Page 75 of Just Like Home

“Yeah?”

She nodded again, then sat up and looked at him. “I’ll try, Uncle Cole. But I don’t want to go today.”

“No problem,” he said. “No pressure.”

She hugged him, and his throat tightened. Why had God taken Julianna from them? Didn’t He know how much they all still needed her here?

“I love you, kiddo,” he said quietly.

She stifled a sob but squeezed him a little harder.

And that sealed the deal. He would make it his goal to get his niece back on the stage, even if that meant getting on the stage himself.

She was worth it.

23

Charlotte had been stewing since her impromptu visit to the football field a few days before.

One of these days she would learn it was a bad idea to show up anywhere Cole Turner was, donuts or no.

She looked at theHarbor Pointe Gazette, which she’d laid out on the counter in the kitchen, and ran a hand over the front page. A photo of Julianna stared back at her. Lucy had written an article about the dance recital, and specifically how Charlotte had come on board to celebrate the life of the studio’s owner and beloved dance teacher.

Brinley was quoted, singing very high praises of the Chicago City Ballet veteran and “old friend of Mrs. Ford.”

“Miss Page is one of the most elite ballerinas in the country, and for her to step foot on our stage at the Harbor Pointe Playhouse is the kind of rare cultural treat we should all make sure to see. I can promise you her performance will be one to remember.”

Charlotte had never been a part of something like this. She’d never been a part of something that was so much about someone other than herself. And sure, she wanted to make a good impression on the town because she was hoping to run the dance studio, but that’s really not what the recital was about.

It was about Julianna and these young dancers. It was about being rooted in something other than her own praise. It was about finding a place to belong.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard a silent prayer—a plea, really—Are you proud of me yet?The thought surprised her. She wasn’t intentionally trying to make anyone proud.

And yet, she wanted to be better. She’d been striving to earn her place for as long as she could remember. Was she worthy yet?

Her eyes fell to the image of Julianna. Happiness radiated from her friend’s eyes. Julianna had figured something out, a secret of sorts, one that Charlotte wanted to uncover for herself.

Was it this town or the dance studio or her little family? Or was it simply that Jules had decided to live an unselfish life? Charlotte knew nothing about that. And frankly, she had no reason not to be satisfied. But there was this low thrumming down deep in her soul, echoing in a rhythm.You were made for more than this.

But without the applause, the approval, who was Charlotte Page?

How did she find out?

And how did she prove herself if performing wasn’t in the equation? Without that, what else was she? Charlotte was a performer, even when she wasn’t on the stage. It exhausted her to think of all the ways she was putting on a show.

She just wanted to be accepted asCharlotte.But she had no idea what that looked like or who that was. And if she couldn’t accept herself without striving for an ideal, how could she expect anyone else to?

Day had faded to night, and the house had grown dark without her realizing it. Lucy was covering a city council meeting and had told Charlotte she’d be home late.

“Don’t wait up for me,” she’d joked on her way out the door. “These meetings get wild. Sometimes they go all night.”

Charlotte had grown to love the familiar banter between her and Lucy. Her roommate had become a friend, and she was in desperate need of one of those. Never mind that she held back—a lot. Lucy didn’t know her innermost thoughts. Nobody besides Jules ever had.

She walked into the kitchen and turned a circle. This was the first night since she arrived in Harbor Pointe that she’d been on her own for dinner.

She pulled chicken and broccoli out of the refrigerator and closed the door, then a noise outside caught her attention. The front of the house was still dark, so to passersby, it likely looked like no one was home. Except her rented, beat-up Jetta was parked in the driveway.

She crept toward the front room, feeling like a character in a horror movie and telling herself this was a bad idea.

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