The woman lived in a charming cottage. Nearby, hydrangeas and petunias bloomed in the flower beds, a riot of purple so vivid it made her head spin.
With her legs tucked under her, she settled into the garden swing and lost herself in a book. In the oven, a peach pie was just about ready, its sweet aroma mingling with the minty scent of the hedges—like heaven, if heaven had a scent.
She always knew, somehow, the exact moment he’d turn up. On those days, she’d knead the dough first thing in the morning, dreaming up new fillings. None of those heavy stews and roasts for her—the magic was in the pastry, shaping itself effortlessly under her practised fingers.
Funny, really. Once, it had been her grandmother who baked the pies. Now it was her, and she certainly wasn’t a grandmother.
He never planned his visits. Weeks would pass, then—like clockwork—he’d ache for her and call from the road.
He had nothing and no one left. Just a past life, two failed marriages, a son he barely saw, a move to a new town, a car stuffed with hastily packed boxes, a mountain of memories, and the slow crawl out of the black hole of anger and despair.
They’d met in the most ordinary way—at a beach bonfire. A gathering of strangers, really. His mate had dragged him along; her sister had guilt-tripped her into coming. Neither wanted to be there, so they sat awkwardly on the fringes, two outsiders at someone else’s party. Then he’d asked her to dance. And for some ridiculous reason, he’d bought her a cheesy long-stemmed rose from a passing flower seller. Then he’d driven her home, right across town.
Just like that, their lives tangled. And he panicked. Why put his heart through it all again?
But every time the loneliness became unbearable, he’d jump in the car and go. Just to bury his face in her hair and whisper, *Well, hello…*
He even started wondering if he could stay—for good.
Once, he mentioned it. Her eyes flickered, then dimmed. *Whatever you want. Whatever you decide.*
And every time they said goodbye, it felt like tearing flesh. He’d step through the gate, pause, glance back—then return to kiss her again. Over and over, as if leaving were impossible.
He wished they’d met sooner. He was just glad they’d met at all.
She’d pour tea into a tall mug, slice the pie, and sit across from him. Nothing dramatic. He’d known passion, sleepless nights, fire—but it turned out what he needed was this quiet, steady love. The kind that smelled of mint and strawberry jam. Or raspberry. Or blackberry. The kind with whispered conversations until dawn, the curve of her hip, her sleepy smile, the sound of her breath in his ear through miles and phone lines.
He didn’t wait for the weekend. Called her, as usual, 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.
He’d never know his daughter had his piercing blue eyes.
