In the hazy glow of twilight, Emily murmured to herself, “Perhaps you and I are the most peculiar family.”
“It’s so lovely to have you,” James replied, wrapping his arms around her.
“And Im happy to be with you!” Emily laughed.
“Who else would I ever be with?” he teased. “Only you. Youre my fate. The finest woman in all the world.”
Emily didnt answershe only kissed his cheek and hurried to the kitchen to pull a pie from the oven.
Today marked the silver anniversary of the Wellingtons. Theyd decided to celebrate quietly, just the two of them and their childrenOliver, a lad in Year Eleven, and their daughter Imogen, whod recently graduated from university, started a job, and moved into her own flat nearby.
“But why waste money on rent?” Emily had fretted. “Youve your own room here! Were happy as we are. Why leave now? Wait till you marry, then move out.”
“Mum, I adore you and Dad, truly, but I want to try standing on my own feet. Anddont take this the wrong waybut your cooking is too divine. If I stay, Ill turn into a proper pudding! Youre all slender, eating whatever you fancy without a care, but Ive got to mind my figure. How can I resist your baking? Its impossible!”
Emily smiled. Imogen was nothing like her in looksEmily was petite, slight, often mistaken for a schoolgirl from behind. She wore little makeup, tied her hair in a simple plait, dressed plainly. Imogen, though, was a proper beauty, taking after James.
James was strikingtall, broad-shouldered. Age had softened his edges, thanks to Emilys pies, but even at forty-eight, he turned heads. Emily knew she faded beside him, but shed long stopped minding the whispers. To him, she was everything.
—
Theyd met at twenty and twenty-two.
That September afternoon, university student Emily was off to celebrate her friend Beatrices birthday, a gift in hand, when she stopped at a florist for a small bouquet. Inside, a young man stood, debating between arrangements while the shopgirl offered suggestions, eyeing him with open interest. Emily glanced at him toohe was unfairly handsome.
*He ought to be in films,* she thought. *Or perhaps he is.*
Then he noticed her. “Miss, which bouquet do you prefer? The red roses or the peonies?”
Flustered, Emily stammered, “Id pick peonies, though most girls prefer roses.”
“And your girlfriend?” the shopgirl asked him.
“My girlfriend? Oh, noI dont even know the girl these are for,” he admitted.
The shopgirl blinked. “Pardon?”
“My mates dragging me to his cousins birthday. Couldnt show up empty-handed, could I?” He grinned.
“If you take roses, you cant go wrong,” Emily offered.
“Do you like them?” he asked suddenly.
She flushed. “II prefer wildflowers, really. But roses are lovely too.”
“Wildflowers!” His eyes lit up. “My mum brings them home from the countryside. Theres something about themhumble at first glance, but astonishing if you look closer.”
He bought the roses, flashed Emily a smile, and left.
“Gorgeous, wasnt he?” sighed the shopgirl. “Like a film star.”
Emily agreed, bought chrysanthemums, and hurried to Beatrices.
Her shock was immense when she saw the same handsome stranger there. His name was James, and hed tagged along with his friend Arthur, Beatrices cousin.
James was just as surprised to see her. He kept glancing her way, smiling. Emily ducked her head, flustered. Later, he slipped beside her, and they talked.
She couldnt recall now, decades later, what theyd spoken ofonly that Beatrice had glowered, storming over to demand a dance with James. Hed shot Emily an apologetic look but went. Then, later, he walked her home.
The next day, Beatrice ignored Emily entirely.
“Whats wrong?” Emily finally asked.
“You *know*,” Beatrice hissed. “Arthur brought James for *me*! Id seen his photos, fancied him. But youyou flirted all evening, then whisked him off!”
“I didnt!” Emily protested. “I dont even *know* how to flirt!”
Beatrice scoffed. “Then what does he see in *you*?”
Emily spent the walk home wondering the same. That night, she stared into the mirror. “Honestly, whod want *me*?”
The phone rang. It was James.
They met by the river that evening. He waited with a bouquet of wildflowers. His smile made her heart stutter.
Their romance began. No one believed it would last. A man like James? With plain, quiet Emily?
He proved them wrong.
A year later, they married. Not once in a decade did he stray. Once, Emily dared to ask why hed chosen her.
“Can love ever be explained?” James mused. “But if I mustits your eyes. Your voice. Your soul. Youre like those wildflowers you loveyour beauty isnt loud, but I saw it. And Id never trade my wildflower for any rose.”
—
Their anniversary dinner was warm, full of laughter and kind words from the children. At the tables center stood a vase of wildflowersJames tradition for Emilys July birthday and every wedding anniversary.
That night, as they settled into bed, Emily whispered, “James, Ive just thoughtwe must be the oddest family.”
“Whys that?”
“In twenty-five years, weve never once had a proper row. Is that even normal?”
“Would you like to?” he teased, tickling her ribs.
“No, no!” she shrieked, writhing.
“Neither do I,” he murmured, kissing her.
