A/N: Thank you all so much for your patience of late and your overall support of this little story. England was fantastic, as I knew it would be. I even made it to York and to the pub where Charlie and Elsie were supposed to first meet as penpals. What a fantastic little city. Go there if you can.
This is the conclusion of this story, and I do hope you enjoy it. I know a few of you have expressed concern about how Carson will react to Elsie's "deception." I think relief will be the primary sentiment here, as it was in the movie and in the play She Loves Me. At any rate, I hope you enjoy it. It was so fun to write and has been a catalyst to getting me back into writing after a long absence. This will not be the last Chelsie fic I write. I've got a few others churning in my head.
I'd love to hear your thoughts about this one. And, as ever, thank you for your readership and your support. It really does make this whole writing process much more rewarding.
Carson stared at himself in the mirror of his bathroom. The room was snug, and his large frame took up most of it. He pushed back a wayward curl from his forehead, and it fell back into its place, unruly and stubborn. He tried again, and it fell once more. Giving up, he straightened his paisley tie and tugged at his blazer and fiddled with the white rose pinned to his lapel. The reflection in the mirror was older and a little overweight and had more wrinkles than he cared to admit. But it'll have to do, he thought, shrugging and departing the bathroom to gather his belongings and head to The Prince of Wales.
On his way to the pub, his thoughts turned to LowlandLady, and he wondered if she was nervously getting ready as he had just done, if she fidgeted with her effects as much as he had, if she was similarly worried about how he would regard her. Was he a fool for agreeing to meet her again? Perhaps he was. But he knew he would never be satisfied until he could see her, hear her, touch her. Even know her name.
After a quick ride through the countryside, orange and red and yellow leaves flushing the rolling hills, Carson arrived at The Prince of Wales. He was glad to see Elsie Hughes already seated at the same table they had sat at a few weeks prior, a glass of wine and a book in hand.
"Hello there, stranger," he said to her, standing awkwardly near the small table for two.
Her bright eyes sparkled when she looked up from her book, which was promptly discarded. "Don't you look smart?" she exclaimed.
Carson smiled shyly and glanced towards his feet. "I clean up alright, I suppose."
"What are you drinking? It's on me. Something fortifying for your big afternoon, I'd recommend."
He graciously nodded; it wasn't often that he was treated to a drink by a lady. "A gin and tonic, please. That's very kind of you. Really."
She shooed him away with a flick of her hand. "Nonsense. I'm glad for you; excited, really. What a momentous occasion."
She departed and returned a few moments later with his drink in hand. Settling in the seat across from him, they clinked glasses and sipped on their libations and let a comfortable silence settled between them. Carson observed her surreptitiously then, watching the way she licked her lips after sipping her wine, noticing then how blue her eyes were, and wondering if they could remain friends if things, by some miracle, worked out with LowlandLady. To his great surprise, he had come to enjoy her company over the last few weeks, and to his greater surprise, he often found that he missed her melodic brogue and her sassy comments when they were apart. He shook his head at this. Foolish thoughts, he chided himself.
"Are you nervous?" Elsie asked, interrupting his reverie.
Carson bit the inside of his cheek and nodded. "A little. I feel a bit gun-shy, actually. I'm worried she won't show and I'll feel like a fool once again. And alone on a bridge, no less."
She reached across the table and squeezed his forearm. "Don't you worry. Worrying never solved a thing. Just be excited for the prospect of something new, hmm?"
He would never admit that the absence of her hand on his arm made it feel cold. "I can try to manage that," he said.
"Good man," she said. A long silence followed then as they both contemplated their libations. But eventually, she broke the stillness that had settled. "Do you ever wish you had met her years ago?"
Carson turned his eyes to her and nodded solemnly. It was a constant regret. "I have for years."
"What stopped you?"
He took a deep breath and sighed. "I wanted to not long after we started writing to each other. But I talked myself out of it, actually. I was always so worried that I wouldn't measure up, that I could lose my closest friend if things went sour."
"Your closest friend?" she repeated quietly, almost to herself. "You care for her very much, don't you?"
A small smile tugged at his lips. "I do. We have a way of communicating that is so effortless, so easy. I can talk to her about anything, truly, and I trust that she understands. And I like to believe that the feeling is reciprocated. Not many men find a confidant like that."
