Chapter Thirteen
A Place Worth Saving
Eva woke before dawn, her mind already racing with half-formed plans. The inn’s mortgage deadline loomed like a storm cloud, and she couldn’t shake the image of Florence’s trembling hands holding that foreclosure notice. She grabbed her phone and typed a message to Charlie quickly:
Eva: Are you okay? We need to talk to Florence about the inn.
After showering, Eva dressed quickly in leggings and her warmest sweater, then made her way downstairs.
The inn was quiet in that particular early morning way, all creaking floorboards and the distant hum of the ancient boiler.
She found Florence in the kitchen, already up and mechanically preparing breakfast, her movements lacking their usual brisk efficiency.
Despite the inn being far from full, Florence continued to prepare for a morning service.
Eva admired her sense of ‘the show must go on’ attitude, but still felt saddened by the reality of the situation.
“Couldn’t sleep either?” Florence asked without turning around.
“Not really.” Eva poured herself tea from the ever-present pot. “Florence, we need to talk about the inn. Properly talk.”
Florence’s shoulders sagged. “Yes, I suppose we do.” She abandoned the eggs she’d been whisking and sat heavily at the kitchen table.
“I’ve been fooling myself, haven’t I? I really thought I could turn it around if I just worked harder, stayed open longer, made greater offerings, like serving better breakfasts. ”
“How long has it been bad?” Eva asked gently.
“Really bad? Two years, if I’m honest. Started when the new Premier Inn opened near the station.
Then that boutique hotel in the city centre with its Instagram-ready rooms and cocktail bar.
” Florence’s hands twisted in her lap. “I don’t know how to spread the word like those clever sorts do.
What do you kids call it? Going viral? Oh I don’t know.
There’s all kinds here, we’ve got this shop—it sells ceramics or something—people queue down the street just to buy the little figurines for fifteen pounds. Fifteen pounds!”
Eva remembered passing The Shambles, the lines of tourists eagerly waiting to purchase their little pieces of York. Eva narrowed her eyes, thinking.
“Started six months ago,” Florence continued.
“Some influencer posted about it, said it was the only place to go when you’re in York or some such nonsense.
Went viral on TokTok. Or TokTik? No matter.
Now they can’t keep their stock on the shelves, it’s gone by lunchtime!
Meanwhile, I’ve got the actual history of York in every beam and brick, and I can’t fill three rooms.” Her laugh was bitter.
“Can’t compete with that, can I? Not with creaky floors and radiators that sing opera at three in the morning. ”
“But that’s what makes this place special—”
“Special doesn’t pay the bills, love.” Florence rubbed her eyes. “Bookings are down forty percent. At the moment, I’ve got you and maybe one other room filled. The Christmas market helps, but January through March?” She shook her head. “Ghost town.”
“Ghost … town …” Eva repeated slowly, her mind suddenly racing. “Florence, that’s it!”
“What’s it?” Florence looked at her with concern. “Are you feeling all right?”
“The ghosts! The trinkets! Don’t you see?” Eva’s words tumbled out in excitement. “That shop is selling a story, like a manufactured mystery. But you have the real thing—Margaret’s tale, the inn’s history, all of it!”
“Eva, love, I don’t think—”
“No, wait, hear me out.” Eva’s marketing brain was fully engaged now, the pieces clicking together and wheels turning.
If only she felt this passionate in her actual job.
“People waited in line for those … trinkets because someone told them a story that made those trinkets special. But this inn, Margaret’s legacy—that’s authentic.
That’s real. We don’t need to manufacture mystery when we have actual history that’s even more compelling than fiction. A story. It’s about a story!”
Florence opened her mouth to respond, but the door opened and Charlie arrived as promised, looking haggard but determined.
He kissed Florence’s cheek and accepted the mug of tea Eva pushed towards him.
Eva looked upon him as he sat at the table with them.
His forehead was etched with worry and there was nothing more she wanted than to ease his stress.
Despite the way he was clearly feeling, Charlie remained calm in his speech and looked between the women before speaking.
It was a silent attempt at telling them they were okay, they could do this together.
“Right,” he said. “Let’s hear it all. No more secrets.”
During the hour’s discussion, Florence laid everything out plainly: six months of mortgage arrears, depleted savings, credit cards maxed from the roof repairs. The numbers were stark, undeniable.
“How much to catch up?” Charlie asked.
“Thousands of pounds I don’t have Charlie. By 24th of December.”
Charlie winced. “And Aidan’s offer?”
“Enough to pay off everything and set me up in a nice little flat somewhere.” Florence’s voice was carefully neutral. “He’s been very … persistent. Discreet, which I’ve been grateful for, but persistent nonetheless.”
Eva had been quiet during the financial discussion, but her mind was attempting to work through the problem like she would have done at Monarch Music.
Not with spreadsheets and profit margins, but with something more fundamental: a story.
Marketing was just storytelling, after all, and the inn had stories to spare.
“What if we could show people what this place really is?” she said suddenly. “Not compete with the boutique hotels or the Premier Inn, but offer something they can’t—real history, real connection to York’s past.”
“A marketing campaign?” Charlie’s tone was sceptical. “Eva, this isn’t Nashville. We don’t do the whole flashy—”
“Not flashy. Authentic.” Eva pulled out her journal, flipping through the notes she’d made about Margaret.
“Think about it—people are literally queuing for junk and photo opportunities on The Shambles. Imagine what they’d do for real history, real stories.
