A woman lives in a lovely cottage. Nearby, hydrangeas and petunias bloom in the flowerbeds, their vibrant purple hues almost overwhelming in their beauty.
She curls up on the garden swing, legs tucked beneath her, lost in a book. The scent of a baking apricot tart drifts from the oven, mingling with the minty freshness of the bushes—it smells like heaven itself.
She always knows when he’s coming. That morning, she kneaded the dough, dreaming up new fillings for her pies. Potatoes, sauces, hearty stews—none of that ever appealed to her. The magic was in the dough, how it yielded perfectly to her deft hands.
Funny, really. Once, it was her grandmother who baked. Now it’s her. And she’s certainly no grandmother.
He never knows when he’ll visit. Time passes, and then—sharp as a needle—he needs her. He always calls on the way.
He has nothing and no one left. Just a past littered with two failed marriages, a son, a move to another town, belongings stuffed in the boot of his car, and the slow climb out of a pit of anger and despair.
They met at a beach barbecue, of all places. Strangers in a crowd. His mate dragged him along; her sister persuaded her. Neither wanted to be there. So they sat apart, two outsiders at a celebration they hadn’t asked for. Then he asked her to dance. And for some reason, he bought her a single red rose from a flower girl. Later, he drove her home across the city.
Everything tangled after that. And he panicked. Why torment his heart all over again?
Yet every time the emptiness becomes unbearable, he gets in the car and goes. Just to bury his face in her hair and whisper, “Well, hello…”
Lately, he’s started wondering if he could stay. Live here, properly.
Once, he even told her. Her eyes flickered briefly—hope, then caution—before she murmured, “Whatever you want. Whatever you decide.”
Every parting aches like a fresh wound. He’ll reach the gate, stop, glance back. Return to kiss her once more. Try to leave again. Fail again.
He regrets meeting her so late. He’s grateful he met her at all.
She pours tea into a tall mug, slices the tart, and sits across from him. Nothing extraordinary. His life has known wild passions and feverish nights. Yet here he is, craving this quiet love—scented with mint and strawberry jam. Or raspberry. Or blackberry. The long talks till dawn. The curve of her hip. Her sleepy smile. Her breath in his ear through phone lines and satellites.
This time, he doesn’t wait for the weekend. He calls from the road, as always. Turns off his phone, turns up the music—and never hears the crash.
She’ll never know he was coming to stay.
He’ll never know his daughter has his piercing blue eyes.