"You're a very lucky man. And she, a very lucky woman," Elsie said.
Carson nodded his agreement. That they were mere hours away from meeting was still hard to believe. His stomach did a little somersault then, a sensation he found amusing and not entirely unpleasant. It had been a long time since it had done that.
"Any more leads about this project of hers that needed 'tending?'"
He chuckled and sipped at his cocktail. "Well, I still don't believe she's just completed a prison term," he joked. "But no, no other leads. I'm rather eager to find out what it was."
Elsie leaned forward in her chair, and without thinking, Carson did the same. "Her timing here is quite interesting," she began. He leaned in even closer. "She has waited until you are absolutely certain that there is no one else for you, that she is the one for you. And that's when she makes her move. I have to say, I admire that."
Carson leaned away, absorbing what she said and deciding whether he believed those words to be true. Their eyes caught one another. A knowing look spread across her face, and Carson wondered if Elsie thought that sentiment to be true, too.
"Right, precisely," he managed to mutter, his dark eyes still locked with hers. "No one else…"
The air was charged, the other pub dwellers oblivious, and that knowing blue gaze of hers did not relent. Carson felt warm all over and tugged at his tie, trying not to look at her. He felt exposed.
"Do you ever wonder," she began gently, "if you and I had not been competitors, and we had not had quite a few unpleasant, quarrelsome encounters, and we had just…met…"
He risked a glance at her when she said this and found her still peering at him, her bottom lip between her teeth, as if she were confessing some long-held sin. She seemed to be putting to words things he had been trying to ignore for the better part of the last few weeks. It wasn't wise to court a competitor, he had told himself. It was a horrible business strategy. What would happen when their respective interests inevitably came into conflict? How could he balance the two? Terribly unwise. Wasn't it?
Against his better judgment, Carson nodded. "I know…"
"I wouldn't have been able to wait an hour before giving you my number," she told him bluntly.
Surely, he had misheard her. But when she offered him a shy smile, he realized he had heard her just fine. His eyebrows raised as her meaning became clear to him. He felt his skin flush, and he cleared his throat and loosened his tie, hoping for some relief. Very little came.
"And I would've prayed for a call from you, waited by the phone, eager to go out with you," she continued. "And you and I never would have been at odds. And the only thing we would have quarreled about was where to get takeaway on a Sunday evening and the only thing we would've competed for was the duvet cover at night…"
A bead of sweat rolled down his temple. "Who quarrels about that?" he heard himself say, his voice low and gravelly.
"Some people do…" she whispered. "Not us."
He was lost in a haze, in this imaginary world she had described. "We would never."
A moment passed, and the electricity in the room seemed to lull. Elsie nodded and gave him a small half-grin. "If only."
"I–I have to go," he stuttered, standing with little grace, almost knocking over the small table at which they sat.
Elsie stood just as quickly, placing a hand on his elbow, urging him to stay for another moment. His breath hitched and he was convinced that she could hear how his heart pounded against his ribs from where she stood so near to him.
"I hope all goes well this afternoon, Charlie," she said. "We may have started off as bitter rivals, but I consider you a friend now, and I want you to be happy."
Somehow–he wasn't sure how–Carson managed to regain some semblance of composure, enough to thank her for her sentiments. "That's very kind of you, Elsie," he told her. "I'm very glad we are friends now, too. Rivalry didn't suit us, did it?"
The slight blush that crept across her cheeks was enchanting, he thought. "No, it didn't," she agreed. Then, she reached up to the white rose pinned to his lapel and straightened it out, smoothing down his blazer and brushing little pieces of lint away from it. "As we say back home, 'Lang may yer lum reek.'"
He looked at her quizzically when he heard this melodic Gaelic, to say nothing of his surprise at having her hands brush across his chest as if she had done it a thousand times before. "What does that mean?" he managed to say.
She patted his chest once more for good measure. "It means 'good luck.' And I do mean that, Charlie."
And with that, she took her leave. It took a moment for Carson to regain his senses. York, and all that entailed, awaited him.
For a crisp, sunny autumn day, the town of York seemed lazy that afternoon. Carson noted how thin the traffic was, how few people roamed the Shambles or haunted the pubs. It was uncharacteristically quiet and serene, and he was grateful for it. He had parked his car a ways away from the Skeldergate Bridge where they were to meet; he needed a brisk walk to clear his mind and steel himself for what was to come. The drive from Ripon had done little to help in this regard.
