Chapter Nine #3
“There’s something about you that speaks to him, I think.
His gran was a storyteller you know? A beautiful writer who helped so many people after the war.
Charlie says she died with dozens of stories in her desk drawer, unpublished.
I reckon he’s terrified of suffering a similar fate — creating beautiful things that no one ever sees.
” Charlotte sighed, “maybe you guys will help each other discover the things you’re both looking for. ”
Outside, the cold air was a relief after the warmth of the pub. They walked slowly, in no hurry to end the evening despite its complications.
“Your friends are lovely,” Eva said. “Charlotte especially.”
“They liked you,” Charlie replied. “Even Marcus, and he’s suspicious of anyone who doesn’t pronounce ‘herbs’ with the H.”
“I noticed he kept asking me to say ‘schedule.’”
“He finds American pronunciation hilarious. Simple pleasures.”
They turned down a narrow alley that Eva didn’t recognise.
“One more stop,” Charlie said. “If you’re not too tired?”
“Lead the way.”
The alley opened onto a small square dominated by an ancient church. Charlie led her around the side to a low wall that overlooked the river. Beyond it, York Minster rose illuminated against the night sky, its reflection shimmering in the dark water below.
“This is beautiful,” Eva breathed.
“My favourite view in the city,” Charlie admitted. “I used to come here when things got … complicated. After my grandmother died. After Sophie left.” He paused. “Tonight.”
“I’m sorry about Sophie,” Eva said. “That couldn’t have been easy.”
“It was … unexpected. I knew she was in town for Christmas, but I didn’t think she’d show up tonight.” He leaned against the wall. “She always did like a dramatic entrance.”
“Can I ask what happened? Really happened?”
Charlie was quiet for so long Eva thought he wouldn’t answer. When he spoke, his voice was low, contemplative.
“We met at university. She was brilliant, ambitious, going places. I was … well, I was still figuring out who I was after Gran died. She made me feel like I could be more than just the grandson left behind.”
He picked up a small stone, turning it over in his fingers.
“For a while, it worked. We were good together. But Sophie always wanted more—bigger cities, better opportunities. York was too small, too limiting. When the New York job came up, she couldn’t understand why I wouldn’t jump at the chance to leave with her. ”
“But you had the shop. Your work.”
“It wasn’t just that.” Charlie tossed the stone into the water below. “York is … it’s home. It’s where Gran’s buried. Where her stories live. Florence. The Inn. Where every street holds memories. I couldn’t leave all that behind, not even for Sophie.”
“That must have been an impossible choice,” Eva said softly.
“The thing is, it wasn’t. Not really. That’s what told me everything I needed to know.” He turned to look at her. “When you love someone—really love them—you find a way to make it work. You don’t issue ultimatums. You don’t make them choose between you and everything else they care about.”
Eva thought about Richard, about all the small ways he’d tried to reshape her into someone more suitable for his vision of their future. “No,” she agreed. “You don’t.”
They stood in silence, watching the lit windows of the Minster. Somewhere in the distance, church bells chimed midnight.
“Charlotte mentioned your grandmother was a writer,” Eva said carefully, testing the waters. “She must have been quite something.”
Charlie’s expression closed slightly. “She was. Complicated, but brilliant.”
“Charlotte said she helped a lot of people after the war?”
“She did.” His voice was clipped, clearly not wanting to elaborate. “She had her own way of doing things.”
Eva sensed she was approaching something delicate and decided not to push further.
“Thank you for tonight,” Charlie said eventually, changing the subject. “For coming. For … handling Sophie with grace.”
“Thank you for inviting me. Even if your ex-fiancée thinks I’m nothing more than a bedazzled line dancer.”
Charlie laughed, a real laugh that transformed his face. “You handled yourself well. Better than I did the first time I met her friends. I told one of them I thought contemporary art was a load of rubbish. In front of her artist flat mate who specialised in it.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes. Sophie didn’t speak to me for three days.”
They began walking back towards the inn, taking the long way through the quiet streets. Tilly had been taken home by Charlotte earlier—“She can have a sleepover with our Rex,” she’d insisted—so it was just the two of them under the occasional streetlight.
