Jonathan was a lifelong bachelor, content in his solitude. He worked tirelessly, like a carthorse, yet loved his job deeply. Perfection was his habit—order in all things. Over the years, he’d met many women, but none had matched his ideal. That summer, in late July, exhausted and craving escape from the bustle of modern life, he booked a holiday down south. He scoured the internet and posted an ad.
A reply came from a woman with two children, living in a quiet coastal village. The sea was a twenty-minute walk away, far from tourist traps. In exchange for groceries, she offered a private room and home-cooked meals. Tempted, Jonathan set off. The satnav guided him flawlessly to an old but tidy house. His room was cosy, the hostess warm and welcoming. A little terrier, Rosie, scampered about the garden, where fruit ripened on the trees. The children—a boy and girl of nine or ten—busied themselves with chores. The woman, Emily, never pestered him, only asking what he’d like for supper, serving him strawberries with a gentle smile.
Jonathan spent his days swimming, climbing cliffs, taking photos, and messaging an old friend. Occasionally, he wondered how a woman nearing fifty had such young children. At last, he asked.
“Emily, are they your grandchildren?”
“No,” she replied. “Mine. Just late in life. Marriage never happened, so I chose to have them anyway. And I’m not so old—only forty-eight.”
As they talked, Jonathan studied her—kind, soft-spoken, cheerful. He liked her name, too. Emily. It reminded him of his mother. She smelled of strawberries and fresh butter. The homemade wine was sweet, the evenings cool, the sky ablaze with stars. Neither pretended—they were grown-ups. By day, nothing changed. By night, Jonathan crept to her room, then back to his before the children stirred. Rosie never barked at him, just watched slyly, as if she understood. A good little dog, frugal too—a couple of spoonfuls of food, yet she guarded the house dutifully.
Soon, Rosie began joining Jonathan on his seaside walks, even swimming. She’d shake off, dry in the sun, then scamper home ahead of him. Until one day, she didn’t return. Jonathan searched, called, posted flyers. Where had she gone? An elderly neighbour muttered about outsiders—holiday renters at the village’s edge. Jonathan marched there, only to learn they’d left an hour earlier, heading for the motorway with a small dog. He sped after them, blocking their SUV.
Two young women stormed out. “Move your car! Can’t you drive? We’ll call the police!”
“Go ahead,” Jonathan said. “But first, return the dog.”
“Dream on,” the taller one sneered. “She was stray—we rescued her.”
“She’s not stray. She has a family. She’s not yours.”
“Buzz off!” the other shrieked. “Move or we’ll smash your windows!”
Jonathan circled the car. “Rosie!” The dog yapped frantically, scrambling at the cracked window. The women clawed at him, swearing. He froze—he couldn’t hit them.
Then a policeman arrived, red-faced and panting. “Quiet!” he bellowed, scooping up Rosie. “No papers? Whoever she goes to keeps her.”
“Sweetie-pie!” The women waved sausages. “Come to us!”
“Let’s go home, Rosie,” Jonathan said. The officer set her down. She bolted to Jonathan, tail wagging madly.
“Case closed,” the officer huffed.
“She’s ours!” the women screeched. “We saved her! We’ll report you!”
The officer glowered. “Leave now, or I’ll inspect your insurance, first-aid kit, fire extinguisher, and count every pill in it. And run your plates.”
The SUV vanished.
Jonathan shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ve got a terrier too—sly little thing, hates the cold.”
Back in the car, Rosie curled on Jonathan’s lap, warm and velvet-soft. For the first time in years, he felt content. Yet as the miles passed, loneliness crept in. Soon, he’d return to an empty flat. A reckless thought flickered—turn back, take Rosie home. Just a few belongings anyway. He sighed and drove on.
The last week was rainy, but Jonathan still swam, Rosie beside him. Nights were spent with Emily; mornings grew heavier with dread. On departure day, sunlight mocked him. He packed, gifted Emily a farewell present, left his number, and drove off.
Asphalt replaced dirt track. Then—a tiny shape chasing the car. He accelerated. Rosie kept pace, then faltered, dwindling to nothing. Jonathan braked, hands shaking as he lit a cigarette. Stubbing it out, he spotted a speck on the road. He ran, praying no car would crush her. Rosie dashed toward him, filthy, panting, tail wagging weakly. He scooped her up, wiping dust from her fur, offering water from his bottle. Then he called Emily.
“Rosie’s with me. She chased the car. Don’t worry—I’ll bring her back.”
“Keep her, if you’d like. I only found her days before you arrived. Someone dumped her near the shop.”
“Really? I can take her?”
“Really.”
So he did.
Six months later, at the university, Jonathan overheard colleagues gossiping. “Guess who the dean married? Some country woman—his age, two kids, even a dog!”
“Charmed him, did she? Must’ve used a love potion!”
Jonathan stepped forward. The women tittered. “Do share, Professor—what’s her secret?”
“Oh, there was a potion,” he chuckled. “The strongest kind.”
“Would she share the recipe?”
“Afraid not.”
Laughing, he headed home—to Emily, the children, and Rosie.
Sometimes, the simplest things—a dog’s loyalty, a shared smile—hold the truest magic.