Pausing in front of his car, he looked into the reflection on the windows, adjusted the white rose on his lapel, and straightened his tie. For the second time in York, he donned that silly rose, and he prayed he wouldn't be disappointed again. Time seemed to inch by, so tediously, and he checked his wristwatch for the umpteenth time. Only a few minutes remained till 4:00. His stomach lurched and tightened and performed all sorts of acrobatics. Wild thing, it was. He took a long breath in, and took his time releasing it. For the time being, it helped to temper his nerves. But as he left the car park and began the walk to the Skeldergate Bridge, his stomach resumed its gymnastic routine.
Absentmindedly, his fingers kept touching the white rose as he walked on. Enough man, he chided himself as he neared the bridge. There were just a few townspeople walking across it, some pushing prams, some walking dogs, some arm-in-arm with a lover. He scanned each for a white rose, but found none. Walking to the middle, Carson leaned against the stone bridge, and peered over the River Ouse. A few boats drifted down the lazy current, and the water shimmered as autumn leaves descended into it. The irony of such a peaceful scene occurring while his stomach did cartwheels in his body and his heart ran marathons was not lost on him.
He checked his watch once more. It was 4:00 p.m. precisely. Their meeting time. Straightening up to full height, he turned away from the river and looked in each direction on the bridge. By some miracle, no one else was on it but him.
Until, to the east, someone else appeared. She came up from the stairwell that led to the riverbank below, smoothed down her overcoat, and pulled out a long-stemmed white rose from her purse. Carson's dark eyes blinked in disbelief. Standing just a dozen yards away, staring at him timidly, carrying that blasted white rose, was Elsie Hughes.
At first, he wondered how she knew to be here, whether this was some bizarre prank on her part. And then, it dawned on him: he had never told Elsie where he and LowlandLady were to meet today. Or that she was to carry a white rose.
He was sure he was gaping; in fact, he was certain of it. His mind and his mouth were disconnected, and he couldn't muster anything that would resemble English. Mercifully, she walked towards him and closed the gap. She was just mere inches from him now, so close he could smell her perfume. His eyes burned and he blinked away hot tears.
"Be cheerful, Charlie," she whispered, reaching for his face and wiping away with her thumb the saltwater that dripped down his cheek. Her nod to his screen name was not lost on him, and a disbelieving laugh escaped them both.
"I–I wanted it to be you. I wanted it to be you so badly," he confessed as he covered her hand, resting on his cheek, with his own.
"And you're not offended?" she asked, nearly wincing. She knew nothing of the relief that washed over him.
A smile stretched from ear to ear and he shook his head. "I can assure you, Elsie, that the last thing I am at this moment is offended," he told her earnestly. It was the honest truth. He couldn't quite fathom his good fortune in this moment. If he had to wager, he didn't think he would ever be able to comprehend it. He pulled her hand from his cheek and squeezed it. A private and reserved man, he had never displayed affection publicly before, not where passersby and motorists and boaters could see. But he was utterly oblivious to them. The world, as far as Charles Carson was concerned, existed between this man and this woman on this bridge at this moment.
He took a small step forward, closing the gap of what little space remained between them, and ran his thumb along her lower lip, tracing it slowly. How long had he imagined this moment? He felt her arms pull him closer, wrapping around him, urging him against her. Like a gentleman, he happily obliged.
His lips found hers then. Kissing her in the open, where anyone could see, where several motorists and boaters most definitely did see, felt as natural as anything he had done in his sixty-one years on earth. It was only when a few teenagers nearby started whooping and hollering at their amorous display did Carson reluctantly pull away. Some primal masculine tendency in him felt rather proud of how her hair was a little mussed and how her lips were a little reddened.
Her smile was serene, and he felt overwhelmed by it. Pulling her closely once again, he placed a gentle kiss on her forehead. The soft sigh that left her then was worth seven years of waiting and hoping.
"Does this mean that we're going to quarrel about Sunday evening takeaway and who hogs the duvet cover now?" he asked her, his arms still keeping her close to him, wrapped completely around her.
"Not us," she replied, her bottom lip endearingly caught between her teeth.
He grinned and pulled her even closer. "We would never."