Your grandmother’s work during the war, the lives she touched, the inn’s role in York’s history—people would come for that.
The kind of travellers who want more than just a place to sleep.
” Eva’s heart quickened. She felt alive and excited like never before.
“We could create a trail, like a treasure hunt through York following Margaret’s notes, ending here at the inn where—”
“No.” Charlie’s response was immediate and sharp as a knife. “Margaret’s story isn’t a marketing tool.”
“I’m not suggesting we sell out with it, I—”
“Aren’t you?” Charlie stood abruptly, his chair scraping against the floor. “You want to turn my grandmother’s private memories and her pain into a tourist attraction? Make her another ghost to sell to gullible tourists? ‘Come stay where the tragic nurse lived’?”
“That’s not what I meant—”
“You don’t know what she wanted, Eva.” His voice was rising. “Some of this is private. Some of it should stay buried.”
Eva stood too, matching his intensity. “Maybe I don’t know what she wanted. But I know what the inn needs right now. And it’s this.”
“You’ve been here for five minutes,” Charlie said coldly. “You think that gives you the right to dig up our family’s history and sell it to the highest bidder? To turn my grandmother into another York attraction, like those bloody ceramic figures?”
“I’m trying to help!”
“I don’t need your help.” He grabbed his coat. “And neither does Margaret’s memory.”
The door slammed behind him, leaving Eva and Florence in ringing silence.
“Well,” Florence said after a moment. “That went about as well as expected.”
“I don’t understand,” Eva said, sinking back into her chair. “All those people yesterday—they loved her, remembered her kindness. Why wouldn’t he want to share that?”
Florence was quiet for a long moment, then rose and went to an old Welsh dresser in the corner. From behind a stack of dishes, she pulled out a wooden box, its surface worn smooth with age.
“Charlie isn’t the only one holding on to pieces of Margaret,” she said, setting the box on the table. “She left this with me many years ago. Said to keep it safe until the right moment.”
Eva stared at the box. It was locked, with no visible key. “What’s in it?”
“I don’t know. Never opened it. Couldn’t if I tried, it’s locked. Margaret said—” Florence’s voice grew soft, “—‘Some things are meant to be discovered by the right person at the right time.’”
“And you think I’m the right person?”
“I think you’re here for a reason.” Florence pushed the box towards Eva. “But be careful what you dig up, love. Some stories are buried for a reason. The past has teeth, and Margaret … she knew how to keep secrets.”
Eva picked up the box, surprised by its weight. The wood was dark with age, and she could feel something shift inside when she tilted it.
“The key,” she breathed, pulling the brass key from her pocket.
It had become a habit to carry it with her while wandering round York.
Something like a lucky charm, it brought her a sense of comfort and served as a reminder that she was here for a reason.
“The one from behind the plaque, it must be.”
It fit perfectly.
Florence stood. “I’ll leave you to it. But Eva—remember that Margaret was a real person, not just a character in a story. She was wonderful, but she also made choices that hurt people, including herself. Whatever’s in that box, it could change how you see her. Please keep that in mind.”
After Florence left, Eva sat alone with the box. She could wait for Charlie, try to convince him to open it with her. But time was running out for the inn, and Charlie clearly needed space to process.
She thought of all the fairy tales she’d read, all the boxes that shouldn’t be opened, all the warnings about curiosity. But this wasn’t a fairy tale. This was real life, with real consequences. The inn needed saving, and maybe—just maybe—Margaret had left them the key to doing just that.
Eva turned the key.
Inside, the first thing she saw was a photograph: Margaret, young and radiant, standing beside a tall man in an American uniform. They were in front of the inn, snow on the ground, and Margaret’s smile was different from any Eva had seen in other photos—unreserved, completely alive.
Beneath the photo was a bundle of letters tied with a faded ribbon, a leather diary, what looked like architectural drawings, and at the very bottom, an envelope addressed in shaky handwriting: For whoever discovers this—please understand.
Eva’s hands trembled as she picked up the diary. Whatever secrets Margaret had kept, whatever story she’d been too afraid or ashamed to tell, it was all here. The real story, not the sanitised legend York had built around her.
For the first time since arriving in York, Eva felt the full weight of what she’d stumbled into.
This wasn’t just about saving an inn or solving a mystery.
This was about understanding why some love stories don’t get happy endings, why some sacrifices aren’t noble but necessary, why a woman might spend her whole life atoning for a choice made in wartime.
She opened the diary to the first page, Margaret’s handwriting clear despite the years:
January 1, 1945. I met a wonderful man today.
Walter. He says it like it’s music—Wall-ter, with that American drawl that makes the nurses giggle.
He’s dying, though he doesn’t know it yet.
The doctors give him two months. I give him forever, because that’s what you give to love when you find it in the middle of hell …
Eva felt tears prick her eyes. Whatever came next in these pages, she understood with sudden clarity why Charlie was afraid. Some stories, once told, changed everything.
But the inn was worth saving. Florence was worth fighting for.
And this time, despite Charlie’s hesitancy, Margaret’s truth—however painful—could be the key to preserving what she’d loved most. During her trip, Eva had come to realise that in life, we don’t always get what we want but sometimes we do get what we need. Right now, she needed to do this.
And so, Eva began to read, stepping out of the fairy tale and into the messy, complicated, achingly human reality of a woman who’d loved and lost and spent the rest of her life trying to make amends.