**Where You Least Expect It**
After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take a holiday at the start of May, eager to tend to her cottage garden at a leisurely pace, free from the usual weekend rush. Anthony had insisted.
“Of course, we’ll move to the cottage. You can potter about as you like, and I’ll come down after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right—we’re not going abroad this year, not after splashing out on the birthday dinner. But it was wonderful, Tony, thank you. If it weren’t for you…” Agatha sighed.
When the holiday arrived, she packed a few things—seedlings, clothes—and waited for her husband. Finally, he pulled up in the car.
“Ready when you are. Load everything up, and we’ll have supper there. I’ve brought containers.”
As they drove through the countryside, Anthony dropped a bombshell.
“This cottage plan was a good idea, but I won’t be much help. Work’s sending me on an unexpected trip.”
“For long, Tony?”
“Two weeks. But I’ll come down the moment I can. Just a short trip, the boss says—only to Manchester.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything one could want—a good husband, stability, grown children, a spacious London flat, a reliable car, the cottage, and a well-paying job.
Then there was her oldest friend, Beatrice, whom she told everything. Childhood classmates, university mates, now colleagues. Beatrice was vivacious, sharp, unlucky in love. Men came and went, leaving only disappointment.
Her misfortunes began at eighteen, when she found herself pregnant by a schoolmate.
“Beatrice, we’re going to the hospital,” her mother had insisted, barely keeping her composure. “This ends now. You’re going to university, not throwing your life away.”
It was done quietly, through connections. Beatrice enrolled, but the procedure left its mark—children were never an option.
She married twice. The first, a quiet, intellectual man, bored her. Restless, she strayed, confessed, and he left.
“Beatrice, what’s wrong with Edward? He’s kind, intelligent—works hard for you!” Agatha had pressed.
“Oh, he’s dull. Don’t fret, darling—my time will come.”
Her second husband was a charmer, a singer she’d met at a concert. He swept her off her feet with serenades and wild nights—banquets, drink, a whirlwind of people. But soon, he was spending weekends without her, coming home drunk. When he raised a hand, she walked out.
Agatha tried to console her.
“Beatrice, you’re looking in the wrong places. You need someone steady, reliable…”
Guilt gnawed at Agatha for her own happiness. She even introduced Beatrice to men, but they bored her. So, at fifty, Beatrice was alone but unbroken—still bright, still hopeful, though her romances never lasted.
At the cottage, Anthony helped unload before leaving the next morning for his “business trip.” Agatha threw herself into cleaning—she’d stay the whole month, relishing the solitude. By noon, she was done, peering out the window for their neighbour, Margaret. No sign.
But rounding the corner to tidy the shed, she spotted a man in Margaret’s garden—broad-shouldered, sturdy, working methodically. Curious, she wandered over.
“Good afternoon! Is Margaret unwell? I’m Agatha, from next door.”
“Afraid so—resting inside. I’m Oliver, her younger brother. On leave, helping out. Pleasure to meet you.” His voice was warm.
Agatha liked him—not classically handsome, but solid. Fiftyish, perhaps.
“I’ll pop in to see her. It’s been too long.”
Inside, Margaret brightened. “Agatha! I knew you’d come down soon.”
“Here for the month. Anthony’s away, but he’ll visit. Oh—met your brother. He’s a wonder!”
“Bless him, turning up just in time. My back’s given out. Oliver’s a colonel, but you’d think he was born to farm!”
Work flew by next door. Oliver lent Agatha a hand, though Anthony’s weekend visit was brief—just wine in the gazebo with the neighbours before he vanished again.
“Agatha, I’ve got leave after this trip,” he’d said cheerfully.
By his return, the garden was immaculate—hedges trimmed, beds dug, seedlings planted, all thanks to Oliver.
“Margaret, what if we introduced Beatrice to Oliver? He’s been alone so long…”
“Beatrice?” Margaret hesitated. She’d never liked her. “Well, if you insist. But he’s stationed in Scotland—would she really follow? Think he’d fancy her?”
“Who knows? But he’s steady, decent—a widower. She’d be safe with him.”
Two weeks later, Beatrice arrived unannounced. Anthony returned the next day.
“Agatha, mind if I stay a fortnight? I’ve taken leave too.”
“Of course not! I’ve someone for you to meet—a lovely man.”
Anthony’s ears pricked. “Which neighbour’s this?”
“Oliver. He’s wonderful.”
“Wonderful? He’s perfectly ordinary.”
“Ordinary? He’s real. Dependable.”
Beatrice, polished and playful in her designer athleisure, flitted between cottages, lifting spirits—though Margaret sometimes shook her head, too polite to speak her mind.
Days passed lazily. Agatha, Margaret, and Oliver gardened; Anthony and Beatrice played badminton, wandered the woods, half-heartedly gathered mushrooms. Oliver joined them occasionally, though his priority was Margaret.
Evenings were wine and laughter in the gazebo, barbecue smoke curling into twilight. Agatha noticed Beatrice’s efforts to charm Oliver—duets by the fire, lingering glances. But Oliver remained polite, distant.
As Agatha’s holiday waned, melancholy set in. Oliver had two weeks left. They talked often—though he deflected questions about Beatrice. Clearly, she hadn’t won him.
The night before departure, Agatha lingered at Margaret’s, deep in conversation with Oliver while Anthony and Beatrice strolled off. A thought startled her—she didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to hand Oliver to Beatrice. But…
Saturday came. Anthony drove them back to London—Agatha to work in three days, Beatrice to her empty flat. The next morning, Anthony announced a fishing trip with mates and was gone.
Then Agatha remembered—her documents, passport included, were still at the cottage.
“Bus it is,” she muttered, packing a bag.
At the cottage gates, Oliver appeared like a spectre.
“Agatha! I had a feeling I’d see you. Fancy a walk to the lake?” He stepped subtly, blocking her view of the house.
“I need my papers. Work on Tuesday.”
“Plenty of time. No hurry.” His tone was odd.
Then she saw Anthony’s car. Oliver stiffened.
“Wait, Agatha. Let them wake up first.”
But she was already at the door—unlocked. Inside, Anthony and Beatrice lay tangled in sleep.
Her legs buckled. She turned slowly.
“Lock the door next time,” she whispered, stepping back into the light.
Oliver guided her to Margaret’s, tea in hand.
“You knew.”
“Couldn’t bear to see you hurt. No business trip—they’ve been at it for weeks. Beatrice bragged about it. Asked me to cover for them.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would you have believed me?” Oliver sighed. “Two choices: be your shoulder, or punch his teeth in. Your pick.”
Margaret stayed silent.
“No tears. Just rage.” Agatha’s voice was steel.
“Then come with me,” Oliver said quietly. “I’ve been alone too long. These weeks… I can’t imagine life without you now. Maybe I’m your second chance. Maybe you’re mine.”
Her heart hammered. Despite the betrayal, joy flickered.
“Agatha,” Margaret cut in, “we’ve all seen it. You care for him. And that husband of yours? He’s brought Beatrice here before. I’ve held my tongue too long.”
Oliver took her hand. “No rush. Think it over.”
She exhaled. “No thinking. I’m done with this nightmare. I’ll go.”
The weight lifted.
Weeks later, Agatha left with Oliver for Scotland. Now, she tends their highland home while he serves his post. Happiness, it seems, was waiting where she least expected it.
