Chapter Twenty
The Ending She Chooses
“Perhaps we should talk somewhere private,” Sandy Coleman suggested, her voice carrying the same tone she’d used when Eva was seven and had decided to give herself bangs with craft scissors.
Eva glanced at Charlie, who gave her an encouraging nod before tactfully steering her father towards the market stalls. “Mr Coleman, have you seen the medieval stonework? It’s actually quite fascinating …”
Her father went willingly, already pulling out his phone to photograph everything. “Sandy!” he called back. “They have actual medieval masonry techniques on display!”
“Go on, Robert,” her mother said with fond exasperation. “Just don’t buy any more pottery. We barely fit what you bought earlier in the hand luggage case!”
Sandy sighed and turned back to Eva. “Your father and his enthusiasms. Shall we?”
Eva led her mother to the snug, the quietest room in the inn.
The fire crackled warmly, and Margaret’s wooden box sat open on the side table, her treasures catching the light.
Sandy paused in the doorway, taking in the photographs, the displayed letters, the careful recreation of a life lived in kindness.
“So,” she said, settling into an armchair with the precision of someone preparing for a negotiation. “You were going to miss family Christmas, for this?”
“I know.” Eva sat across from her, hands folded in her lap like she was nineteen again, calling home to explain why she’d changed her major from pre-law to English. “Mom, I—”
“Twenty eight years, Eva. You’ve never missed Christmas. Not when you had the flu. Not when you were in college. Not even the year you were dating that terrible musician.” Sandy’s voice wavered slightly. “Everyone is at home in the family, except you. And now us too apparently!”
Eva felt tears prick her eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“Then explain this to me.” Sandy gestured around the room, encompassing the inn, the celebration outside, Charlie’s Santa hat still visible on the parlour floor. “What is all this? What are you doing here instead of coming home for the holidays?”
Eva took a deep breath. Outside, she could hear the carollers starting Good King Wenceslas, and the sound gave her courage. “I’m writing again. Really writing. Not press releases or marketing copy. Mom, I wrote a real story about a real person who changed lives.”
“You could write in Nashville.”
“No, I couldn’t.” Eva met her mother’s eyes. “In Nashville, I was drowning. Going through the motions. Following the plan you’d laid out for me since I was five.”
“That plan was to help you succeed—”
“That plan was to keep me safe. To keep me close.” The words came out gentler than Eva intended.
“Mom, look at Lily—she loves her nursing job and has just secured her dream home! Maddie is still flying high from her honeymoon but came back excited to return to her teaching career. They found their own paths. Why couldn’t you let me find mine? ”
Sandy’s perfectly composed facade cracked slightly. “Because you’re different from them. You’ve always been more … sensitive. More likely to get hurt.”
“Or maybe you just decided that’s who I was,” Eva said. “And I believed you. Just like I believed all the fairy tales about princesses waiting to be rescued. Turns out, some of us have to rescue ourselves.”
They sat in silence for a moment, the fire popping softly. Through the window, snow continued to fall on the Christmas market, making everything look like one of the Hallmark movies Eva loved so much.
“The story you wrote,” Sandy said finally, “the one you handed over to the press here? Ms Jensen saw it online, do you remember her? She sent me an email about it, God knows how she saw it, or how she still has my email. That woman loved you in school, though. I didn’t have a moment to read it on the way here.
But maybe if I do, I’ll understand more? ”
Eva was not used to the sight of her mother backing down.
But she recognised this olive branch for what it was and took it gratefully.
In the end, that’s all she’d ever wanted.
For her mother to truly see and understand her and to appreciate her passion for writing the way Ms Jensen always had.
Maybe York could gift them that too this Christmas.
Eva poured the fresh pot of tea that Florence had left sat between her and Sandy. In her pocket her phone buzzed.
Courtney: EVANGELINE COLEMAN! Your article is going viral! My mother-in-law just texted me about it. Call me the SECOND you get home. I need every single detail about York and especially about this guy.
“The Yorkshire Herald published it this morning.” Eva showed her mother the screen. ‘Margaret’s Trail of Magic: How One Woman’s Kindness Transformed York.’
Sandy read in silence, her expression unreadable. Eva watched her mother’s eyes move across the screen, taking in the story of Margaret Wells, the Christmas traditions she’d started, the lives she’d changed, the love she’d spread despite her own broken heart.
