The Path Through the Storm
Marina’s life had fallen apart like a house of cards. The divorce from her husband knocked her off her feet, and she picked up the pieces of her past, returning to her childhood village on the edge of the Yorkshire countryside. Her rock was her grandmother, Margaret Whitmore, who adored Marina and her little boy, Alfie.
“Alfie’s the spitting image of his dad, Jamie,” Marina would say with a bitter smile, watching her son. “He’s the only good thing left from that marriage—like a ray of sunshine in all this mess.”
“I warned you not to get mixed up with that layabout,” Margaret tutted, shaking her head. “You could see it a mile off—flighty and too fond of the bottle. Once a drunk, always a drunk. But no, you were head over heels, wouldn’t listen to sense.”
“Are we really bringing this up now, Nan?” Marina sighed. “Going to hold it over me forever? At least we’ve got Alfie—that’s what matters.”
“Ah, don’t fret, love,” Margaret pulled her into a hug. “Won’t say another word. Look at you—stunning, you are. Where’s Jamie going to find another like you? Fool, that’s what he is.”
“Half the boys in school were after me,” Marina tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “But I’m done with all that now. Don’t trust anyone. They’re all sweet as pie at first, then—” she waved a hand.
“Not all men are like your ex,” Margaret countered. “Take Tom, for instance. Remember how mad he was about you? Solid bloke—hardworking, no bad habits. Still single, last I heard. Only one from your lot who hasn’t settled down yet.” She gave a sly grin.
“Oh, Nan, don’t start,” Marina rolled her eyes. “Not in the mood for matchmaking. Got Alfie’s school things to sort, the house to fix up. Mum and Dad moved to Manchester for work years ago, so it’s just us now. And I need to help you, too…”
“Helping’s all well and good,” Margaret nodded, “but no rush. Sort yourself out first. I’m not going anywhere—seventy’s just a number. Just having you and Alfie here’s joy enough. Your parents’ll chip in when they can. Might even retire back here one day. Then we’ll all be together—you in the big house, me in my cottage next door.”
“You’re such a mother hen, Nan,” Marina hugged her tight and kissed her cheek.
“Still, think about Tom,” Margaret gave her a playful swat, just like when she was little. “Men like him don’t grow on trees.”
Marina had been back in the village three months. Tom, the local farmer, hadn’t taken his eyes off her. Like Margaret, he’d always thought her marriage a mistake—one she still hadn’t shaken. How he and Margaret had conspired, only God knew, but they kept “accidentally” bumping into each other at the village shop or the post office. Margaret whispered updates about Marina and Alfie, lamenting how her granddaughter was still alone.
Tom would blush, sigh, but fear another rejection. Margaret, seeing his nerves, nudged him along.
“She’s changed, Tom. Grown wiser. Pretty faces don’t matter half as much as a good heart—and you’ve got that in spades. Dependable, hardworking, kind…”
“And not exactly Prince Charming,” Tom chuckled, then sobered. “Still love her, Margaret. All these years, never stopped thinking about her.”
Margaret teared up and promised to help.
“Just take it slow, lad. Don’t push. She’s barely a year out of that mess. Give her time.”
“What if someone else snaps her up?” Tom fretted. “Lost her once—not doing it again. I’ll do whatever it takes.”
“Then listen here,” Margaret grinned. “Help out quietly—no grand gestures. Keep your feelings under wraps, be steady. Let things unfold.”
“Proper schemer, you are, Margaret!” Tom laughed. “You really think that’ll work?”
“Like a charm!” she assured. “And I’ll put in a good word. But mind—hurt her, and you’ll answer to me.”
Tom nodded, warmth blooming in his chest as if he’d already gotten her blessing.
Spring unfurled across the village, gardens tilled and blackbirds strutting through the fields. One morning, Marina heard the roar of a tractor outside. She rushed out in slippers and an old jumper, gasping at the sight.
