*”We’re on first-name terms now,”* murmured Thomas close to her ear. Emily felt his breath against her temple, sending a shiver down her spine.
“Charlotte, could you check the corridor? I was hoping to leave early today—my mother’s birthday,” said Emily.
“Right away, Dr. Hart,” replied the young, cheerful nurse, rising from her desk. She peeked into the hallway. “All clear, Dr. Hart. And all the appointments are done—I’ve checked,” she added with a smile.
“Good. If anyone comes, book them for tomorrow or send them next door to Dr. Whitmore.”
“Go ahead, I’ll handle things here—don’t worry,” Charlotte reassured her. “The clinic director’s away, so if anything comes up, I’ll cover for you.”
“Thank you. What would I do without you?” Emily grabbed her bag, glanced at her desk to ensure she hadn’t forgotten her phone, and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow, Charlotte.”
“Goodbye, Dr. Hart. Oh—you’d better hurry, the sky’s gone dark. Looks like rain.”
“Really? And I still need to stop by the florist. Well, I’m off then,” Emily said, already stepping into the corridor.
She changed swiftly, slipping on her raincoat on the stairs.
“Dr. Hart, are you leaving already?” An elderly woman stopped her by the reception desk.
“Hello. Could it wait till tomorrow? I’m in a bit of a rush,” Emily replied, adjusting her collar as she moved toward the exit.
“Dr. Hart, little Sophie only listens to you. She’s been crying nonstop—would you just talk to her?” The woman followed anxiously.
“I’ve got a late clinic tomorrow—I’ll call on you after my rounds. Right now, I really must go—sorry.”
Stepping outside, Emily descended the clinic steps and looked up. A vast black cloud loomed over the city, its weight pressing low as though it might scrape the rooftops before bursting open in a downpour.
At the flower stall, the first heavy drops splashed her shoulders. Just as she ducked under the awning, the rain intensified.
“Don’t worry, I’ll wrap the bouquet tight,” said the florist.
As the woman encased Emily’s mother’s favourite chrysanthemums in crisp cellophane, Emily watched anxiously as buses pulled away from the stop one after another. Finally, she took the bouquet, paid, and dashed toward the shelter, shielding her head with the flowers.
The rain was relentless. The stop stood empty except for her. At least there was a roof. She’d forgotten her umbrella and was thoroughly drenched by the time she reached it.
Still no bus. She should have waited inside, spoken to Sophie’s grandmother—too late for regrets now. Shivering, she stepped deeper under the awning. Cars sprayed arcs of water from the swelling puddles as they rushed past.
*Where’s it got to? Of all times for a breakdown…* She peered down the road. Then a black Range Rover pulled up to the curb. Emily couldn’t help a flicker of envy—how nice it would be to have a car, never to wait for a bus again…
The passenger window slid down, revealing a man inside. It took her a moment to realize he was addressing her.
“Get in. There’s been an accident—the buses are gridlocked.”
Hesitating only briefly, Emily climbed in when he opened the door. The interior was warm and dry, the drumming rain now muted.
“Where to?” he asked, glancing at her.
Close to her age, handsome in a tailored suit. She flushed. *I must look like a drowned rat.*
“Willow Lane,” she said.
“Perfect—I’m heading that way.”
His confidence was palpable. Hardly the sort to give lifts to strangers—he had the air of someone who belonged onscreen, playing romantic leads. The car eased forward, the scent of leather and his expensive cologne wrapping around her. A soft chime sounded.
“Seatbelt,” he reminded her.
Fumbling with the clasp, she finally secured it, then adjusted the flowers on her lap.
“Why did you stop for me?” she asked, watching the wipers sweep rhythmically across the windshield.
“Told you—the buses are stuck. And you had flowers—clearly on your way somewhere important. Besides, we’re going the same way.” He cast her a quick look.
*This doesn’t happen. Men like him don’t pick up ordinary women.* She bit back the remark.
“Your face is familiar. Have we met? I never forget one,” he said, breaking the silence.
“Unlikely,” Emily scoffed. “We’re from different worlds, as they say.”
She felt his assessing gaze.
“Your type doesn’t ride buses. I’m just a humble GP,” she added, a touch sharply.
He didn’t reply. The quiet stretched, and she regretted her tone.
“Aha. Two months ago—my granddaughter’s check-up at your clinic.”
“*You?*” She stared. “I’d have remembered.”
“Look too young to be a granddad? Truth—my daughter had her at seventeen.”
“Takes after someone, then,” Emily retorted.
“Feisty. I could tell you were strict—no-nonsense.”
“And that’s bad?”
“Depends,” he demurred. “Did you use to live on Willow Lane?”
“Yes.”
“Attended St. Mary’s?”
“How did you—”
“Same here. Odd we never crossed paths.” His quick glance made her flush.
“What year did you graduate?”
“’Ninety-seven.”
“I was 2000,” she said, oddly pleased.
“Top of the class, I’ll bet. Too busy studying to notice boys—dreamed of med school, saving lives. Am I right?”
She opened her mouth to snipe back, but her mother’s house came into view.
“Turn into that driveway. Second entrance, please.”
“Sorry—can’t get you closer without stepping into a puddle,” he said. “Let me help—” He opened his door, but she was already out, dashing toward the building.
When she glanced back, the Range Rover was pulling away. Too late, she realized she hadn’t thanked him.
Inside, the flat smelled of vanilla. Her mother gasped at the flowers.
“Oh, you’re soaked! Get into dry slippers—tea’s ready. I’ve made your favourite cake…”
“Where are your friends?” Emily peered into the empty parlour.
“Didn’t invite anyone. We meet often enough—pensions being what they are. Just us tonight.” Her mother poured tea. “Who drove you? A new admirer?”
“You were watching? Just a stranger—the buses weren’t running.”
“Handsome.”
“Since when do you see that well?”
“I’m not blind,” her mother huffed.
They ate cake, then moved to the sofa. Warm and drowsy, Emily barely heard her mother’s usual refrain—*find a man, move on, have a baby…*
“Mum, don’t start. I’m fine—I see enough children at work.” She rested her head on her mother’s shoulder.
She woke to darkness. Her mother knitted under the lamplight, the TV murmuring.
“I fell asleep.”
“I made up your old room.”
Emily lingered, reluctant to leave. Curled in bed later, she replayed the drive. *Dream on. He’s out of your league.*
For a week, her pulse raced each time she left work—but the Range Rover never appeared.
*You sent him away. Serves you right.*
Then, on Friday, rain fell again. The bus shelter was crowded. A woman tapped her arm.
“Dear—is that car honking at you?”
Emily lifted her umbrella—and there it was. Her heart leapt as the door swung open.
“Forgive me. Business kept me away,” Thomas said, smiling. “But today—rain, and I wanted to see you.”
*Ah yes—we’re on first-name terms now.* The scents of leather and cologne enveloped her.
“I’m sorry I threw you out. I’ve forgotten how to… men like you… I barely cook anymore… I don’t—”
“How do you know what I want?” he interrupted. “Dinner first. Then we’ll talk.”
Over wine, he mentioned tickets to Covent Garden.
“You’ve never been?”
“Tomorrow at two. You’re off—I checked. No pressure. Just… let me do this for you. And enough about being ‘different.’ We grew up streets apart. Maybe I’ve been luckier, but I want you exactly as you are.”
Some women wait a lifetime to hear such words. But sometimes—against the odds—luck strikes twice.
My mother-in-law remarried at fifty-six, meeting her husband at a friend’s birthday. They retired to Spain. She always said life began anew at fifty-six.
Here’s to luck—and love.
