THE HEART BEATS IN LOVE AGAIN
Elizabeth had her little Grace with no husband to speak of. Some might say she had a slip before marriage.
Yes, there was a young man who courted her ardently. He never spoke of vows, but he was dazzlingly handsome and gallant. Elizabeth would take his arm and walk past the watchful pensioners—those sunflower-faced ladies who sat by the entrance, turning their heads after every passerby, hungry for gossip.
The young man had no work to trouble him. He fluttered through life like a mayfly. Elizabeth fed him, clothed him, let him rest beside her. She would have laid herself like a patterned rug beneath his feet if he’d asked.
Then one fine day, he declared Elizabeth dull—claimed she did not cherish him as a woman should. “If you truly loved me,” he sneered, “you’d have taken me to the seaside by now.”
Elizabeth wept for a week. Then she tore his portrait to shreds and burned it. A month she suffered in solitude before meeting William.
One morning, running late for work, she stood fretting at the bus stop when a taxi pulled up. The driver swung open the door and offered a ride. Without thinking, she leapt inside.
As they drove, the man struck up conversation. Elizabeth took his measure: mid-forties, clean-shaven, well-trimmed, pressed. His kindness charmed her. Every inch of him bore the mark of a woman’s care—his mother’s, she assumed.
William, as he introduced himself, was nothing like the first. Without hesitation, Elizabeth gave him her number, eager to see him again. It was the only free taxi ride she ever took.
They began courting. William showered her with roses, gifts, tender affection.
One spring, strolling through the woods, lighthearted and merry, Elizabeth gathered snowdrops. William, amused by her glee, joined in. Once their bouquets were picked, she settled into the car while he laid his own carefully on the back seat.
A thought struck her: “For his wife.” She dared not ask. What if he was married? By now, she had grown fond of this considerate man. So she chose sweet denial. Said nothing.
Then William’s wife came knocking. She brought two small children and declared, “Here, darling—raise them yourself! They do love their father!”
Stunned, Elizabeth could only whisper, “Forgive me. I never knew he was wed. I won’t break your family. I’ll not nest under another’s eaves.”
That evening, she bid the married man farewell.
Next came George.
He was Welsh, and their affair burned bright and brief. He swept into Elizabeth’s life like a storm and vanished just as fast.
They met at a friend’s birthday. George, with his easy charm, drew the quiet girl in. She didn’t resist. His warmth, his generosity, his boundless energy left no room for gloom. There was always some merry outing planned, some new adventure. George seemed untouched by trouble. Elizabeth would have followed him anywhere.
For a year, he carried her in his arms. Then he returned to Wales. Whether the damp English air disagreed with him or his mother’s illness called him back, she never knew.
Elizabeth felt discarded. “Enough of tears,” she vowed. “I’ll live alone—at least I’ll live dry-eyed.”
Then came the revelation: a new life fluttered beneath her heart. She stood frozen. Who was the father? How would she manage? How would she keep her sanity?
A girl was born. Elizabeth named her Faye. The child became her purpose, her joy. Faye had George’s curls, his dark eyes, his beckoning smile—and this comforted Elizabeth. Perhaps because she had loved him beyond all others.
Faye’s laughter recalled carefree days with George.
Sometimes, Elizabeth wanted to howl at the injustice, to resent her wedded friends. But raising Faye left little time for weeping.
At last, Faye started school.
The teacher seated her beside a boy named Edward. Faye despised him instantly. He called her a “foolish mop-head.”
Their hatred flourished. The teacher had to separate them, but they still scuffled at every break.
When Elizabeth saw her daughter’s scratches, she stormed to the school. The teacher, flustered, gave her Edward’s address. “Take it up with his parents,” she said.
Elizabeth wasted no time.
A young man answered the door, drying his hands on a tea towel slung round his neck.
“Are you here for me?” he said. “Come in—I’ll fetch coffee. Just let me feed my little rogue first.”
Elizabeth stepped inside. The flat was small, untouched by a woman’s hand—clutter everywhere, dust in the air, the reek of tobacco.
The man returned with two mugs of steaming coffee. Its rich scent would linger in her memory forever.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asked.
“I’m Faye’s mother,” she replied.
“Ah,” he smiled. “My Eddie’s smitten with your girl.”
“And that’s why she comes home scratched?”
The man blinked, baffled.
“Just speak to your son,” Elizabeth said, rising. “Thank you for the coffee.”
That night, sleep escaped her. The image of him—so utterly domestic—clung to her thoughts. And that coffee! No sweetheart had ever offered her such a simple pleasure. Champagne, wine, cocktails—those flowed freely. But never coffee. She longed to know more of his life.
Unthinking, she began to tidy his cramped flat in her mind—flinging open windows, arranging furniture, placing flowers on the sill. Even his “little rogue” seemed dear to her suddenly.
Come morning, she told Faye to be kinder to Edward.
Weeks passed.
Then, at a parents’ evening, Elizabeth saw him again—and learned Edward had no mother. Why else would his father attend?
This emboldened her.
After the meeting, he offered to walk her and Faye home. December’s dusk had fallen early.
“Gladly,” she said.
“Robert,” he introduced himself.
“Elizabeth,” she replied.
Clearly, he fancied her. He even suggested they spend the New Year together.
Elizabeth thought, “What have I to lose?” Princes were fairy tales now.
How long must one fear the flame after being burned? Seven years alone made her accept.
Later, Robert confessed his wife had left him—married his best friend. He’d kept their son.
He never guessed how starved he was for tenderness, how his boy needed a mother’s love. Robert told Elizabeth he adored her—had thought of her constantly since their first meeting.
In her, he saw a devoted wife, a loving stepmother.
Elizabeth and Faye moved in—but only after the children gave reluctant nods.
Life whirled into joy. Robert, elated, moved heaven and earth for his family. They bought a spacious house. Elizabeth tended the home, the children.
Faye and Edward thrived under her care. She cherished Edward as her own. Robert adored Faye, treasuring both his girls.
Time turned the children sweethearts.
When Faye and Edward married, Elizabeth and Robert blessed them. The newlyweds honeymooned in Paris while Elizabeth coaxed Robert to the seaside.
He resisted. “Buy yourself something fine instead.”
“But we’ll finally be alone!” she pleaded.
So he agreed.
A week of bliss followed. Robert surpassed himself—flowers, praise, ardent words.
On their last morning, they strolled the empty beach. He kissed her softly.
“Lizzie, I love you dearly,” he murmured. “So dearly…”
Then he waded into the waves to rinse off.
She never saw him again.
The sea took him.
Calm waters, no trace—as if he’d never been.
Elizabeth returned home a widow. For months, she moved as one asleep. Robert’s senseless death unmade her world.
Why him? He swam so well. Why widowhood at fifty-five? Why hadn’t she answered his last words?
She hadn’t understood he was saying farewell.
A thousand whys unanswered.
Elizabeth withdrew. She loathed the sea. Colours drained from life. Even grief had no grave to visit.
Her heart shattered into dust. Breathing was torment. Better to burn seven times than bury love once.
Time heals? A lie. It only muffles the ache. Scratch the surface—agony untouched. Memory clings, relentless.
But years passed.
Now Elizabeth holds small hands—her grandchildren, Lucy and Oliver. They walk autumn paths, a trio.
At the café, she buys them ices. For herself, coffee—the same rich brew that Robert once poured. Its fragrance spins her back. She feels him near, watching, knowing.
Having endured unbearable sorrow, having accepted with quiet grace, Elizabeth thanks fate for Robert. For twenty-five years of love.
Life ends. Love does not.
