**An Unexpected Guest**
The little village of Oakvale smelled of freshly baked bread wafting from Margaret Hastings’ old stove. A sudden knock shattered the quiet of the kitchen like smoke dissipating into the air. Margaret wiped her flour-dusted hands on her apron and hurried to the door.
“Mum, meet Emily—my fiancée,” her son Thomas beamed on the doorstep, grinning from ear to ear.
Margaret froze as if struck by lightning. Emily was tall, nearly six feet in heels, dressed in a short skirt with bold makeup and an oversized handbag dangling from her arm.
“Pleased to meet you,” Margaret managed, masking her shock. “George, come here!” she called to her husband. “Tom’s brought our future daughter-in-law!”
George shuffled out in a stretched-out vest and slippers. At the sight of Emily, his jaw dropped as if he’d seen a ghost.
“Evenin’,” he mumbled before darting back inside to change.
Margaret shot him a disapproving glare. Two days ago, when Thomas announced he wouldn’t be coming alone, she had been thrilled. He was past thirty—high time to settle down. She’d imagined a modest girl, perhaps in a simple dress with her hair in a plait. But Emily? This? Stiletto heels, painted nails, feathers poking from her bag—it defied everything Margaret considered proper.
“Come in, Emily,” she forced a polite tone. “George, don’t just stand there—help with the bags!”
George, now in a clean shirt, lugged Emily’s suitcase inside while Margaret seized a moment to whisper to her son:
“Tom, who on earth have you brought? What’s with all this?”
“Mum, don’t start,” Thomas chuckled. “She’s gold underneath all that. You’ll see.”
Margaret scoffed, crossing herself. “Lord have mercy, what a surprise.”
Chaos unfolded. The men muttered at the table while Emily settled into Margaret and George’s room, unpacking feathery hats, swimsuits, and shimmering fabrics.
“What’s this?” Margaret pinched a lace-edged scrap between two fingers.
“Lingerie,” Emily said breezily. “Want some? I’ve got spares.”
“No, thank you,” Margaret snapped, flushing. “And why are you taking over our room?”
“Tom’s got no space, and Uncle George said you wouldn’t mind,” Emily smiled.
“Uncle George, is it?” Margaret narrowed her eyes at her husband before dragging him outside.
“Have you lost your mind? Giving up our bedroom? Sleeping on the sofa now, are we, you great oaf?” she hissed.
A loud moo from the barn cut her off.
“Blimey—forgot to milk Daisy!” she gasped, rushing off.
Emily trailed behind. “Could I try? Never milked a cow before.”
Margaret eyed her stilettos skeptically. “In those?”
“I’ll change!” Emily dashed back and returned in shorts and trainers.
Margaret sighed. “Fine. But cover your head—scarf, not a hat.”
In the barn, she handed Emily a pail. “Like this. I’ll start breakfast.”
Half an hour passed with no Emily. When Margaret checked, she burst out laughing. Emily, scarf askew, was circling Daisy, muttering, “I’ve looked everywhere!”
After breakfast, Emily sunbathed in the garden while George—who’d dodged chores all week—suddenly took to mowing near the fence, stealing glances.
“Emily, fancy picking raspberries?” Margaret trilled. “Jam and cordial.”
“Of course, Auntie Meg!” Emily chirped.
In the patch, Margaret left her with a bowl. But after chatting with a neighbour (“Wanted a quieter girl,” Margaret fretted; “Give her a chance,” the neighbour urged), she returned to find Emily vanished.
“Emily, where are you?”
“Here!” came a voice from the nettles. Emily emerged, hair tangled with burrs.
“What were you doing in there? That’s the old Haywood place!”
“But the berries are bigger,” Emily grinned, holding up a full bowl.
“Oh, you daft thing,” Margaret sighed, combing burrs from her hair on the porch while Emily shared her past: raised by her gran after her parents died young; waitressing, dishwashing, then a brief stint in modelling before meeting Tom at his office.
Margaret softened. Behind the flashy exterior was a girl who’d known hardship.
That evening over tea, Emily murmured, “Auntie Meg, teach me what you know? It’s so peaceful here…”
Margaret winked at Thomas. “You’ll marry my Tom, then?”
Emily blushed. “He hasn’t asked.”
Thomas laughed. “Sly, Mum. No courting for me, eh?”
“You’ve courted enough,” Margaret huffed. “Emily, if he won’t propose, I’ll find you a proper lad!”
“Thanks, but I love your Tom,” Emily whispered.
Six months later, their wedding echoed through Oakvale. Soon after, Emily confided that Margaret would be a grandmother. Gazing at her daughter-in-law, Margaret realised: appearances deceive. Beneath the feathers and glitter beat a heart as big as Emily’s flamboyant hats.
