Johnathan Whitaker was a lifelong bachelor. He lived quietly, his solitude never weighing on him. He worked like a carthorse, tirelessly, and loved his job. Perfection was his habit—order in all things. Yet no matter how many women he met, none ever measured up. That summer, at the end of July, he finally took leave, craving an escape from the grind. He scoured the internet and posted an advert.
A woman from a coastal village replied—a mother of two. Twenty minutes’ walk from the sea, far from the tourist traps, a private room, and in exchange for groceries, she’d cook him proper home meals. Tempted, he agreed. The journey was smooth, the satnav reliable. The house was old but tidy, his room cosy, the hostess warm. A tiny Yorkshire Terrier scampered about the yard. The garden bore ripening fruit, while the children—a boy and girl, nine or ten—bustled with chores. The woman, Abigail, never pestered him, only asked what he’d like for supper, piled his plate with strawberries, and smiled sweetly.
Johnathan spent his days at the shore—swimming, clambering over cliffs, snapping photos, messaging an old mate on Facebook. Sometimes he wondered how a woman of fifty had such young children. The question gnawed until he asked.
“Abigail, are these your grandchildren?”
“No,” she said. “Mine. Latecomers. Life didn’t pan out—no marriage—so I thought, why not? And I’m not that old—forty-eight.”
As they talked, he studied her—gentle, kind, her smile easy. He liked her name. Abigail. Abby. His mother’s name. She smelled of strawberries and butter. The homemade elderberry wine was rich, the evenings cool, the sky thick with stars. Neither played coy—they were adults. By day, nothing changed. By night, he’d slip to her side of the house, then creep back before dawn. The children mustn’t wake. The little dog never barked at him, just watched slyly, as if understanding. A good mutt—efficient. A few spoonfuls of food, yet she guarded the yard faithfully. Millie, they called her.
Soon, Millie joined him at the beach, even swam beside him. She’d shake off, dry in the sun, then dash home ahead of him. He’d follow. But one day, she didn’t come. He searched, shouted, plastered the village with flyers. Where had the dog gone? The elderly neighbour muttered about outsiders—those renting at the far end of the village. He marched there, only to learn they’d left an hour prior, heading for the motorway with a small dog.
Johnathan bolted to his car and gave chase. Eighty miles later, he cut them off. Two brash young women spilled from the Jeep.
“Move your bloody car!” one shrieked. “We’ll call the police!”
“Call them,” he said. “But first, return my dog.”
“Yours?” the taller one sneered. “She was stray—we rescued her.”
“She’s not stray. She’s got a family. Not yours.”
“Sod off!” the other screamed. “Move or we’ll smash your windows!”
Johnathan circled the Jeep. “Millie! Millie, girl!” A flurry of barks erupted. Millie scrabbled at the cracked window. The women clawed at him, swearing, swinging. He froze—he couldn’t hit them.
A traffic officer arrived—pudgy, sweating, wincing at the screeching. He scooped Millie up.
“Quiet! Whoever the dog goes to, keeps her. No papers? Then let her choose.”
“Bella! Sweetheart!” The women waved sausage, cooing. “Come to mummy!”
“Let’s go home, Millie,” Johnathan said.
The officer set her down. Millie tore to Johnathan, tail whipping, barking wildly.
“Sorted,” the officer grunted.
“No! She’s ours!” they wailed. “You can’t take her!”
“Listen,” the officer growled. “Leave now, or I’ll check your insurance, fire extinguisher, first-aid kit—count every pill in it. Your car’s filthy. And I’ll run the plates for theft. The database is back at the station…”
The Jeep vanished.
Johnathan shook the officer’s hand. “Thank you.”
“Don’t mention it. Got a terrier myself. Nippy little sod. Wears a jumper in winter—prone to chills. Good breed, though. Loyal.” He tipped his cap. “Safe drive.”
Back in the car, Millie curled on his lap—small, warm, her coat like velvet. A rare contentment settled over him. The road hummed, the engine purred. Then, abruptly—he’d have to leave soon. No one waited in his empty flat. A thought flickered—turn around. Take Millie home. What stuff? A few shirts, socks, a tracksuit. He sighed, noted the idea, and drove back to Abigail.
The final week rained. Still, he swam. Millie followed. Nights, he stole to Abby’s room. Mornings, his heart grew heavier. On his last day, the sun blazed. He packed early, gifted Abigail perfume, left his number, and slid behind the wheel.
He accelerated slowly, resigning himself—the holiday was over, the fling done. Back to routine. Then—movement in the rearview. Millie. Racing after him. He sped up. She ran faster. He pressed the pedal.
The tiny dog faltered, lagged, vanished. He braked hard. Stepped out, lit a cigarette, hands trembling. He smoked it down, stubbed it out, and scanned the road. A speck in the distance. He sprinted—praying no car would crush her. He hadn’t run like this in years.
Millie charged toward him, dust clinging to her fur, tongue, even her ears. Her tail wagged weakly. She tried to bark but only sneezed. He scooped her up, wiped her clean, cupped water from a bottle for her. Then he called Abigail.
“Your dog’s with me. She chased the car. Don’t worry—I’ll bring her back.”
“Keep her, if you want. I found her days before you came—tossed from a van near the shop.”
“Truly?”
“Truly.”
So he kept her.
Six months later, at the faculty, he overheard a hushed exchange:
“Have you seen the vice-chancellor’s new wife?”
“Some out-of-towner, they say. Middle-aged, kids, a dog.”
“Surprised she didn’t bring chickens. What’s her trick? Love potion?”
Johnathan stepped forward. The women flustered.
“Professor Whitaker! We were just wondering—what’s your wife’s secret?”
“You want to know?”
“Oh, do tell! Was there a potion?”
“There was. Strongest kind. Truest.”
“And she won’t share?”
“No,” he laughed. “Can’t be shared.”
He left them then—headed home. To Abigail. To the children. To Millie.
✍ Elena Andriyash.
