Page 15 of A New Love

"Thank you," Charlotte said again, touched by his kindness. As she sat there, shivering and soaked to the bone, she felt a strange sense of gratitude.

The fisherman shrugged out of his thick corduroy coat and draped it around her as he raised a quizzical brow. "It's not often we find an American in Chesham Cove," he said, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity.

"Is it that obvious?" Charlotte asked with a sheepish grin. She'd always thought her New York accent to be subtle, but she supposed it must stand out in this small English town.

She clutched his coat around her and turned her nose into the collar. There was the unmistakable scent of fresh, outdoor air – she imagined his countless hours spent in the open, under the expansive sky. It was a crisp, invigorating smell, reminiscent of windswept fields and the faint trace of morning dew clinging to grass.

Underneath that was a subtle hint of woodsmoke, a smoky and slightly sweet fragrance. It spoke of evenings spent by the fire, crackling logs and stories shared and moments savored. This scent held the warmth of many nights, the comfort of flames that had warded off the coolness of the dusk.

Then there was the faintest whisper of motor oil, a rugged, earthy note that clung to the fibers. It was a hint that his hand were always busy fixing, tinkering, creating – the hands of a man who wasn't afraid to delve into work, to get his hands dirty, to solve problems.

Interesting.

"Let's just say you're a rare sight around these parts, Miss…" the man replied, his eyes sparkling with amusement. The wind tousled his hair, and the salty sea air filled Charlotte's nostrils, grounding her in the moment.

She almost said,Moore,but instead, she said, “Anderson. Charlotte Anderson. What brings you here, Mr…"

"Harris. But call me Simon. Born and raised here, actually. I'm a fisherman, if you couldn’t tell," Simon explained, gesturing toward the group of fishermen nearby, who were still chuckling at the spectacle they had just witnessed.

"So are you here seeing family? You share a name with folks around these parts."

Charlotte furrowed her brow, thoughts racing. Could it be mere coincidence that there were others with her maiden name – Anderson – here in Chesham Cove? Was there a connection to her own family history that she was unaware of? This trip was supposed to be focused on her art and reconnecting with herself, but now, she found herself curious.

“No, just a pleasure trip. You travel ever?”

"A bit. But I couldn't imagine living anywhere else."

"Must be nice to be so connected to your roots," Charlotte murmured, feeling a slight pang of longing for her own tangled family history. She quickly shook off the thought, not wanting to let her introspection dampen the mood. With a deep breath, she stood up from the rock, her clothes dripping water onto the pebbles below.

"Thank you for your help, Simon," Charlotte said sincerely, meeting his gaze. She could feel her face flush under his steady stare, and she suddenly became very aware of her drenched state.

"Think nothing of it," Simon replied, his smile warm and genuine. "Just glad I could lend a hand."

"Still, I appreciate it," Charlotte insisted, then, unable to quell her rising blush, added, "I should probably get to The Crown Inn and change into something dry."

"Of course," Simon agreed, nodding toward the path that led away from the cove. "Keep the coat. I’ll get it back when I see you next. Take care of yourself, Charlotte."

She offered him a small smile before turning on her heel, her wet shoes squelching with each step. As she walked away, Charlotte replayed the encounter in her mind, feeling both mortification and curiosity.

When I see you next.

As she reclaimed her suitcase from the sidewalk and walked, her thoughts drifted back to Simon – his rugged features, strong yet gentle hands, and the way he had rushed to her aid. There was something about Simon that intrigued her, lingering like a soft melody at the edge of her consciousness—but for now, she needed to focus on warming up and getting dry. There would be time to explore Chesham Cove and the secrets of its residents later.

The Crown Inn beckoned, promising a sanctuary from the cold. Perhaps tomorrow, she would look for answers about the Anderson family connection that Simon had alluded to.

"All right," she whispered to herself. "Time to see what The Crown Inn has in store for me."

CHAPTER ELEVEN

The building had seen better days.

The Crown Inn stood in front of her, a behemoth. Its paint was chipped and faded, woodwork warped by time and the salty sea air. Yet, despite its run-down appearance, there was an undeniable charm to it that drew Charlotte in. As an artist, Charlotte could see the stories hidden within every crack and crevice.

Stepping up to the porch, she stretched her weary limbs, taking a deep breath of the crisp ocean air. Her eyes wandered to the horizon, where the sun was dipping low toward the water's edge, casting a symphony of warm hues across the sky. The breathtaking view of the ocean from the inn felt like a soothing balm to her soul, which had been wound tight for far too long. As Charlotte gazed at the melding colors of the sunset, she allowed herself to be swept up in the tranquility of the moment. It was as if the weight of the world had been momentarily lifted from her shoulders, replaced by the gentle caress of the wind and the rhythmic lull of the waves crashing against the shore. This place held promises of serenity, if she were willing to open her heart to it.

Charlotte withdrew her gaze from the mesmerizing horizon and turned toward the inn's entrance when she heard the creak of the weathered wooden door. A woman with a kind smile appeared, her face lined with the wisdom of time, her silver hair pinned up neatly. Her eyes held a gentle warmth that seemed to mirror the soul—if not the age—of the inn itself.

"Ah! You must be Charlotte!" the woman exclaimed, extending a hand gnarled by years of hard work. "I'm Margaret Wright, owner of The Crown Inn. But please, call me Marge."

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