*You Find It Where You Least Expect*
After celebrating her fiftieth birthday, Agatha decided to take some time off in early May to tend to her countryside cottage without the usual weekend rush. Anthony had insisted too.
“Of course, we’ll move to the cottage together—you can take your time with things, and I’ll come down after work and on weekends.”
“You’re right. We’re not going abroad this year anyway, not after splashing out on my birthday dinner. It was wonderful though, wasn’t it, Tony? Thank you—without you…” Agatha trailed off.
When her leave began, she packed a few things—seedlings, some containers of dinner—and waited for her husband. Finally, he arrived.
“Ready when you are. Load everything into the car, and we’ll eat there.”
As they drove, Anthony dropped an unexpected bombshell.
“This cottage plan is great, but I won’t be able to help much. The boss is sending me on a business trip.”
“How long?”
“Two weeks. But I’ll come the moment I can. Just a nearby city, nothing major.”
By fifty, Agatha had everything one could wish for—a loving husband, stable marriage, grown children, a London flat, a nice car, the cottage, a well-paying job.
And then there was her best friend, Rita. They’d known each other since school, attended the same university, and now worked in the same office. Rita was lively and bold, cycling through men quickly but never finding lasting happiness.
Her misfortunes had started young—pregnant by a schoolmate, her mother had intervened swiftly.
“Rita, we’re going to the hospital,” she’d insisted, barely keeping her composure. “This ends today. You’re going to university, not tying yourself down.”
It was handled discreetly, but the aftermath left Rita unable to have children.
She married twice—first to a quiet, hardworking man who bored her. She cheated, confessed, and he divorced her.
“Rita, what’s wrong with Ian? He’s intelligent, kind! He works hard for *you*,” Agatha would say.
“Too dull. Don’t worry, love—my luck will turn.”
Her second husband, a charming musician named Tyler, swept her off her feet. The parties, the glamour—until the drinking started, then the violence. Rita left.
Agatha felt guilty for her own happiness and even tried matchmaking, but Rita lost interest quickly. By fifty, she was alone but cheerful, with fleeting romances.
At the cottage, Anthony helped unload before leaving for his trip. The next morning, Agatha cleaned thoroughly—she’d be here a month. By lunch, she was done. Peering out, she noticed a man in neighbour Mary’s garden—broad-shouldered, fit, working steadily.
She wandered over. “Lovely day. Haven’t seen Mary—is she ill? I’m Agatha, next door.”
“Afraid so. I’m Oliver, her younger brother. Here on leave, helping out. Pleasure to meet you.”
Oliver wasn’t classically handsome, but his voice was warm. Around fifty, she guessed.
Agatha visited Mary, bringing biscuits and chocolates.
“Oliver’s a godsend,” Mary said. “A colonel, but you’d never know—works like a farmhand.”
The days passed smoothly. Oliver helped Agatha too—Anthony visited briefly but left without lifting a finger. They shared wine in the evenings with Mary and Oliver.
One evening, Agatha suggested, “Mary, why not introduce Rita to Oliver? He’s been alone so long.”
Mary hesitated. “He’s stationed up in Scotland. Would she really follow him?”
Rita arrived unexpectedly a fortnight later, just before Anthony returned.
“Agatha, mind if I stay a week or two? I’m on leave too.”
“Of course! I’ve someone for you to meet.”
Anthony overheard. “Who’s this *someone*?”
“Oliver. He’s decent, reliable.”
“Decent? Just ordinary.”
“*Proper*, more like,” Agatha countered.
Rita, polished and playful, flitted between cottages. Only Mary seemed uneasy but stayed quiet.
The days were lively—gardening for Agatha and Mary, badminton and walks for Anthony and Rita. Oliver joined occasionally but focused on helping Mary. Evenings were spent with wine and barbecues.
Agatha noticed Rita’s efforts to impress Oliver—singing duets, basking in attention. But Oliver remained distant.
As her holiday ended, Agatha grew wistful. The night before leaving, she and Oliver talked deeply—he dodged questions about Rita. She realised: Rita might want him, but he didn’t want her.
The next morning, Anthony drove them back. Two days later, he left for a fishing trip. Agatha remembered—her work documents, even her passport, were still at the cottage.
“Bus it is,” she sighed.
At the cottage gate, Oliver intercepted her.
“Agatha! Felt I’d see you today. Fancy a walk to the lake?” He stood oddly, blocking her view of her own cottage.
“I need my documents—back to work soon.”
“Plenty of time,” he said, too casually.
Then she saw Anthony’s car. Oliver tensed.
“Let them wake up first. They only got in last night.”
But Agatha was already striding inside. The door was unlocked.
In the bedroom, Anthony and Rita slept entwined.
Her legs buckled. She turned slowly.
“*Lock the door*,” she muttered, stepping outside.
Oliver guided her to Mary’s, handing her tea.
“You knew.”
“Couldn’t bear to see you hurt. Rita told me—boasted, really. Asked me to cover for them.”
“And you said nothing?”
“Would you have believed me?”
Mary finally spoke. “I’ve seen it before. Last summer too. That’s why I can’t stand her.”
Oliver took Agatha’s hands.
“Come with me. I’ve been alone too long. These weeks… I can’t imagine life without you. You’re a gift. And I think—I hope—you feel something too.”
Her heart raced. Despite the betrayal, happiness flared.
Mary nodded. “It’s plain you care for him. And God knows Anthony doesn’t deserve you.”
Oliver squeezed her fingers. “No rush. Think it over.”
Agatha exhaled. “No need. I’ll go. Far from this mess.”
The weight lifted.
Soon after, she left with Oliver. Now, in his Highlands home, she’s happier than ever—while Anthony and Rita remain in their tangled chaos.
