Chapter Eight #2
“Absolutely,” Charlie nodded gravely. “Missing tea time is a criminal offence punishable by public tutting and disapproving glances. Last year, a man in Leeds forgot to offer his visitor a cuppa, and they exiled him to France.”
“Now you’re definitely making fun of me.”
“Maybe a little,” Charlie admitted, that almost-smile appearing again. “But tea is important. It’s not just the beverage—it’s the pause, the ritual. Everything stops for tea.”
They reached a bend in the river where a fallen tree created a natural bench. By unspoken agreement, they sat down, Tilly immediately flopping at their feet with a contented sigh.
“I thought British people were supposed to be reserved and formal,” Eva said. “You’re surprisingly sarcastic.”
“We’re not reserved,” Charlie corrected. “We’re private. There’s a difference.”
“And what does Charlie Blackwood keep private?” Eva asked, immediately regretting her boldness when his expression closed again.
Scared of the painful silence that was sure to follow, she filled it. “I can see why the Brontes wrote such dramatic novels,” she said, gesturing at the dramatic scenery around them. “This landscape demands it. All that passion and tragedy—it fits here.”
Charlie glanced at her sideways. “You’ve read them?”
“Multiple times. Wuthering Heights was my favourite in high school. All that doomed love and drama on the moors.” She pointed at the landscape. “Though I pictured it differently. More … I don’t know, purple? Gothic? This is beautiful but in a quieter way.”
“Life’s usually quieter than books,” Charlie said. “Less dramatic. More disappointing.”
“That’s a cheerful worldview.”
“It’s a realistic one.” His tone had shifted, becoming closed and defensive. Or as Charlie would say: ‘private’.
“Don’t you love the worlds that books invite you into? They are exciting and comforting and encouraging!” Eva could feel herself becoming aggravated.
“Books sell you stories about destiny and soulmates and love conquering all. Real life is more like people leaving. People choosing easier options. People forgetting you the moment something shinier comes along.”
Eva studied his profile, noting the tension in his jaw. “God, Blackwood, who left you?” she attempted to draw some humour from him.
“Everyone, eventually.” He said it matter-of-factly, but his hands tensed at the red worn leash in his hand. “That’s what people do. They leave.”
Before Eva could respond, the sky, which had been merely overcast this morning, suddenly opened. Rain hammered down with the enthusiasm of a percussion section, turning the path into a stream.
“Shit,” Charlie muttered, pulling his collar up uselessly against the deluge. “So much for your weather forecast.”
Eva was too frustrated to muster a response and could only manage a huffed exhale.
They were in the middle of the moors, the car park at least twenty minutes behind them.
There was no point turning back on themselves, they had to dash forwards.
Charlie spotted what appeared to be the only building for miles— luckily it was a pub.
Although, it looked like it had grown out of the landscape itself, all weathered stone and tiny windows.
“Run for it,” he said, and so they did, Tilly leading the charge with the confidence of a dog who knew exactly where the warm fires and potential food scraps were.
They burst through the pub door in a spray of rain and Yorkshire mud, gasping and dripping onto worn flagstones.
The pub—The Shepherd’s Rest, according to a crooked sign—was exactly what Eva would have imagined if someone had asked her to design the perfect countryside pub.
Low beamed ceilings, a fire crackling in an enormous stone hearth, the smell of woodsmoke and ale and something cooking that made her stomach rumble.
Eva looked down at her filthy boots, then spotted the sign that read ‘muddy boots welcome’.
“Charlie Blackwood!” The bartender—a middle-aged woman beamed at them. “Haven’t seen you in donkey’s years. And you brought company!”
“Hello, Mags,” Charlie said, looking slightly embarrassed. “Just escaping the rain.”
“Course you are, love. Get yourselves by the fire. I’ll bring the blankets.”
They claimed a table near the fireplace, Tilly immediately curling up on the hearth rug like she owned the place. Eva peeled off her soaked coat, acutely aware of how her wet hair was plastering itself to her head in what was definitely not an attractive way.
“Here,” Charlie said gruffly, handing her his jumper. “You’re shivering.”
“Won’t you be cold?”
“I’m a Yorkshireman. We don’t feel the cold.”
The jumper was warm and soft and smelled like him—that mix of old books and wood shavings she’d noticed before. It was also enormous on her, the sleeves hanging past her hands, she looked like a child dressed in their parent’s clothing. But it was blissfully warm.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Mags re-appeared with the fleece blankets.
