Never stop believing in happiness
Once, in the bloom of youth, Eleanor drifted into a bustling fair in Brighton. A gypsy woman with eyes as dark as midnight seized her wrist and sang softly:
Lovely one, youll live in a sunlit land, where the air smells of sea spray and ripe orchards.
Eleanor laughed in reply:
Nonsense! Ill never leave my hometown!
Life moved on. She married for love, welcomed a daughter named Poppy, and dreamed of a second child. Yet before taking the plunge, she kept a job, thinking, Ill work for five or six years, then maybe I can think about a boy.
Then a business trip turned her plans upside down. Her neighbour, a nurse, called out of the blue:
Eleanor, theyve taken your husband Sergey to the hospital! The ambulance arrived from an unknown address on the next street.
Family secrets can surface in the strangest places.
Returning home felt like a bad thriller. That very evening Eleanor raced to the hospital, her heart thudding in her throat. Her husband lay pale, arm in a sling, avoiding her gaze.
From which address did they bring him? she asked quietly.
Silence answered louder than words.
It emerged that the flat belonged to a lonely woman, a colleague of her husband; their friendship had stretched over a year.
Everyones temperaments differ.
Some turn a blind eye, some cause a scene, then, clenching their teeth, offer the cheater a bowl of soup. Eleanor, however, was of a different mould. She didnt wait for her husbands discharge; there was someone else to comfort.
Packing the essentials into an old suitcase, she slipped a trembling Poppy by the hand and left their shared flat without a glance back.
Were starting fresh, my love, she whispered, gripping the little palm tightly.
Their mother took them in for a while, then Eleanor divorced, split the square footage with her ex and took out a mortgage. She lived on autopilot, striving to secure a future for herself and her daughter.
Years later, exhausted by work and solitude, Eleanor flew to Englands countryside, staying at the welcoming home of her mothers friend Olivia, a stones throw from the Cotswolds. Shed been saving for a modest break, but something snapped and she bought a ticket at the last minute, hoping the English sunshine might melt the ice around her heart.
Olivia, listening to Eleanors bitter confessionsIll never trust again, Love doesnt exist for mecouldnt bear it. She quietly rang a friend who owned a local vineyard:
Giovanni, she said in a hushed tone, find me Luke. Tell him I have a bride waiting.
Eleanors thoughts were anything but romantic. She was already in her soft robe, halfasleep with a novel, trying to push away gloomy musings. Outside, the night was thick and impenetrable.
A knock startled her. Within a minute, Olivia burst into the bedroom, eyes alight:
Eleanor, get up! Your fiancé has arrived!
What folly is this? Eleanor chuckled, but she pulled on her robe and stepped into the lounge.
There he stood: tall, a silvery streak at his temples, laughing eyes. Luke. In his hands he clasped a helmet, and leaning against the wall was a weatherworn motorbike. Hed travelled twenty miles on winding hills under a starsprinkled sky just to meet a stranger.
Olivia told me youre a Russian princess? he said in broken English, his accent a melody of its own.
Eleanor, stunned, reached for a handshake. Luke instead enveloped her in his warm, big hands and held on. They sank onto the sofa, fingers intertwined, never parting. He knew barely any English, she none of Italian; yet their conversation of gestures, smiles and glances was swift and intoxicating. Olivia, smiling, slipped away, leaving them alone with the birth of something new.
He left at dawn, mounting his iron steed once more. Later Eleanor learned his life had been a string of setbacks: two failed marriages, no children, no home. He lived in a tiny flat above his brothers garage and had almost stopped believing in happiness.
Ten days before his departure they agreed on everything. Ill come back, she answered his simple proposal. Well live together.
Months back in England whirled by in a frantic vortex: job loss, packing, tense talks with relatives who couldnt grasp her madness. Her phone buzzed nonstop.
My sunshine, how are you? I miss you. Luke.
Our new window looks onto an olive grove. Your room awaits. Yours, Luke.
The sevenyear age gapshe was olderdidnt bother him, nor the twelveyearold daughter he would have to love.
One afternoon, perched on the terrace of their sunwashed cottage overlooking rolling hills, Eleanor wrapped her arm around his shoulders and asked:
Luke, why did you trust us so quickly? Why werent you scared?
He turned, and his eyes reflected the entire Tuscanlike sea of the English countryside:
An old vintner once told me Id meet a woman from the east, a soul stormy, a heart seeking peace. He said shed bring the luck Ive spent a lifetime cultivating in my vines, yet never finding. That woman is you, Eleanor.
And? she whispered, tears gathering. Did you find that luck?
Luke gave no answer. He simply pulled her close and kissed her as if it were both their first and last kiss. Then, with his bright, sunfilled smile, he said:
She found me herself! Im endlessly happy.
And life finally fell into place.
A wonderful job came her way, they secured a mortgage on a cottage with hill views, and Luke fell in love with stepdaughter Poppy, who now delightedly learns British slang. Each morning he brings Eleanor a cup of tea with a dash of cinnamon, and evenings fill with the aroma of his divine shepherds pie. His love appears in bouquets of wildflowers on the table, in gentle touches, in the caring glance he gives her each sunrise.
Eleanor blossomed. She no longer doubts that shared happiness exists. She now knows: happiness isnt a myth. It walks the world, stubbornly seeking its halves, and when it finds them, it binds them together so firmly that no storm can ever break them.
