Chapter Twelve #2
“Every December, people still contribute,” Mrs Chen said.
“Anonymous gifts for anyone who needs them. Last year, a single mother found a winter coat in her size with a note that said ‘For the late-night walks when the baby won’t sleep.’ That’s pure Margaret magic—knowing exactly what someone needs before they even ask. ”
As they walked back through the stacks, Eva noticed small sprigs of dried mistletoe tucked above certain sections — Poetry, Letters, Romance.
“Margaret?” she asked, pointing.
“Every year until she passed,” Mrs Chen confirmed.
“But never in the obvious places. She’d put them where people lingered alone—above the grief counseling books, the war memoirs, the section on starting over.
Said mistletoe shouldn’t just be for those already in love, but for those who’d forgotten it was possible. ”
Eva thought of Charlie’s gentle forehead kiss at The Shepherd’s Rest, how he’d called it ‘technical compliance’ when really it had been something far more careful, more considerate.
Like Margaret’s mistletoe—placed where it might remind someone that tenderness could exist even in unexpected moments.
“Did it work?” Eva asked. “Did anyone ever …?”
“Once,” Mrs Chen smiled. “A widower and a young mother, both reaching for the same book on helping children through loss. They’ve been married twelve years now. Margaret sent them a note on their wedding day that just said: ‘Some bridges are worth crossing, even when you can’t see the other side’.”
Eva made her way back to the inn as the winter sun began its early descent, her notebook full of stories, her heart full of questions. She found Charlie in the pub area, Tilly at his feet, both staring morosely at the unlit fireplace.
“Successful hunting?” he asked without looking up.
“Very.” Eva sat beside him, pulling out her journal. “Your grandmother was extraordinary, Charlie. The lives she touched, the kindness she spread—”
“I know.” His voice was quiet. “But knowing and understanding are different things.”
They sat in silence for a moment, Charlie drumming his finger against his leg in deliberation with his own thoughts. Then, he stood abruptly as he decided. “Come on. If you’re going to write about her, you should see the rest.”
He led her upstairs to a room she hadn’t noticed before—small, tucked under the eaves. Charlie produced a key and unlocked it, revealing what appeared to be a storage room. Boxes lined the walls, all carefully labelled in Charlie’s neat handwriting.
“After she died, I couldn’t bear to throw anything away,” he admitted, pulling down a box marked ‘Notebooks— 1943-1950’. “Florence helped me organise it all. Said someday someone would want to understand.”
Inside were Margaret’s journals—not diaries exactly, but notebooks filled with observations, story fragments, sketches. Eva handled them reverently, aware she was holding pieces of a life.
“Look,” she breathed, opening one at random. The page was covered in Margaret’s careful handwriting, a story about a girl who collected stars in jam jars. But the next page was torn out, leaving only jagged edges.
“There are gaps,” Charlie said, anticipating her question. “Pages torn out, entire notebooks missing from certain periods. I think … I think there were things she couldn’t bear to leave behind, even in death.”
“What things?”
Charlie was quiet so long Eva thought he wouldn’t answer. Then: “Something deeper, more private? Maybe writing she couldn’t bare to read over herself. Like love letters, maybe. She was careful about what story she left behind.”
Eva traced the torn edges with her finger. “Did you look for the missing pages?”
“No.” Charlie’s voice was firm. “She chose what to keep and what to destroy. That’s her right.”
They spent the next hour going through notebooks, Eva reading passages aloud while Charlie provided context. Margaret’s voice emerged from the pages—witty, observant, heartbreakingly lonely at times.
“‘The soldiers think I’m healing them,’” Eva read, “‘but they’re wrong. They’re healing me, showing me that broken things can still be beautiful, that incomplete stories can still have meaning.’”
“That’s from 1945,” Charlie said softly. “The American must have already left by then.”
Eva looked up sharply. “You know about the American?”
