The woman lived in a lovely cottage. Beside it, hydrangeas and pansies bloomed in the flowerbeds, a riot of purple that took the breath away.
She curled up in the garden swing, legs tucked beneath her, lost in a novel. In the oven, a golden apricot pie baked, its sweet scent mingling with the peppery fragrance of nearby mint bushes. It smelled like heaven itself.
She always knew exactly when he’d arrive. On those mornings, she’d knead the dough, dreaming up new fillings. Roasts and gravies—those never interested her. The real magic was in the way the dough obeyed her hands, shaping itself just right beneath her fingers.
Funny, that. Once, it had been her grandmother who baked the pies. Now it was her turn—though she was nowhere near a grandmother.
For him, there was never a set time. Weeks would pass, then suddenly, he’d ache to see her. He always called from the road.
He had nothing and no one left. Just a past—two failed marriages, one estranged son, a move to another city, a boot full of belongings, a tangle of memories, and the slow crawl out of a pit of despair.
They’d met predictably—a summer garden party in Brighton. His mate dragged him along; her sister coaxed her. Neither wanted to be there, so they sat apart, strangers at their own celebration. Then he asked her to dance. Later, he bought her a single red rose from a girl selling flowers—corny, but it made her smile. He drove her home all the way across town.
After that, everything tangled. And it terrified him. Why open his heart to pain again?
Yet every time the loneliness became unbearable, he’d climb into his car and go. Just to bury his face in her hair and whisper, *”Hello, love…”*
He even caught himself imagining he might stay. Once, he said it aloud. Her eyes flickered—hope, then restraint. *”Do what you think is right.”*
Leaving always felt like tearing flesh. He’d reach the gate, stop, turn back for one more kiss. Then another. And another.
Regret gnawed at him—that they’d met too late. Gratitude warmed him—that they’d met at all.
She’d pour tea into tall porcelain cups, slice the pie, and sit across from him. No grand gestures. His life had known blazing passions, feverish nights. Yet here he was, craving this quiet love—the scent of mint and strawberry jam, or maybe raspberry. Blackberry, even. Long talks till dawn. The curve of her hip. The sleepy smile she wore only in the mornings. The sound of her breath through the phone, bridging miles and satellites.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Called her, as always, from the road. Turned off his phone, turned up the music—and never heard the crash.
She’d never know he was coming to stay for good.
He’d never know his daughter had his piercing blue eyes.
