Oliver was walking towards the gate of his cottage in the outskirts of York, arm in arm with a stranger.
“Oliver, hello!” called out his neighbour Margaret Wilkins, peering over the fence. “And who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Margaret!” Oliver grinned. “Thought I’d get married. Brought my future missus, Emily.”
Emily worked tirelessly in the garden, and Oliver wasn’t far behind, tending to his beloved. One afternoon, while he was away in town, Margaret leaned over the fence.
“Fancy a cuppa, neighbour?” she asked with a sly grin.
“I’ll pop by,” Emily nodded.
She spent an hour and a half at Margaret’s and returned just before Oliver arrived.
“You seem deep in thought,” he remarked.
Emily only smiled. She already knew the truth.
“Oliver, my love! Who’s this you’ve brought?” Margaret couldn’t hide her curiosity, eyeing the newcomer.
Oliver, guiding his companion, squinted.
“Still keeping watch, Margaret? Decided to tie the knot. This is Emily, the future lady of the house. Got to see if she’s up to the task.”
“Emily, is it?” Margaret nodded. “Lovely name. Oliver’s quite the catch—handy around the house, sharp as a tack. Here for the summer or settling in?”
“Knock it off,” Oliver waved her away, unlocking the gate for Emily.
“Emily, do stop by for tea!” Margaret called after them, chuckling.
“Odd woman,” Emily muttered, stepping inside. “What did she mean, ‘summer’?”
“Pay her no mind,” Oliver dismissed. “Locals hire help seasonally—she’s just fishing. Best not gossip; Margaret’s the queen of rumours.”
The cottage sparkled, only a fine layer of dust settled from winter. Emily marvelled at the tidy curtains, embroidered tablecloth, and napkins.
“Oliver, did you do all this?” She pointed at the neat stitching.
In the kitchen, linen towels hung with delicate embroidery.
“Hardly,” Oliver scoffed. “Plenty tried to snag me before you. Respectable bloke like me, single, propertied—women swarmed. But I waited for you.”
Emily flushed. Oliver was handsome—stocky, silver threading his thick hair, a mischievous glint in his eye. A cottage and a flat in town didn’t hurt.
They’d met at York market. Oliver was picking raspberry canes; Emily hunted dill seeds for her windowsill.
“Take three, love—I’ll knock off a bit,” the vendor coaxed.
“What would I do with so much?” she laughed.
“My garden’s going spare,” Oliver winked beside her. “Fancy a joint venture?”
“And what would your wife say?” Emily eyed him—well-dressed, older, charming.
“Widowed,” he sighed. “But you’ve thawed my heart.”
That’s how it began. A week later, Oliver confessed:
“Emily, you’re so easy to be with. I’m off to the cottage for summer. Join me? We’ll commute together—it’s not far.”
Emily agreed.
“Why not? Kids are grown, only call when they need cash. No husband, not even a cat. Maybe this is fate?”
At the cottage, they quickly dropped formalities. Oliver’s talk of marriage thrilled Emily—and amused Margaret.
All season, Emily toiled—beds sprouted greens, tomatoes ripened in the greenhouse, weeds stood no chance. Oliver dug, fetched water, split logs. To onlookers, they seemed a harmonious couple.
One day, while Oliver was in town, Margaret called:
“Tea, Emily? Or does Oliver forbid it?”
“Of course not,” Emily frowned. “I’ll come.”
She returned pensive.
“You’re quiet,” Oliver noted.
“Just thinking how awful it is to lose someone,” she said, studying him. “Here one day, gone the next.”
“Enough,” he brushed her off. “If it’s about my late wife, that’s ancient history. I’ve got you now—don’t know what I’d do without you!” He hugged her, winking.
Weeks passed; the harvest flourished—cucumbers, carrots, berries. But Oliver grew prickly, nitpicking, never mentioning marriage.
“Why wasn’t the greenhouse shut?” he grumbled one morning.
“Oliver, the night was warm—they’d have wilted!”
“You’re lecturing me?” he snapped. “Like you’ve farmed all your life! Windowsill herbs don’t count!”
“Unfair,” she retorted. “I grew up with a garden. If you prefer, I won’t lift a finger.”
“Fine,” he relented. “Just ask first. Can you make jam? Berries are ready.”
Emily nodded, thinking: *Here we go.* While she stirred jam, Oliver was sweet as pie. Once jars lined the pantry, the sniping resumed. Emily plotted how to salvage some produce.
“Oliver, what’s wrong?” she demanded bluntly.
He glowered, but his phone rang. His face shifted—shock, then dread.
“What is it?”
“They’re draining my accounts!” He scrolled frantically. “The bank’s calling—need to reset my PIN.”
“Oliver, it’s a scam!” she warned. “Don’t give the code!”
“Since when are you a banker?” he sneered. “Know everything, do you?”
“I’m serious!”
“Back off!” he barked. “Pick the tomatoes.”
She walked away, hearing him recite the code. A minute later, a howl erupted:
“Thieves!”
Oliver sat crimson, panting.
“You knew!” he roared. “You’re in on it! They took everything—my car savings!”
“I warned you,” she said coolly.
“Worse—they took a loan!” he moaned. “How will I repay it?”
“How much?”
He named a sum. For Emily, it was manageable—but she’d not hand it over freely. Recalling Margaret’s words, she hatched a plan.
“I’ll cover the loan,” she said evenly. “But you’ll sell me the cottage for that price.”
“Are you mad?” he spluttered. “It’s worth triple!”
“Best of luck,” she shrugged. “By the time you sell, interest will bury you. The bank will take the flat too.”
She was bluffing, but Margaret’s revelation changed everything: *”You’re decent, Emily. Oliver’s never marrying. He lures women here each summer—promises weddings, works them ragged, then picks fights and boots them out. Teach him a lesson.”*
“Sell the cottage, or I leave,” Emily repeated, hefting a basket of veg.
“Add a little more!” he begged.
“Goodbye.” She turned.
“Fine!” he hissed.
At the solicitor’s, papers were signed swiftly. Emily transferred the sum, clearing the debt. Back at the cottage, she packed Oliver’s things, leaving a basket of veg and jam on the porch—”for old times’ sake.” The lock was changed; she knew he’d return.
“Emily, tea?” Margaret called, spotting the new bolt.
“Come to mine,” Emily smiled. “Housewarming. I’m the landlady now.”
