the corners of her mouth turning downward in distaste.

“Right you are,” the clerk agreed, appearing behind the checkout counter.

"Never thought I'd meet an actual wolf in sheep's clothing," she replied.

Despite her dislike of the man, Charlotte found herself grudgingly admiring his refinement. It was clear that Thomas Windnell had some position in society, and she couldn't fault him for that. But it didn't excuse his arrogance or his attempts to intimidate her into abandoning her dreams.

"Put him out of your mind, dearie," the clerk said. "You've got a dinner to prepare, and you're going to knock Simon's socks off." She began ringing up Charlotte's items. "Windnell may have money and fancy clothes, but he doesn't have the heart that we townsfolk do."

"Thank you," Charlotte replied, touched by the woman's kind words. The lady had said we in such a way that Charlotte felt included, and it warmed her heart. She handed over the money for her groceries, her fingers lingering on the worn, smooth coins. "I won't let him get to me."

"Good," the cashier nodded, handing Charlotte her change. "We're lucky to have you here in Chesham Cove. Get old Marge’s place shining again, right?"

As Charlotte left the store, she felt a surge of gratitude wash over her like the tide that caressed the shores of the town she now called home. Thomas Windnell might have powerful connections and grand ambitions, but she had something more precious – the support of the people around her, who believed in her vision and saw past the crumbling facade of The Old Crown Inn to the potential that lay within.

She cradled the bag of groceries against her chest as she walked down the cobblestone streets toward her new home. The scent of rosemary and thyme mingled with the salty tang of the sea.

But beneath it all, like a shadow lurking in the depths of the ocean, lay the lingering sense of intrigue about Thomas Windnell – a specter that would not be easily banished, nor forgotten, despite what she had promised the lady clerk.

But Charlotte had a more pressing issue. Simon would be at The Crown in no time, and she had to hustle home to fix the sink and prepare dinner. Both the plumbing and her potential new love connection were almost—almost—as stress-inducing as her run-in with the posh Mr. Windnell.

Charlotte could only hope that the evening to come would end much more pleasantly.

CHAPTER FIVE

Once home, Charlotte pushed open the heavy front door and stepped into the dimly lit foyer. Shadows danced across the peeling wallpaper, giving the room an air of melancholy that somehow felt appropriate for the task she had taken upon herself.

Stashing the groceries in the fridge, which, thankfully, worked, Charlotte sorted the small collection of tools out that she had purchased earlier, her fingers brushing against the cool metal and rough wooden handles as she laid them on the dining room table. They felt foreign to her, but she knew that she would grow accustomed to them in time. An artist by trade, she was no stranger to transforming raw materials into something beautiful – only now, it was a grand manor house instead of a canvas.

"Minor dramas don’t call for major stress," she reminded herself, a phrase that Amelia, her daughter, loved to say. It had always annoyed Charlotte’s soon-to-be-ex-husband. Though the thought of their impending divorce pained her, she couldn't deny that the distance from New York, the ocean separating her from her old life, was helping Charlotte deal with Daniel’s abrupt departure from their once-shared life.

It was odd, though, that Daniel had only called her once since she’d arrived in Chesham. She guessed that her refusal to come back to The States at that point had successfully driven him off.

Taking a deep breath, Charlotte turned her attention to the task at hand – fixing the leaky kitchen sink. She walked into the kitchen, her steps echoing slightly in the spacious room. The sink, an elegant but now problematic fixture, was still dripping steadily, each drop a tiny reminder of the many challenges she had yet to face in this new chapter of her life.

Kneeling down, she opened the cabinet under the sink, the hinges creaking slightly. The space was cramped, and the pipes looked more complicated than she had anticipated. She picked up the wrench, its weight unfamiliar in her hand, and began to fiddle with the nuts and bolts, guided by the how-to video she had found online previously. The metal was cold and unyielding, and her fingers fumbled at first. But now, she had the right tools, along with several other needed doodads that George had pointed out.

As she worked, Charlotte’s mind wandered back to Amelia. She smiled, thinking of how Amelia would have teased her for attempting DIY plumbing. Charlotte had always been the “call somebody” type.

The task was more challenging than she had expected. Several times, Charlotte had to stop, take a step back, and reassess her approach. But with each attempt, she felt more confident, more in control. The frustration she felt towards Daniel and their failed marriage slowly transformed into a sense of accomplishment with each turn of the wrench.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the persistent dripping stopped. Charlotte tightened the last bolt and wiped her brow. She stood back, looking at her handiwork with a mix of surprise and pride. The sink, once a source of annoyance, was now restored.

She cleaned up the tools, her hands now stained and roughened a bit from the work, and made herself a cup of tea. Sitting at the dining room table, she looked around the grand manor house that was now her canvas. "Charlotte Moore," she whispered, almost as if testing the sound of her name against the ancient walls, "artist, mother, and renovator." The words held promise.

"Charlotte one, sink zero," she muttered under her breath.

"Are you talking to the house again?" Charlotte looked up to see Margaret Wright—Marge—The Crown’s former owner and now one of Charlotte’s best Chesham chums, standing in the doorway of the kitchen. The older woman entered the room with a chuckle, holding a tray of freshly baked cookies. The cookies—in addition to Marge’s affable and welcome presence—made Charlotte grateful that she had insisted the older woman keep a key to the place.

"Maybe," Charlotte admitted sheepishly. "But I need The Crown to know that she has to help me, not fight me. I need to fix her without the whole house crashing down."

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