“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 her pen pal with her real-life friends or her real-life brother.
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.”
Charlotte groaned. Even worse. “I didn’t want to start out with enemies. I mean, it’s my first hour in town. And he’s Julianna’s brother.”
“It’s fine,” Betsy said. “Tourists do crazy things around here all the time.”
“Right,” she said.
Betsy crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you going to do while you’re here?”
Charlotte took a sip of her coffee. “I was going to see if Connor needed any help, you know, with the dance studio.” She downplayed her plan because if the idea of buying Julianna’s studio was a crazy one, she wasn’t ready to hear it.
If Connor didn’t want to sell it to her, she had no idea what she’d do. But that was a problem for another day.
After the funeral, she’d gone back to the ballet, and every night, she put on a great show. She performed maybe better than she ever had—but loneliness carved something hollow out of her insides with every curtain call. She spent those moments off stage weighing her options, considering the pros and cons of this life she’d chosen. She made lists. She talked to herself. She was in a position that every dancer in the world envied—it would be ludicrous to give it up.
But she couldn’t shake the idea that there was something more for her.
She’d mentioned it to her mother about a week ago, after that night’s performance, and Marcia—in true Marcia fashion—said, “Only you could achieve this level of success and still want more, Charlotte.” Then she smiled. “I’ve taught you well.”
But her mother had misunderstood. She felt like there was something more, but it had nothing to do with the kinds of goals Marcia would’ve praised. Maybe what Charlotte really wanted was something less.
So, she tendered her resignation, effective immediately, then quietly packed a bag, rented a car, and drove to the only place she could think of that might bring her some peace.
And now, here she was.
“Do you want me to call Connor for you?” Betsy reached into the pocket of her apron and pulled out her phone.
“Actually, maybe you could call Lucy Fitzgerald instead?”
After all, it had been Lucy who had given Charlotte the idea to come here in the first place, and the guts to follow it through.
“Sure thing,” Betsy said.
She wasn’t ready to face Connor. Maybe she was afraid he’d tell her the truth—that she was a lousy friend.
And while she’d made it to Julianna’s funeral, she’d effectively hid herself in the back and done a poor job of paying her respects. She was pretty sure he had no idea she’d been there. And she wasn’t sure how to ever explain that his wife’s death had served as a cosmic wake-up call, let alone pitch her idea of buying the dance studio.
Facing Connor would have to wait. She didn’t have the courage yet. He could crush her grand plan in a heartbeat, simply by refusing to sell the studio to her.
For all she knew, he’d already sold it or shut it down. That’s what she was here to find out.
She owed it to Jules.
Betsy had excused herself to the kitchen to call Lucy, and as Charlotte sat there, alone at the counter with nothing but memories and a mug of hot black coffee, that whirlwind of doubt kicked up inside her.
She recognized the signs. A ball of dread wrapped in a coating of fear lodged in her stomach. Sweaty palms. The buzz of anxiety. Yes, she knew them well.
What she didn’t know was how to quell the insecurities that kept her frozen, knee-deep in a pile of indecision and uncertainty.
She hated this about herself—hated that all her choices had been made for her all these years, effectively rendering her own decision-making skills useless. She’d finally found her backbone, and now she sat here in a thick fog of doubt.