A woman lived in a lovely cottage. Nearby, hydrangeas and petunias bloomed in the flowerbeds, their violet riot so intense it made the head spin.
She’d tuck her legs beneath her in the garden swing and lose herself in a book. In the oven, a golden apricot pie baked, its sweet scent tangling with the minty breeze from the shrubs—like heaven, if heaven had a smell.
She always knew, somehow, the exact moment he’d arrive. That morning, she’d kneaded the dough, dreaming up fillings—none of those fussy roast potatoes or heavy stews for her. The magic was in the dough itself, yielding so easily to her nimble hands.
Funny, really. Once, it had been her grandmother who baked the pies. Now it was her. And she was no grandmother.
He never knew when the urge to see her would strike. Time would stretch, then snap—and suddenly, he’d need her with a sharp, physical ache. Always, he’d call from the road.
He had nothing and no one. Just the wreckage of a past life—two failed marriages, a son he rarely saw, a move to another city, his whole world crammed into the boot of his car. A mind full of ghosts, clawing his way out of the black hole of rage and regret.
They’d met in the most ordinary way. A beach bonfire, someone else’s crowd. Dragged along by a mate, her by her sister. Neither had wanted to go. So they sat apart, strangers at someone else’s party. Then he asked her to dance. Bought her a cheesy long-stemmed rose from a flower girl, for no reason at all. Drove her home across the city, windows down.
And just like that, everything tangled. He panicked. Why risk his heart again?
But every time the emptiness pressed in, unbearable, he’d climb into the car and go. Bury his face in her hair, murmur against her ear: *Well, hello…*
He even caught himself wondering—maybe he could stay. Live here, with her.
Once, he said it aloud. Her eyes flickered—bright, then dim. *Whatever you want. Whatever you decide.*
Every goodbye was like tearing flesh. He’d reach the gate, pause, look back. Return to kiss her. Try to leave again. Fail.
He regretted meeting her so late. Was grateful he’d met her at all.
She’d pour tea into a tall mug, slice the pie, sit across from him. Nothing extraordinary. His life had been all feverish passions, reckless nights. Yet here he was, starved for this quiet love—scented like mint and strawberry jam. Or raspberry. Or marmalade. And the way she listened in the dark, the curve of her hip, the sleepy smile. Even her breath through the phone, bridging miles and satellites.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Called from the road, as usual. Turned off his phone, turned up the music. Didn’t hear the crash.
She’d never know he’d been coming to her for good.
He’d never know his daughter’s eyes were the same piercing blue as his.