“Can I ask you something?” Eva said as they turned onto Stonegate.
“Hmm?”
“Why haven’t you been going to those dinners? Charlotte said it had been years.”
Charlie considered his answer. “At first, it was because Sophie would be there. Then it became easier to just … not. To keep to myself. Safer.”
“What changed?”
He glanced at her, then away. “Florence is very persuasive.”
“Ah.”
“And …” he hesitated. “Maybe I was tired of safe.”
They’d reached the Riddle & Quill. The windows were dark except for the porch light Florence always left burning.
“I should tell you,” Charlie said suddenly, then stopped himself. “Never mind. It’s late.”
“Charlie?”
“It’s nothing. Just … my grandmother, she had strong opinions about things. About people. I inherited some of them, I think. Not always the good ones.”
Eva waited, but he didn’t elaborate.
“Goodnight, Eva.”
“Goodnight, Charlie.”
She watched him disappear into the shadows of the narrow street before letting herself into the inn. Florence had left a note on the hall table: Cocoa in the kitchen if you need it. Hope the karaoke wasn’t too scarring. F x
Up in her room, Eva sat on the bed and pulled out her phone to text Courtney:
Eva: Just survived British pub karaoke and meeting the ex-fiancée. She’s basically a blonde version of Richard with better cheekbones.
Courtney’s response was immediate:
Courtney: TELL ME EVERYTHING. Is she awful? She’s awful, isn’t she?
Eva: Sophisticated. Beautiful. Kept mentioning their shared past. Made me feel like a naive American tourist.
Courtney: But???
Eva smiled at how well her friend knew her.
Eva: But Charlie chose staying here over leaving with her. And tonight he chose to show me his favourite view of the city.
Courtney: OH MY GOD HE’S SHOWING YOU HIS SPECIAL PLACES. That’s basically a British marriage proposal.
Eva: Stop it.
Courtney: I’m serious! Next he’ll be making you tea without asking how you take it because he’s memorized your preference.
Eva: How is that romantic?
Courtney: Trust me. British romance is all about small gestures and repressed feelings. It’s like Pride and Prejudice but with worse weather.
Eva laughed, then typed:
Eva: His friends mentioned his grandmother was a writer who helped people after the war. Sound familiar?
Courtney: Wait … do you think …?
Eva: I don’t know. He clams up whenever she’s mentioned.
Courtney: This is getting very mysterious. I love it.
Eva: I just wish I knew what the connection was. If there even is one.
Courtney: Patience, grasshopper. You can’t force these things.
Eva: Since when are you the voice of patience?
Courtney: Since you’re living in a real-life mystery novel and I don’t want you to rush the plot.
Eva was composing a response when another text arrived, this time from her mother:
Mom: Just saw Linda Patterson at the club. She says Richard is dating someone new already. A paralegal from his firm. I hope you’re satisfied. You could have had a nice life.
Eva stared at the message, waiting for the sting.
Instead, she felt … nothing. Or rather, she felt free.
Richard had moved on to someone more suitable, someone who would fit neatly into his five-year plan.
And Eva was in York, following mysterious books and singing bad karaoke and maybe—just maybe—falling for someone who showed his affection through hidden viewpoints and rescued Christmas dinners.
She deleted her mother’s message without responding and returned to Courtney’s text thread:
Eva: You know what? I think I might be falling for him a little.
Courtney: FINALLY. Was that so hard to admit?
Eva: Terrifying, actually.
Courtney: Good. The best things usually are.
Eva plugged in her phone and got ready for bed, her mind replaying the evening.
Sophie’s polished perfection. Charlotte’s warm acceptance.
Charlie’s quiet bravery in facing his past. The way he’d looked at her by the river, like she was something unexpected but not unwelcome in his carefully ordered world.
Tomorrow she would continue following Margaret’s trail, wherever it led.
She still hadn’t found the lock to her key.
Maybe she’d find more answers about Charlie’s grandmother, about the connection all her evidence hinted at.
But tonight, she fell asleep thinking about hidden viewpoints and paper crowns and the particular shade of green Charlie’s eyes turned when he really laughed.