Charlie’s laugh was bitter. “Hard not to. She never said his name, but he haunted everything. The way she flinched at the accent, the way she always happened to be busy on the fourth of July, the way she kept every Stars and Stripes newspaper even though she never read them.”
Eva pulled out the brass key. “Charlie, I think this might—”
“Oh, aren’t you two cosy!”
They turned to find Florence in the doorway smiling, but her usual cheerfulness was forced, her eyes red-rimmed. She moved into the room with the careful steps of someone holding themselves together by will alone.
“Florence?” Charlie stood immediately. “What’s wrong?”
She sat heavily in an old armchair, looking suddenly fragile in a way Eva had never noticed before. “I suppose there’s no point putting it off any longer.”
“Putting what off?” Charlie knelt beside her chair, his earlier stiffness replaced by genuine concern.
Florence pulled a letter from her cardigan pocket, official-looking with a bank’s letterhead. “Final notice. We have until 24th of December to pay the mortgage arrears, or they’ll begin foreclosure proceedings.”
“What?” Charlie snatched the letter, scanning it with growing fury. “How long has this been going on? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Six months,” Florence admitted. “Business has been slow, and the roof repairs last spring … I kept thinking I could turn it around.”
Eva remembered the night she’d seen Florence with her papers and calculator, the worry etched on her face. “I should have said something,” she murmured. “I saw you that night, working on the accounts …”
“Not your fault, love,” Florence said tiredly. “This has been coming for a while. Maybe it’s time to admit defeat. Aidan Finchley’s been making offers—”
“Aidan?” Charlie’s voice could have etched glass. “You’ve been talking to Aidan?”
“He’s been very persistent. Says he could convert the inn to luxury flats, give me enough to retire comfortably …”
“Over my dead body.” Charlie stood, pacing the small room like a caged animal. “This inn has been in our family for sixty years. Gran saved it once—”
“And look where that got her,” Florence interrupted sharply. “A lifetime of pouring everything into this place, and for what? So I could lose it anyway?”
The silence that followed was heavy with history and hurt. Eva felt like an intruder by being privy to the conversation, but couldn’t seem to move.
Finally, Florence stood, smoothing her cardigan with hands that trembled slightly. “I’m not discussing this anymore tonight. We all need sleep and clear heads. We’ll talk in the morning.”
She left, her footsteps heavy on the stairs. Charlie stared after her, still holding the foreclosure notice.
“I can’t lose this place too,” he said quietly. “It’s all I have left of her.”
Eva moved closer, not quite touching but offering presence. “We’ll figure something out.”
“We?” Charlie looked at her, something vulnerable in his expression.
“We,” Eva confirmed. “Your grandmother spent her life saving things that mattered. Maybe it’s time someone returned the favour.”
Charlie studied her for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Tomorrow, then. We plan tomorrow.”
They locked Margaret’s room carefully, but Eva noticed Charlie pocket one of the notebooks—one from 1946, its cover worn soft with handling. Whatever was in those pages, he wasn’t ready to share it yet.
Back in her room, Eva sat at the desk with her green journal, trying to process everything she’d learned. Margaret Wells: nurse, storyteller, guardian of broken soldiers and lost children. A woman who gave everything and kept nothing, who wrote beautiful stories but never her own happy ending.
And now Florence faced losing the inn Margaret had once saved, while Charlie guarded his grandmother’s memories like wounds that wouldn’t heal.
Eva picked up the brass key, turning it over again in the lamplight, a practice that had become habitual but brought her comfort.
Whatever door this opened, she had a feeling it held answers they all needed.
But first, they had to come up with a plan to save the inn.
Margaret had left a legacy of small magics and quiet kindnesses—surely there was enough left to save the place she’d loved.
Outside her window, York slept under its blanket of frost and history. Tomorrow would bring hard truths and even harder choices. But tonight, Eva fell asleep thinking of a woman who believed in the power of stories to heal, and wondered if maybe—just maybe—the right story could still save them all.