Tilly accepted one with the dignity of a duchess, allowing herself to be dried while maintaining eye contact with Eva the entire time, as if sharing some secret female solidarity about the silliness of men.
Mags offered a knowing look that made Charlie scowl.
“I’ll bring you both something to warm up with,” she said. “The usual, Charlie?”
“Please.”
When she’d gone, Eva asked, “The usual?”
“Tea,” Charlie said. “Properly made. None of that microwave nonsense you Americans do.”
“I don’t microwave tea!”
“You tried to once. I can tell.”
The horrible thing was, he was right. Eva had definitely microwaved water for tea in her college days. “That was years ago. I’ve evolved.”
“Have you?” He was almost smiling. “Next you’ll tell me you’ve stopped putting ice in everything.”
“Now you’re just being culturally insensitive.”
“Am I?”
The tea arrived, along with what Mags called ‘a little something to keep you going’—which turned out to be enormous slabs of fruit cake that could have doubled as building materials.
Eva bit into hers and made an involuntary sound of pleasure. “Oh my God. This is incredible.”
“Mags makes it herself,” Charlie said. “Family recipe going back generations.”
“Everything here goes back generations,” Eva observed. “It’s like the whole country is built on layers of history.”
“That’s exactly what it is,” Charlie said holding his hands up to the firelight. “Layer upon layer, each generation building on the last. Sometimes it feels like the weight of all that history will crush us.”
“Is that why you make maps? To document it all?”
Charlie was quiet for a moment, staring into his tea. “I make maps because there’s a permanency about them that’s pretty comforting, to be honest. Streets don’t just pack up and move to London. Buildings don’t decide they’ve found something better. They stay where you put them.”
The pain in his voice was so raw that Eva reached out instinctively, her hand covering his on the table. He looked down at their hands with a slightly crumpled brow, like he never had someone try to connect to him in this way before.
“People leave,” he said quietly. “It’s what they do. My parents couldn’t wait to get out of York. Important jobs, important lives somewhere else. Left me with Gran when I was seven. Came back for Christmas sometimes, when they remembered.”
“Charlie …”
“My ex-fiancée left too. Sophie. Said York was too small, too limiting. Said I was too focused on the past, not ambitious enough.” He laughed bitterly. “She’s in New York now. Marketing executive. Probably has the life she always wanted.”
Eva squeezed his hand. “I’m sorry.”
“Gran was the only one who at least tried to stay. And even she …” He trailed off, then seemed to shake himself.
“Anyway. That’s why I don’t believe in fairy tales.
The happy endings from those books you were swooning over earlier.
People don’t stay. They don’t choose love over opportunity.
They leave, and you learn to be okay with that. ”
“Your grandmother must have loved you very much,” Eva said carefully.
“She did. But she understood the weight of leaving too. She never got over someone who abandoned her.” Charlie pulled his hand away, wrapping it around his mug.
“She waited for him. He was supposed to come back to her. He never did. She married someone else eventually, had a kid, made a life. But she never forgot him.”
“Maybe he tried—”
“Don’t,” Charlie cut her off. “Don’t romanticise it. He left. She spent the rest of her life telling stories about love while never believing she deserved it herself. That’s not romantic. It’s just sad.”
Charlie turned himself away from her, avoiding her gaze. Music drifted from the pub’s ancient sound system—something that sounded distinctly American. Charlie’s demeanour appeared to soften slightly, and he hummed along under his breath.
“Is that … country music?” Eva asked, grateful for the change of subject.
Charlie flushed slightly. “Maybe.”
“You like country music?”
“The old stuff. Real country. Johnny Cash, Patsy Cline.”
“Those are the only two country artists British people ever name,” Eva teased. “Like when Americans say they like British music and only mention The Beatles and The Rolling Stones.”
“Fine,” Charlie said, sitting up straighter. “Willie Nelson. Merle Haggard. Loretta Lynn. Gram Parsons. Emmylou Harris.”
Eva stared at him. “How do you know Gram Parsons?”
“Gran loved him. Said his music understood heartbreak.” Charlie was definitely smiling now. “Used to play Grievous Angel on repeat after too much sherry.”
“Your Yorkshire grandmother listened to cosmic American music?”
“She contained multitudes.” The smile faded. “She always said she should have been braver. Should have chased what she wanted instead of just accepting what was expected.”
The song changed, and Charlie hummed louder, actually tapping his fingers on the table.
“What is this?” Eva asked.
“Ray Charles,” Charlie said. “I Can’t Stop Loving You. Pure country heartbreak.”