Page 28

CHAPTER 27

C hapter 27

Sunlight streamed through the leaded glass windows of Catherine Westfield’s Kensington townhouse, casting warm patterns across Persian rugs and family portraits that had watched over countless conversations. The formal sitting room carried the scent of bergamot and old roses, the kind of understated luxury that spoke of generations rather than nouveaux riches.

Sebastian sat across from his mother in the chair he’d occupied for countless uncomfortable conversations throughout his childhood, watching as she examined the photograph he’d brought with careful attention.

“Where did you find this?” she asked, studying the protective sleeve.

“At The Red Lion—the property Westfield Development is considering,” Sebastian replied. “The woman next to the man in the back row—I believe she’s Rebecca Williams. Your grandmother.”

Catherine examined the image with renewed focus, her expression shifting from polite interest to genuine curiosity. “It does resemble her.” She glanced up. “But how did you connect this to our family?”

Sebastian indicated the necklace visible at Rebecca’s throat. “The pearl locket—the one you showed me as a child. You said it was an heirloom from your grandmother.”

Recognition sparked in Catherine’s eyes. “Yes, I still have it.” Her expression softened with fondness. “Grandmother Rebecca wore it almost constantly. She once told me it reminded her of someone special she lost in the war.”

A memory surfaced—Sebastian at ten, absorbed in architectural magazines his grandfather had given him. His father’s voice cutting through the afternoon: “Put those away. Look at Oliver’s father—he knows how to raise a son who understands business.”

Those magazines had disappeared that night, replaced with finance books Sebastian had dutifully read while secretly mourning the loss of blueprints and building plans.

“Did Rebecca ever mention someone named Will Donovan?” Sebastian asked carefully. “A young man who worked at The Red Lion before the Blitz?”

Catherine’s teacup paused halfway to her lips, her expression shifting from curiosity to genuine surprise. She set the cup down with deliberate precision, studying Sebastian’s face as if seeing him for the first time.

“How could you possibly know about William?” she asked, wonder creeping into her voice. “I haven’t heard that name spoken aloud in...decades.”

Sebastian felt his pulse quicken. William. She called him William, not Will.

“Then you did know him?”

“Not personally. But grandmother Rebecca...” Catherine rose from her chair, moving to the window that overlooked her garden. “She spoke of him sometimes, when I was very young. Always with such sadness.” She turned back to Sebastian, decision crystallizing in her expression. “Wait here.”

She returned carrying a wooden box inlaid with mother-of-pearl, handling it with reverence. “These belonged to Rebecca,” she explained, settling beside Sebastian. “I’ve meant to have them properly archived.”

From the box, she extracted a leather-bound diary and a bundle of letters tied with faded ribbon. “Rebecca married my grandfather Harold quite late in life—in her fifties, after her first husband passed. These were among her possessions.” Catherine carefully opened the diary to a page marked with a pressed flower. “She rarely spoke of her past, but occasionally mentioned a young man she’d known during the Blitz.”

Sebastian accepted the diary with care, acutely aware he was holding someone’s deepest secrets. The handwriting was neat and measured, the ink faded to sepia:

April 17, 1950 Ten years since William disappeared. A decade of searching faces in crowds, of starting whenever the door opens in a pub. Kenneth is patient with these moments, though I try to hide them. He understands that part of my heart will always belong elsewhere—to a bright-eyed cellarman who spoke of gardens and children in a world that crumbled around us.

Sometimes I wonder what might have been if the bombs had fallen somewhere else that night. If William had lived to walk me down the aisle as he once promised. Would we have had that garden cottage he dreamed of? Would our children have his laugh, his gentle spirit?

These thoughts serve no purpose. I have built a good life, a loving family. Yet on days like today, the anniversary of that terrible night, I find myself walking past The Red Lion, remembering his smile as he waved goodbye. “See you Sunday, Rebecca,” he’d said. A promise neither of us could keep.

Sebastian looked up, his throat tight with unexpected emotion. “The Red Lion is where Will Donovan died during the Blitz,” he explained gently. “We found his remains in a hidden chamber in the cellar.”

Catherine’s hand flew to her chest, her face going pale. “Oh my God. After all these years...she never knew what happened to him.” Tears gathered in her eyes. “No wonder she kept looking. No wonder she couldn’t let go.”

Sebastian reached across to squeeze his mother’s hand, both of them sitting in the weight of Rebecca’s decades-long grief.

“There’s more,” he said softly. “Will wrote Rebecca a letter the night he died. It was found with his remains, never delivered.”

He explained the discovery, the research, the gradual realization of Rebecca’s connection to his family. His mother listened with quiet attention, her expression moving between surprise and something that looked almost like relief.

“Rebecca would have wanted to know what happened to him,” Catherine said. “Even decades later, she would speak of William sometimes—always with a certain sadness.” A faint smile touched her lips. “It used to fascinate me as a child, this love story from another time. I think that’s why she gave me the locket—because I was the only one who asked about him.”

“May I see it?” Sebastian asked.

Catherine nodded, returning with a small velvet box. Inside lay the heart-shaped locket from the photograph, its pearl inset gleaming softly. She carefully opened the delicate clasp, revealing two tiny photographs—one of young Rebecca, luminous with hope, the other of a smiling young man Sebastian immediately recognized as Will Donovan.

She carried his picture for forty-seven years. Through marriage, children, an entire second life—and she never let him go.

“She carried his picture all those years,” Sebastian said quietly.

“Some loves remain with us,” his mother replied. “Even when life leads us elsewhere.”

Like the way I can’t stop thinking about Tessa.

They spent the next hour examining Rebecca’s papers—letters, diary entries, newspaper clippings she’d saved with the dedication of someone preserving history. The portrait that emerged was of a woman who had loved deeply, lost tragically, and yet found strength to build a meaningful life.

