The chasm between us…
After her divorce from her husband, Eleanor struggled to piece herself back together. She had suspected he was unfaithful, yet the truth still shattered her. There had been a family, a settled life full of dreams and plans… Now, nothing remained. Oliver simply walked out the door—out of her life.
Summer was fading, but Eleanor noticed none of it—neither the sun, nor the hum of the city, nor the rainbows after the storm. One sweltering night, tossing and turning in bed, she realised she couldn’t go on like this. Oliver had moved on, while she wasn’t living—just slowly withering away.
“Everything here reminds me of him, of *us*. But *us* doesn’t exist anymore. I just need to leave, even for a little while. Not to the seaside or abroad—too crowded, too noisy. I need peace. The countryside. There’s still Gran’s cottage. After all, our roots are there. It’s our place of strength. Why didn’t I think of this sooner?” She sat bolt upright. Her nightdress clung damply to her back.
Gran had died three years ago. She’d been ill for a long time, her days numbered. But Oliver had convinced Eleanor to go to Italy. “Nothing will happen in ten days,” he’d said. The news of Gran’s death reached them in Naples. “You can’t change anything now. Rescheduling flights is a hassle. We’ll visit the grave when we’re back.” And she had obeyed him. Again.
Her stepfather had a holiday home—a large house with land near the city. Mum had long talked about selling Gran’s cottage, but never got round to it.
As a child, Eleanor spent every summer holiday at Gran’s. Once she started university, she never returned. She hadn’t even visited the grave, though now she couldn’t remember why.
Anticipation made her palms itch. She grabbed her phone to call Mum about the keys, but the bright screen blinked back the late hour. Everyone was asleep. She set the phone down and curled back under the covers. It didn’t matter—she knew what to do now, how to pull herself from this pit of hurt. As she pictured packing her things and arriving at the cottage, she drifted off.
At dawn, she called Mum.
“Finally, you’re thinking of something besides Oliver. The world doesn’t revolve around him—” Mum launched into the same old lecture.
“Mum, please. Comforting words don’t help. Just find the keys.”
“They’re right in the hall drawer. Come over, let me see you. The house is fine—Auntie Ellie stopped by in May. Didn’t I tell you? Oh, of course not. You weren’t listening. Anyway, her grandson’s got married. Asked if we’d sell. Fancies the village. Maybe we should go together?”
“No. Alone. Please. I’ll swing by after work.”
All day, thoughts of the trip consumed her. Her boss at the agency—also divorced—listened to her reasoning: she’d tried burying herself in work, but the emptiness lingered. A temporary escape was needed. With summer lulls, they’d manage without her. Reluctantly, her boss agreed.
That evening, she collected the keys, packed just the essentials. What if she couldn’t outrun her grief? What if she returned the next day?
Surprisingly, she slept deeply. At sunrise, she gulped down coffee, checked the gas and lights, grabbed her bag, and left.
The city still slumbered. Sunlight crept over rooftops. As she drove, she hummed along to the radio, her nerves buzzing.
She hadn’t been to the village in years, yet the road was familiar. The cottage stood untouched, its lawn neatly mowed—neighbours keeping watch. Stepping out, silence enveloped her. Not true silence—crickets chirped, birds sang, roosters roused lazy holidaymakers. A dog rattled its chain. But compared to the city’s roar, this was peace.
Inside, the air was musty, curtains drawn. She forbade regret. Fetching water from the well, she scrubbed the floors, though no dirt lurked. She gathered firewood. When flames finally crackled in the hearth, she felt victorious.
Villagers passed by, eyeing her car, peering through windows. No one entered—uninvited visits weren’t done.
Soon, the cottage grew stifling. She aired the bedding, dried pillows by the fire. No hanging them outside—too many prying eyes. She headed for the river behind the village, slipped off her sandals, and stepped onto sun-baked grass. The water looked dark, dense as oil.
Further downstream, she shed her sundress and plunged in. The water was silky-warm.
“Thought you were a fish splashing about,” a man’s voice called.
She spun. There stood William—older, tougher, but unmistakable. Her first childhood love. A fishing rod in one hand, a string of fat trout in the other.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Memories crashed over her.
This was why she’d stayed away. Because of him. Once, she’d wanted to live here, near Gran, for him. Mum had refused. “Nothing good comes of young love.”
She’d begged William to join her in the city. He’d agreed but never came. Then Gran said he’d married. She hadn’t returned. In her third year, she’d met Oliver—married him more out of spite than love.
“You alone? No husband?” William studied her.
“Alone. How’d you know about him?”
“I visited. Saw you together.”
“When?” But she remembered. They’d been leaving for a wedding. As they stepped out, she’d glimpsed a familiar face—gone before she placed it.
“I came to explain. About Lydia… I’m not excusing it, but she took advantage. One time, that’s all. Then she said she was pregnant. What could I do? Married her. Jake’s in Year Three now. Then little Ruby came.”
Eleanor scoffed.
“I know what you’re thinking. The boy—an accident. But Ruby… It’s never been right with Lydia. Whatever I say, it’s wrong. You’re city, I’m village. A chasm between us. Lydia’s one of us. Or so I thought.”
Standing in her swimsuit, his gaze unsettled her. She tugged on her sundress—instantly sticking to damp skin. Goosebumps prickled.
“Cold?”
They walked back. At the village edge, she suggested going separately.
“Place is like a fishbowl. Always someone watching.” He slowed his stride for her.
“Glad you came. The coast—nothing but crowds. Here, it’s peace. And mushrooms! Fancy the woods tomorrow?”
She’d think about it.
The cottage now smelled lived-in, oven heat pouring out as she propped the door open. That night, unfamiliar silence—broken by mice and creaking beams—kept her awake. At dawn, she ventured into the woods, sticking to tractor paths.
A twig snapped—something large, crashing through undergrowth. She bolted. A stitch in her side forced her to stop. Lost.
She shouted. More cracking. As she turned to run, William appeared.
“Lost? Dangerous alone.” He eyed her near-empty basket. “Set it down.”
He scooped mushrooms from his own brimming haul into hers.
“Plenty this year. Lydia’s sick of cleaning them.”
Walking home, she caught his glances—shy, thrilling. Only then did she realise: she hadn’t thought of Oliver once.
“Straight on to the village,” he pointed. “I’ll wait. Best not be seen together.”
Questions died on her lips. She glanced back once—he’d vanished.
Villagers miss nothing. Back home, as she boiled mushrooms, humming, the door flew open. Lydia stood there, eyes blazing.
“What’re you doing here? City men not enough? Don’t even *look* at William. Or else—”
“Or what?” Eleanor narrowed her eyes. No more letting others dictate her life.
Auntie Ellie visited next. “Your mum mentioned selling. We’ll buy—name a fair price.”
“Not decided yet.”
“Your call. Rest’s good. The coast—just noise.”
Eleanor laughed.
“Something funny?”
“Someone else said exactly that yesterday.”
Auntie Ellie frowned. “Lydia made a scene last night. Saw you with William. He just walked out. She begged on her knees…”
Eleanor froze.
“Watch out. That girl’s wild. Maybe you should leave.”
But she stayed. Two peaceful days passed—William only glimpsed from afar.
Then she woke to smoke and crackling. The cottage was ablaze. Coughing, she grabbed her bag, dashed for the door—flames blocked it. At the window, strong arms hauled her through.
Outside, the cottage roared like a bonfire. Bucket chains were useless.
“William moved your car,” someone said.
Keys still inShe looked into his eyes, the man who had saved her twice—once from the fire, and once from herself—and whispered, “Take me home.”
