Chapter Fourteen #2
She picked up the bundle of letters, all from Walter during his time in the hospital.
They progressed from polite (“Dear Nurse Wells, thank you for the extra blanket last night”) to playful (“Maggie, that smile of yours could power all of London”) to desperate (“I know I have no right to love you, but I do. God help me, I do”).
At the bottom of the pile was one letter different from the rest—still sealed, addressed to Margaret in Walter’s handwriting. He’d written 1946 at the envelope’s seal but a US postmark dated the letter to the 1980s. Strange.
Eva stared at it, her heart racing. An unopened letter.
Whatever was inside had been too painful for Margaret to read, even decades later.
Or maybe her sense of duty and respect to her husband told her that this letter was best left buried in the past. Something in her gut told her this was meant for Charlie—the truth his grandmother had never been able to face and one he didn’t know.
She carefully placed the unopened letter in her bag. She wouldn’t open it without Charlie. It wasn’t her secret to discover alone. But she needed air, needed to think, needed to process everything she’d learned.
She gathered Margaret’s diary and her own journal ready to head to a small café she’d discovered, tucked away on a side street that tourists never found. Writing would help her work through the events of the day.
The café was warm and quiet, smelling of coffee and cinnamon. Eva settled into a corner table and opened her journal, trying to organise her thoughts. She’d been writing for perhaps twenty minutes when the bell above the door chimed. She glanced up automatically—and froze.
Eva had been avoiding Aidan since their drinks at The Vaults, which was easily done since he never seemed to frequent the real York—the cosy pubs, the ancient streets, the places where locals gathered.
He preferred the polished venues that blew up on Instagram and lacked any real character, carbon copies that could have been in any city.
But here he was standing with his chest puffed out and eyes scanning the café, his designer coat now dusted with rain. Their eyes met, and the corners of his mouth pulled into a smirk that made her stomach sink.
“Eva, Eva, Eva,” he said, approaching her table with purpose. “Causing quite the stir of emotions for that little old inn, aren’t you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“I thought I had the agreement in the bag weeks ago and then little miss USA had to show up and be a little flea in Florence’s ear.”
“Aidan I—”
“Well tough luck Eva, because that inn is mine.” He produced a folded document from his coat, laying it on the table between them. “Preliminary sale agreement for the Riddle & Quill. Signed by Florence just yesterday.”
Eva’s blood ran cold. She grabbed the document, scanning it with growing horror. Florence’s signature was there, shaky but there was no denying it. She’d signed the document.
“She wouldn’t—”
“She would, and she did.” Aidan leaned back, satisfied. “The inn will make beautiful luxury flats, don’t you think?”
“This can’t be legal. Charlie doesn’t even know—”
“Charlie isn’t the owner. Florence is. And she’s made her choice.” He studied her with those calculating eyes. “It’s a pity really, you’re as bad as Charlie, trying to save that place. But you’re wasting your time, Eva. It’s happening whether you like it or not.”
“There must be a way to stop this—”
“There isn’t.” Aidan stood, buttoning his coat. “Construction assessments begin tomorrow. The bank’s deadline is 24th of December, but with this agreement in place, they’ll extend if needed. It’s over.”
He paused at her table, looking down at her with something like pity. “You should go home, Eva. Back to Nashville. There’s nothing left for you here except false hope and old ghosts.”
He left, the bell chiming mockingly in his wake.
Eva sat alone in the café, her hands shaking as she stared at the copy of the agreement Aidan had left behind. And somewhere in York, Charlie still wasn’t answering her messages, unaware that everything was falling apart.
She pulled out her journal and wrote with trembling hands:
Richard called today. Wanted me back. Six months ago, I would have cried with relief, would have been on the next plane home.
But I’m not that Eva anymore. That Eva believed in perfect plans and safe choices.
This Eva knows that love isn’t about convenience, timing or fitting into someone’s vision.
It’s about finding someone who sees you—really sees you—and chooses you anyway. Messy, imperfect, complicated you.
Charlie isn’t answering. He’s hurt and angry and has every right to be. I pushed too hard this morning, suggested using his grandmother’s story without understanding how much pain it still causes him.
And Florence … I can’t believe she’d sell to Aidan without telling us. There must be more to this story. She loves that inn. It’s her whole life.
Tomorrow is December 22nd. Two days until the deadline. Two days to save the inn, to convince Charlie to stay, to figure out what really happened between Margaret and Walter.
Two days to decide if I’m brave enough to fight for what matters, or if I’ll end up like Margaret—spending the rest of my life regretting the chances I didn’t take.
She closed the journal and carefully tucked the unopened letter deeper into her bag.
Through the café window, York continued its ancient business of existing, indifferent to the small dramas playing out in its streets.
But Eva was learning that small dramas could change everything—a nurse falling for a soldier, a lost woman following breadcrumbs through a strange city, a grandson trying to outrun his heritage.
She thought of Margaret’s diary entry: This is for the best. This is for the best. This is for the best.
“No,” Eva said aloud to the empty café. “It wasn’t for the best. And I’m not making the same mistake.”
She had two days to save everything that mattered. Time to stop reading other people’s stories and start writing her own ending.