Oliver was walking to the gate of his cottage in the outskirts of York, a stranger on his arm.
“Oliver, hello!” called out his neighbour, Margaret Wilkins, peering over the fence. “And who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Margaret!” Oliver grinned. “Thought I’d settle down. This is my future wife, Emily.”
Emily worked tirelessly in the garden while Oliver kept pace. One afternoon, when he’d gone into town, Margaret leaned over the fence. “Fancy a cuppa, neighbour?” she asked slyly.
Emily nodded, spending an hour and a half at Margaret’s before slipping back just as Oliver returned.
“You’ve gone quiet,” he remarked.
Emily only smiled. She already knew the truth.
“Oliver, who’s this then?” Margaret didn’t hide her curiosity, eyeing his companion.
Oliver squinted, guiding the woman forward. “Always on watch, aren’t you, Margaret? Getting married. This is Emily, my future wife. Big cottage—had to see if she’s up to it.”
“Emily, is it?” Margaret nodded. “Fine name. Oliver’s quite the catch, handy with his hands. Staying long or just the summer?”
“Stop prying,” Oliver waved her off, ushering Emily inside.
“Come for tea, love!” Margaret called after them, laughing.
“Odd woman,” Emily murmured, stepping in. “What’s she mean, ‘just the summer’?”
“Never mind her,” Oliver dismissed. “Locals hire seasonal help—she just talks nonsense. Best keep your distance, Margaret’s the village gossip.”
The cottage sparkled, only a thin layer of winter dust lingering. Emily admired the neat curtains, embroidered tablecloth, and lace doilies.
“Did you make all this?” She pointed to the linen towels with delicate stitching in the kitchen.
“Hardly,” Oliver chuckled. “Lasses before you tried to catch me. Handsome, single bloke—can’t blame ‘em. But I waited for you. And here you are.”
Emily flushed. Oliver *was* striking—broad-shouldered, salt-and-pepper hair, a mischievous glint in his eye. Plus, the house and cottage didn’t hurt.
They’d met at a York market. Oliver was eyeing raspberry bushes; Emily needed dill seeds for her windowsill.
“Three packs, love—special deal,” the vendor pressed.
“I’d never use that much,” she laughed.
“My garden’s going spare,” Oliver winked beside her. “Fancy teaming up?”
“What would your wife say?” Emily teased, eyeing his smart jacket and polished shoes.
“Widower,” he sighed. “But you’ve thawed my heart.”
A week later, Oliver confessed:
“Em, it’s easy with you. Peaceful. Fancy coming to the cottage for summer? Commute’s short.”
Emily agreed. “Why not? Kids are grown, only call when they need cash. No husband, not even a cat—maybe it’s fate.”
At the cottage, they quickly dropped formalities. Oliver’s talk of marriage thrilled Emily—and amused Margaret.
All summer, Emily tended the plot: neat rows of veg, a greenhouse brimming with tomatoes, no weed stood a chance. Oliver dug, carried water, chopped wood. To outsiders, they looked the perfect couple.
Then one afternoon, with Oliver away, Margaret beckoned.
“Tea? Or does Oliver forbid it?”
Emily frowned. “Course not.”
She returned pensive.
“Penny for your thoughts?” Oliver asked.
“Just thinking how cruel loss is,” she said, holding his gaze.
“Old news,” he brushed off. “Got you now—don’t know what I’d do without you!” He pulled her close.
Weeks passed. The harvest thrived—cucumbers, berries, carrots. But Oliver grew snappish. Wedding plans vanished.
“Why’s the greenhouse open?” he snapped one morning.
“It’s warm—they’ll rot shut!”
“Since when are you the expert?” he scoffed.
“Dad had an allotment,” she retorted. “Want me to stop?”
Oliver huffed. “Just ask next time. Know how to make jam? Berries are ready.”
Emily nodded. *Here we go.*
While she stirred pots, Oliver charmed. But once jars lined the pantry, his nitpicking returned. She quietly planned to stash some produce—just in case.
“What’s *wrong* with you?” she finally demanded.
His phone rang. Oliver snatched it—his face shifting from shock to dread.
“What’s happened?”
“Someone’s clearing my accounts!” he gasped, scrolling frantically. “Bank says reset my PIN!”
“Oliver, it’s a scam!” she warned. “Hang up!”
“Oh, *now* you’re an expert?” he sneered.
“Don’t give that code!”
“Back off!” He barked the digits.
A scream erupted moments later. “They’ve emptied me! Even took a *loan*!”
“I warned you,” she said coldly.
“How do I repay this?” he groaned.
Emily paused, recalling Margaret’s words: *”You’re decent, love. Oliver’s a player—lures lonely women here each summer, works ‘em dry, then dumps ‘em. Time someone taught him a lesson.”*
“I’ll cover it,” she said. “For the cottage.”
“Are you *mad*? It’s worth triple!”
“Suit yourself.” She picked up a trug of veg. “By the time you sell, the bank’ll take *everything*.”
He crumpled. “Fine.”
At the solicitor’s, papers were signed. Emily handed the cash, clearing his debt. Back at the cottage, she packed Oliver’s things, leaving a jar of jam and a basket of veg on the porch—”for old times’ sake.” The locks were changed before sunset.
“Tea, love?” Margaret called, spotting the new bolt.
“Better you join *me*,” Emily smiled. “Housewarming. I’m the owner now.”
*Lesson learned: Trust the whispers of those who’ve seen the game played before—sometimes kindness wears the cleverest disguise.*