She didn’t let heartbreak destroy her. She found a way to honor the past while building a future.

“She would have married Will,” Sebastian said as he prepared to leave. “If he had survived, if she had received his letter—Rebecca Williams would have become Rebecca Donovan, not Rebecca Westfield.”

His mother nodded, understanding the implication: Sebastian himself would never have existed.

“Life takes unexpected turns,” Catherine said, squeezing his hand. “But I believe everything happens for a reason.” She studied his face with maternal perception. “This means something to you—beyond historical curiosity.”

Sebastian thought of Tessa—her passion for The Red Lion, her determination to preserve its legacy, the way she had sat beside him in his car that rainy night, offering comfort without judgment.

“It does,” he admitted. “More than I expected.”

Hours later, Sebastian sat alone in his penthouse, the city’s lights twinkling below like earthbound stars. Rebecca’s diary lay open in his lap, its pages soft with age, carrying the faint scent of lavender and old roses that reminded him of his mother’s house. The leather binding had grown warm under his touch, as if the book itself was grateful to finally share its secrets.

The knowledge that his existence hinged on Will’s tragedy should have unsettled him. Instead, he felt a curious peace, as though pieces of a puzzle had finally clicked into place. The connection to The Red Lion went beyond business—this was about family, legacy, the threads connecting past and present.

And it was about Tessa.

Everything comes back to Tessa.

As he studied Rebecca’s words, specific memories of Tessa flooded his mind—not just her smile or passion for the pub, but moments that had crept past his defenses without him noticing. The way she’d laughed when he’d brought her those pastries, not polite social laughter but genuine delight that someone had remembered something small about her. How she’d instinctively moved closer when he was examining the photograph, her shoulder brushing his as they bent over the evidence together. The soft catch in her breath when their hands had touched in his car, and how she hadn’t pulled away.

She sees me. The real me. Not the Westfield heir or the corporate success story, but the man who gets excited about old buildings and remembers how someone likes their tea.

The realization settled into his bones like truth finally spoken aloud. Sebastian had spent years building walls, measuring worth in acquisitions and profit margins. But Tessa had walked through those defenses as if they were made of mist, awakening something he hadn’t even known was sleeping.

She makes me want to be the man I actually am, not the one I thought I had to become.

His phone lay beside him, screen dark. Past midnight now—far too late for professional courtesy. But this wasn’t about professional courtesy anymore.

Sebastian picked up his phone, the screen’s glow harsh in the quiet darkness. Past midnight—far too late for professional courtesy. But this had stopped being about professional courtesy the moment she’d stepped into the rain to comfort him.

He typed a simple message that somehow carried everything he couldn’t yet say aloud:

Sebastian: You awake?

Miles away, Tessa looked at her phone in the darkness of her apartment, smiled, and held it briefly against her heart before responding.

Tessa: Yes. Everything okay?

Sebastian: I’ve been reading Rebecca’s diary. She never stopped looking for Will, even years later. She kept his photograph in her locket.

Tessa: She remembered him, just as he wanted.

Sebastian: It’s more than that. Her writing...it’s like she was carrying on a conversation with him. Telling him about her day, her children, her new life. Like he was still there.

Tessa: Maybe that’s why Will is still here. Maybe he’s been listening all along, waiting for her to say goodbye.

Sebastian stared at the message, feeling another piece click into place. For weeks they had searched for information about Rebecca, but perhaps it wasn’t just about confirming she had remembered him. Perhaps it was about something more fundamental—a chance to say the goodbye they had both been denied.

Sebastian: I think you’re right. But how do we help two people say goodbye across eighty years?

Tessa: I don’t know. But we’ll figure it out. We always do.

The simple “we” hit him like a physical force. Despite everything—the acquisition offer sitting between them like a loaded weapon, the board pressure threatening to tear his world apart, the impossible complications of their situation—she still saw them as partners. Still trusted him enough to believe they could solve this together.

Even knowing what I might have to do, she still chooses to stand with me.

For a moment, they simply shared the quiet connection of two people awake in a sleeping city, both processing revelations that changed everything.

Gradually, their conversation shifted from Will and Rebecca’s story to something more personal. Sebastian found himself sharing things he’d never told anyone—the weight of his father’s expectations, how he’d spent years trying to fill a dead man’s shoes, the way he’d used Oliver as a measuring stick for success that always left him feeling insufficient.

Sebastian: I’ve been thinking about what you said. About maybe just being myself. I’m not sure I remember who that is anymore.

Tessa: I think you do. I see glimpses of him all the time.

Sebastian: When?

Tessa: When you fixed the twins’ equipment without being asked. When you spent an entire weekend in dusty archives for a ghost you’d never met. When you brought me pastries from that bakery across town because you remembered I mentioned them once. When you trusted me enough to fall apart in your car.

Each observation struck him with quiet force. She had been cataloguing moments he hadn’t even realized mattered—collecting evidence of who he really was beneath all the corporate armor.

Sebastian: I don’t want to spend my life trying to be him anymore.

Tessa: Then don’t be.

Three words. Simple, direct, devastating in their clarity.

As their conversation finally wound down near dawn, something had fundamentally changed within Sebastian—not just about Tessa, but about who he was and who he might choose to become.

When he finally fell asleep, Rebecca’s diary still open beside him, Sebastian dreamed not of collapsing cellars or corporate boardrooms, but of standing in The Red Lion’s golden warmth with Tessa’s hand in his, watching as two souls separated by eighty years of grief finally found their way to each other.

In his dream, Will and Rebecca’s goodbye became a beginning—not just for them, but for everyone brave enough to choose love over fear, connection over safety, truth over the easier lie of staying the same.