“Tom, what’s all this? Who’s it for?” She stared at the trailer full of compost.
“You, who else?” Tom grunted, hopping down. “Margaret ordered it. Said to deliver it, no arguments. Open the gate. Wait—are you in slippers? Go put proper shoes on, you’ll catch your death!” He swung the gate open himself, eased the tractor in, and dumped the load by the fence.
“How much do I owe you?” Marina reached for her purse.
“Not a penny. Pensioner’s discount for Margaret. Put your money away,” he said briskly, barely glancing at her before driving off.
The next day, his younger brother, teenage Jack, spent four hours spreading the compost, refusing payment.
“Got an arrangement with my brother,” he shrugged. “Orders are orders.”
“What is this, then?” Marina threw up her hands. “Am I suddenly a war veteran? Is this communism?”
Margaret just smiled, pleased as punch. “There—garden’s ready for planting. That compost’ll keep the soil rich for years. Grow whatever you like.”
A week later, Tom returned with a trailer of manure, dumping it behind the shed and covering it with tarpaulin.
“Have it for free,” he said gruffly. “Better than letting it go to waste.”
“Thanks, Tom,” Marina smiled. “Never knew you were so handy. Fancy a cuppa? Made some scones.”
Tom nearly bounced with joy but remembered Margaret’s advice.
“Another time. Loads to do—jobs piling up. Here—for Alfie,” he handed her a chocolate bar. “Folks keep giving me sweets—not my thing. Nowhere to put ’em.”
Marina took it, warmth in her eyes. “We’ll save you a seat—Nan, me, and Alfie.”
Tom drove off belting out songs in his tractor, heart soaring. And Margaret noticed the thaw in Marina. She didn’t mention Tom, just smiled when Marina brought up his kindness herself.
Soon, piles of sand and gravel appeared by the house. Neighbours whispered.
“Now there’s a woman who knows how to get things done! Putting the lads to shame. Must be fixing the place up—good on her.”
“Still, rough going it alone,” the old ladies sighed. “Needs a husband.”
When Tom dropped off the gravel, Marina just laughed. “What’s next? Another ‘pensioner’s special’?”
She’d figured it all out by now, barely hiding her grin. Her heart fluttered watching Tom’s pleased expression.
“Enough with the ‘charity’,” she teased. “Running out of space!”
“Take what’s given,” he said warmly. “Gravel’s good for paths, patching potholes. I’ll come round weekend, sort the mud out.”
They stood on the doorstep. Marina grabbed his hand and dragged him inside.
“Get those boots off—tea’s going cold,” she ordered. “Won’t take no for an answer.”
Tom wiped his feet, washed up, and sat at the table, eyeing the cosy kitchen.
“Lovely place you’ve got,” he said, taking a scone. “Blimey, these are good. Worth marrying for.”
“So marry me, then,” Marina said lightly, smiling.
Tom choked on his tea. He finished the scone in silence, stood, and headed for the door.
“Ta for that. Council meeting tomorrow? Don’t forget your ID.”
“Tom!” Marina laughed. “Wait—”
“If you’re joking, don’t,” he shoved the door open.
Marina caught his arm. “Honestly, like a bear with a sore head,” she said. “Can’t marry without love, can we? Silly man.”
“Without love?” Tom burst out. “I’ve been mad for you since we were kids! Never wanted anyone else!”
Marina pressed a finger to his lips, then traced his stubbly jaw. He pulled her close and kissed her.
“Clear enough now,” she murmured. “Could’ve done that sooner—skip the manure and the grand Nan scheme.”
“Ah,” Tom grinned, giving the game away, and they both dissolved into laughter.
“Ganged up on me,” Marina smiled. “Maybe hold off on wedding bells? I’m still—”
“My lot’ll be chuffed,” Tom cut in. “They’ve known forever. And I’m done waiting. Tomorrow.”
HeHe kissed her again, and this time, neither of them wanted to pull away.
