**The Season of Trust**
In early May, when the grass had thickened to a lush green and morning dew still clung to the conservatory windows, Olivia and Edward first seriously considered renting out their cottage themselves, without agents. The idea had simmered for weeksfriends shared horror stories of fees, and forums buzzed with complaints about estate agents. But more than that, they wanted to choose who stayed in the home where theyd spent the last fifteen summers.
A cottage isnt just square footage, Edward said, carefully pruning dry raspberry canes and glancing at his wife. We want people to treat it with respect, not like a hotel.
Olivia wiped her hands on a tea towel by the porch and nodded. That year, theyd decided to stay in London longertheir daughter had exams, and Olivia needed to help. The house would sit empty most of the summer, and upkeep costs wouldnt vanish. Renting seemed the obvious solution.
That evening, after supper, they walked through the cottage with fresh eyeswhat needed tidying, what to stow away. Books and family photos went into boxes, stored in the loft; fresh linen was left neatly folded. Olivia sorted the kitchen, keeping only the essentials.
Lets document everything, Edward suggested, pulling out his phone. They photographed each room, the garden furniture, even the old bicycle by the shedjust in case. Olivia noted the details: how many pots, which quilts were on the beds, where the spare keys were hidden.
The next afternoon, as the first May rain drenched the garden, they posted the listing online. The photos looked brighttomato plants stretched toward the greenhouse, and dandelions dotted the path to the gate.
Waiting for replies felt like standing at the door before guests arrivedexcitement laced with unease. Calls came quickly: questions about Wi-Fi, whether pets or children were allowed. Olivia answered honestly, remembering her own searches for rentals.
The first tenants arrived late Maya young couple with a seven-year-old and a medium-sized dog, promised to be perfectly quiet. They signed a simple contract on the spot, just names and payment terms. Olivia frettedit wasnt official, but for a season, it seemed enough.
The first days passed peacefully. Olivia visited weekly to tend the garden, bringing fresh towels or bread. The tenants were friendlytheir child waved from the kitchen, the dog trotted to the gate.
Then payments grew late. Excuses piled up: forgotten transfers, bank errors, unexpected bills.
Why must we deal with this? Edward muttered one evening, scrolling through messages as sunset streaked gold across the kitchen floor.
Olivia tried kindnessgentle reminders, offering to split the sum. But tension gnawed at her, leaving a sour exhaustion after each call.
By mid-June, it was clear: theyd leave early, unpaid. When they left, the cottage smelled of cigarettes (despite the no-smoking rule), rubbish piled under the deck, and paint stains marred the kitchen table.
So much for perfectly quiet, Edward sighed, eyeing the claw marks on the pantry door.
They cleaned in silence all dayscrubbing the stove, hauling stained linens to the wash. Strawberries ripened by the fence; Olivia plucked a handful, still warm from the rain.
Afterward, they debated giving up. Perhaps an agency was safer. But letting strangers control their homeor take a cut for mere key-handlingfelt wrong.
By midsummer, they tried again, now cautious: stricter rules, a months rent upfront.
The next tenants were worsea couple with a teen who arrived Saturday night and immediately hosted a quick gathering. The party lasted days: laughter, barbecue smoke lingering past midnight.
Olivia called, pleading for quiet after eleven; Edward found beer bottles beneath the lilacs.
When they left, the cottage looked wearyjuice stains on the sofa, bin bags by the shed, cigarette butts under the apple tree.
How much more of this? Edward muttered, scraping burnt kebabs from the grill.
Olivias disappointment curdledwhy couldnt people treat a home kindly?
Maybe were too soft. Rules should be clearer.
In August, another inquiry: a childless couple for a week. Olivia was firmterms agreed upfront, a deposit, photos on arrival.
They seemed agreeable, meeting at the gate under a sweltering noon haze.
Yet upon leaving, theyd ruined the microwaveheated foiland refused to pay.
Its barely damaged! An accident! the woman protested.
Olivia bit back anger. Lets settle this calmly. A partial deduction from the deposit?
A compromise was reached, but as the gate clicked shut, relief tangled with weariness.
They knew this couldnt continue.
That evening, heat still heavy in the air, they sat on the porch with a notebook. The scent of grass and applesripe and brushing the earthhung around them. Olivia flipped through photos from the last tenancy, ticking off repairs.
A checklist, she said. So everyone knows the rules. Itemised: crockery, appliances, linen, bins.
Edward nodded. Tired of the strife, but knowing change was needed. Photos would be taken togethermove-in, move-out. Deposits held. Keys handed over properly. Instructions left for appliances, emergency contacts shared.
They debated wordingnot hostile, but clear. Trust remained, just with boundaries. Olivia insisted: a contact number for issues, no delays.
By nightfall, the list was typed up, photos filed in folders. It felt like scrubbing not just the kitchen, but something inside themselves.
The test came swiftly. A woman called early August, listened carefully to the rules, arrived with her husband and teen daughter. Calm, unhurried, they asked about garden tools, the bicycle, watering the petunias.
Wed like two weeks, if thats alright, she said, signing without fuss.
They toured the cottage together, noting the state of things. Olivia showed them spare bulbs, the water pump. The family took photos, even asked about recycling.
Will we disturb you if you come for the veg? the man asked, holding the gate open.
Just give us notice, Olivia smiled.
This time, everything changed. No complaints. When Olivia checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, a bowl of strawberries left with a note: *Thank you for trusting us. Alls well.*
Edward peeked in the shedtools tidy, bikes untouched. No litter, no ash under the apple tree. Even the microwave was wiped clean.
On moving-out day, they met at the gate. The checklist was followed meticulouslyno new scratches, laundered linen folded.
Your instructions made it easy, the woman said at parting.
Olivia smiled cautiously. The deposit was returned without quibbles. The contract and checklist were filed awayready for next season.
August waned, days crisper now. They gathered the last courgettes, pruned the blackcurrants. The cottage smelled of apples and fresh sheets.
Theyd learned to say *no* without guilt, to set rules without spite. The checklist wasnt suspicionit was care, for the house and its guests.
It feels lighter now, Edward admitted one evening, gazing at the shadowed garden. I worried rules would scare people off. But decent folks prefer clarity.
Olivia smiled from the hallway, arms full of apples. Trust hadnt vanishedit had grown wiser, firmer, but not closed.
In September, they reposted the adno anxiety now, just confidence. Photos included the checklist on the table.
Enquiries came promptly, questions practical: water supply, heating, transport. One message read: *Thanks for the honestyrare these days.*
They planned the next season without dread. Peace was possible. Just stay mindfulof themselves, and those whod briefly call their home theirs.
The last evening was hushed, a breeze stirring the garden. Edward locked the shed and joined Olivia on the porch.
Think weve missed anything in the rules? he asked.
No. Weve learned the important bitjust dont forget to be human.
They sat side by side, watching the garden. Ahead lay another season, more arrivalsno longer fearing what might be lost.
