Page 9 of Just Like Home

It had been a month since the funeral, but that was the day everything had changed. Charlotte had slipped away from the cemetery and driven around Harbor Pointe, finally seeing the place Julianna had described so beautifully in her letters.

She understood why her friend was so charmed by this town, and for the first time, Charlotte imagined what it might be like to live a different kind of life.

Of course, it wasn’t practical. She was a ballerina—what did a ballerina do in a tiny tourist town? So, she returned to Chicago, to Marcia, to the ballet—but everything felt different.

It was almost as if for one glorious day, Julianna opened the door to her world and allowed Charlotte a peek inside.

That peek had been enough to spark something inside of her. So often, ballerinas are striving to make it in the big city—but Charlotte wondered if she could make it in a small town. She expected the feeling to go away, this pull toward something other than the only life she’d known, but a month had passed and here she was—crashing into the trucks of moody, handsome men.

“Come, sit.” The girl slipped behind the long, white counter and motioned for Charlotte to take a seat opposite her, on one of the stools.

Julianna had mentioned Hazel’s Kitchen in many of her letters. How could she not? It was a regular part of her day.

Hazel’s Kitchen is my go-to breakfast spot. Actually, all of the locals tend to frequent this place, and if you visit, you’ll know why immediately. The owner, Betsy, is certainly part of the diner’s charm, but the food is out of this world. If you ever show up in Harbor Pointe, you’ll most likely find me in a booth at the back, having coffee with friends or planning our next season of dance classes for the studio.

Charlotte scanned the restaurant. There was no use looking for Julianna today. The realization turned something inside her and sadness hung around her edges. Had coming here been a mistake?

Charlotte turned back to the wild-haired girl wearing a turquoise shirt and apron. “You’re Betsy, aren’t you?”

The girl smiled. “I am. Have we met before?”

“No,” Charlotte said. “But I kind of feel like I know you already. I’m an old friend of Julianna Ford’s. More of a pen pal recently, I guess you’d say.” The sadness gave a tug. “I mean, I was an old friend of hers.”

“Oh. So you know Coach,” Betsy said—a statement, not a question.

“Kind of,” Charlotte said. “I mean, not really. I met him once or twice.”Dreamed about him a thousand times more . . .“He obviously doesn’t remember me.”

Betsy turned a mug over and poured Charlotte a cup of coffee. “I’m sorry. About Jules.”

“Me too,” Charlotte said.

Betsy seemed to visibly shake away the sadness, then changed the subject. “A pen pal? They still have those?”

Charlotte had learned to drink her coffee black when her mother made it clear that cream and sugar were not part of a ballerina’s diet. She didn’t particularly like black coffee, but it was a taste she’d acquired. And right now, she was thankful for the caffeine. She’d gotten up at the crack of dawn to drive to Harbor Pointe before she lost her nerve.

After all, she was giving up a lot. Running away, her mother would say, and maybe she was. Maybe leaving before Marcia could talk her out of it was strategic.

“How’d you know Jules?” Betsy asked.

“We met at dance camp when we were twelve,” Charlotte said. “We were instant friends, and we danced together for a while before she met Connor.”

“Wow,” Betsy said.

“She never mentioned me?”

Betsy shrugged. “Not to me.”

Charlotte took a sip. What did she expect? Julianna had no reason to discuss herpen palwith herreal-lifefriends or herreal-lifebrother.

But they were more than pen pals, weren’t they? They didn’t see each other enough, and the letter writing was a poor substitute for face-to-face conversation, yet Charlotte lived for those letters. She loved those letters. In some ways, as much as she sometimes looked down on Jules for abandoning ballet, she also envied her.

And maybe it was that envy, that curiosity, that wondering what it was Julianna had found that Charlotte never had—that led her here.

“So, why come here now?” Betsy asked, as if she had read her mind.

“It was sort of a spur-of-the-moment decision.” Charlotte sighed. “Maybe the wrong one, now that I think about it. I wrecked a very cranky man’s truck.”

“I think Coach was already cranky before you hit his truck,” Betsy said. “Though, I guess that probably didn’t help. He’s been restoring that thing for a long time.”

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