“The comments,” Sandy noted, scrolling down. “People are sharing their own stories. This one—‘My gran used to talk about the Christmas Angel who left homemade confectionery in 1953. Now I know who she was.’” She looked up. “You did this in one day?”
“The story was already there. I just … told it.”
Sandy closed the laptop carefully. “The writing is good, Eva. More than that. It’s better than anything you’ve done before.”
“Thank you.”
“When are you coming home?”
Eva took a deep breath. This wasn’t exactly how she’d wanted the conversation to go. “I haven’t decided yet. I need to help them get the trail established, finish some interviews and do some write ups.”
“And then?”
“I don’t know.” Eva stood, moving to the window where she could see her father enthusiastically photographing a medieval doorway while Charlie patiently explained the architecture.
“This trip has changed me, Mom. Made me realise I’ve been living the life everyone expected me to live, not the one I want. ”
“Which is?”
“That’s what I need to figure out. Maybe it’s not Nashville. Maybe it’s not even America. I just know I can’t go back to being the person I was before.”
Sandy joined her at the window. “That boy—Charlie. Is he part of this change?”
Eva smiled warmly. “Maybe. But this isn’t about him. It’s about me finally deciding who I want to be. No more waiting for someone else to write my happy ending.”
Her mother was quiet for a long moment. Then: “Your father and I always wondered where you got your love of stories. Now I think maybe you were just waiting to find the right one to tell.”
“Mom …”
“I’m still not happy that you’re missing our family Christmas,” Sandy said, but her voice was softer now.
“But I suppose, well, I suppose sometimes you have to let go of some older traditions in order to grow and move forwards. That’s how new traditions are created, right?
It’s decided, we’re staying. Merry Christmas Eve, Eva. ”
By evening, the inn was glowing with Christmas Eve warmth.
The article had done exactly what Eva hoped—reminded York why the inn mattered.
All day, locals had been stopping by with their own Margaret stories, and Trinkett had already fielded three calls about organising proper tours of the trail.
Florence and Aidan appeared to have reached an agreement that meant the inn stayed in Florence’s family, but Aidan would have a hand in supporting the trail.
The pub was packed for the celebration. Eva squeezed through the crowd, recognising every face—these people had rallied to save something that mattered.
Oliver was behind the bar, telling anyone who’d listen about Margaret’s fund.
Arthur Whitby had brought some of the preserved books from Margaret’s reading programme to display.
Dr Hartley was explaining Margaret’s innovations in trauma care to Eva’s fascinated father.
“Eva!” Jean from the tea shop appeared with a tray. “I’ve been telling everyone about your article. My mother called—she remembers finding one of Margaret’s notes in 1967. Said it changed her whole perspective on life.”
George from the fudge shop joined them, beaming. “Three people came in today because of your story. Said they wanted to support the businesses on Margaret’s Trail. You’ve done something wonderful here.”
Eva stepped away from the crowd and found herself gazing out the window, thinking of how much had changed because she decided to take a trip. She let a mysterious book lead her on a journey she never thought possible.
She couldn’t help but smile.
Tilly meandered into the room, huffing and grinning from ear to ear, tailed by Charlie.
“Hiding from your admirers?” Charlie said holding two glasses of mulled wine in chipped yet ornate mugs.
“Just catching my breath.” She accepted the wine gratefully. “I can’t believe how many people came.”
“You gave them something to fight for. A story that mattered.” He paused, looking uncharacteristically nervous. “Speaking of which, we should probably talk.”
Eva’s stomach fluttered. “About?”
“About what happens next. You’re supposed to be leaving soon.”
“Yes.”
“And I’m obviously staying here.”
“For now,” Eva said carefully.
Charlie’s eyebrows rose. “For now?”
“I’ve been thinking.” Eva set down her wine, turning to face him fully.
“You’ve lived in York your whole life. You’ve never been anywhere else.
And that’s beautiful—this place, these roots.
But Charlie … when was the last time you did something just for you?
Not for Margaret’s memory, not for family obligation, but for Charlie Blackwood? ”
He opened his mouth, then closed it, looking stunned.
“What if,” Eva took a deep breath and continued. It was time to be bold. “What if you came to visit me? Saw America? Gave yourself permission to explore?”
“Eva, I can’t just—”