**The Fortune**
“Stop sulking. You’ll love it there—sea, beach, sunshine,” Rebecca said, trying to catch her daughter’s eye.
But Emily stubbornly turned to the window, watching the endless fields and low vineyards blur past. The motorway ran parallel to the train tracks, cars speeding like toys in the distance. The silhouette of hills flickered in the morning haze. The glare made her eyes ache. Emily checked her phone for the hundredth time that morning, then tossed it aside in irritation.
*Teenage heartache,* Rebecca thought, sighing. Out loud, she said, “Probably no signal. We’ll be there soon—”
“Mum, enough,” Emily muttered, turning away again.
“The cottage is on a hill. You can see the sea from the windows—sometimes even hear it. And the garden! The air!” Rebecca pressed. “You’ll see for yourself in a few hours.”
“Just don’t tell me she’s got a son,” Emily snapped.
“She does. But not her own. Grace never had children—raised someone else’s boy. He’s studying at university, though. Exams now, so you likely won’t see him.”
“You said she was your friend. How’d you meet if she lives down south and you’re from Surrey?”
“Oh, that’s a story. Want to hear it?”
Emily gave a half-shrug, eyes fixed on the monotonous landscape.
***
Grace and I grew up on neighbouring streets, went to school together. Not a classic beauty, but her hair—light blonde, curly, almost golden in the sun—made people turn their heads. I liked the second-hand attention.
Before A-levels, our class took a boat trip, then strolled through the park. She met a lad there, fell hard. We saw less of each other—I didn’t want to intrude. When we did meet, she’d talk of nothing but him.
She’d dreamed of acting, wanted to study drama in London. But love steered her to engineering school, just to stay near her Michael. I went to uni.
When we met, we’d talk for hours. A year later, Michael proposed—right before exams. Never saw her so happy.
We shopped for dresses with her mum. Grace looked stunning in every one. She insisted I get a blue bridesmaid dress, too. Exhausting. We sent her mum home in a cab and walked along the promenade. Late May, warm as summer.
Grace glowed. Didn’t even notice the stares. We ate ice cream, laughed about wedding plans.
Then two Romani women approached, pestering passersby. One, plump, blocked our path. “Pretty girl, let me tell your fortune,” she crooned.
Her companion stood back—scrawny, sullen, with a mouth too wide for her teeth. Like a horse, I thought. Grace said the same later.
“I know my future,” Grace teased, licking her ice cream.
We tried to sidestep her, but the woman grabbed Grace’s wrist, studied her palm, and clicked her tongue. “A wedding waits, golden one.”
“Obviously,” Grace tugged free.
“We’ve no money for this,” I cut in.
“Good news costs. Bad news comes free,” the woman said, sending shivers down my spine.
Her stare pinned Grace. The younger one smirked—or maybe it was just her gaping mouth.
“Don’t listen. Let’s go,” I urged.
“You’ll love deeply, but briefly. You’ll fall from a horse at your wedding, hurt badly. The sea will heal you. No second marriage—but happiness in a son,” the woman intoned, unblinking.
Then she left. The younger shot us a glare and scurried after.
We walked in silence, joy drained. That woman’s voice clung like static.
“Grace, you believe that? You’re not riding some nag in your dress. We’ve cars booked!” I forced a laugh.
“True. No horses.” Grace shook it off.
“She’s bitter we didn’t pay,” I said lightly, and we laughed—too loud.
The wedding was set right after exams. A seaside honeymoon, gifted by relatives. We forgot the Romani woman.
On the day, as Michael’s arrival neared, Grace adjusted her veil in the mirror and said, “Dad calls his jeep ‘the horse.’ I’m not riding in it.”
“Fine, take another car.”
“No cars. The registry’s close—we’ll walk.”
“Bold. Brides don’t usually parade through town.” We giggled nervously.
Convincing Michael took work. Parents objected. But Grace dug in: walk or no wedding.
Nothing went wrong. They exchanged rings, kissed, became husband and wife. Now they could take the car. But Grace insisted on photos in the park—flowerbeds, arches tangled with ivy.
“Ride the carousel,” the photographer suggested.
Bright, with painted wooden horses. Michael helped Grace onto a white one, mounted another. I draped her veil just so. Music started; the carousel spun. They reached for each other as the camera clicked.
“Mummy, look! A bride on a white horse!” a child squealed.
No one saw it happen. Grace said her dress was slick; she’d barely held on. The shout startled her—one loose grip, and she slipped. Her heel caught between floorboards. She tumbled off.
A scream. Then silence.
Instead of a reception, an ambulance. A shattered ankle. Surgery—botched. A cane, then crutches. Pain, always.
Six months later, they went to a specialist in Manchester. More surgery, more plaster.
***
“Did she recover?” Emily asked.
“Mostly. A slight limp.”
“And Michael?”
“Hospitals wore them down. Grace shut herself in, ashamed of the cane, then crutches. Told him she’d stopped loving him. Divorced. Fear he’d leave first, I suppose.”
“And he left?”
“Married again soon after. First love rarely lasts. Real love endures.”
“I’ll never let anyone read my fortune before a wedding,” Emily muttered.
“Smart. Grace fixated on dodging fate—made it worse. Had she taken the car, skipped the carousel…” Rebecca sighed. “But here we are.”
“Did she remarry?”
“No. After the divorce, her parents took her to the coast. Off-season; hotels closed. They rented a room from a widow by the sea—where we’ll stay.”
The widow’s daughter had run off with a tourist, returned with a son, then vanished again. The widow meant to send the boy to foster care—too old for nappies and tantrums. Grace convinced her to keep him. Refused to go home.
Years later, the widow died. Grace still lives there, raising the boy. The birth mother tried reclaiming him—but the paperwork favoured Grace. He wants nothing to do with her.
Just as foretold: happiness with a son by the sea.
“Why tell me this?” Emily squinted.
“So you ask fewer questions. Life rarely goes as planned. What seems bad… might lead somewhere better. Love’s tested by time—and distance.”
The train slowed. Passengers stirred. Emily checked her phone one last time, stowed it. On the platform, faces peered into windows. A jolt, then stillness.
“We’re here!” Rebecca hauled their bags.
A tall, pleasant lad approached. “Rebecca? I’m Daniel. Mum sent me.” He took their luggage effortlessly, weaving through the crowd. “Recognised you from photos. She’s cooked enough for an army.”
In the taxi, he pointed out landmarks, chatting easily. Here for them, then back to exams tomorrow.
The cottage stood neat on its hill, low fence, sea breeze. Grace limped out, hugging Rebecca. Emily expected the golden-haired beauty from the story—but found a sun-browned woman, hair hidden under a scarf.
Their room was cosy, the sea a blue sheet beyond the window. After lunch, Daniel took Emily to the beach. “Let them talk,” he said.
They returned late, sun-warmed and laughing.
Emily spent days on the sand, tan deepening. Pestered Grace about Daniel’s return. Gradually, her phone lay forgotten.
“Maybe they’ll have better luck than us,” Grace mused once, watching them.
“No fortune-telling. Let them choose their own path,” Rebecca said.
They shared a look—and laughed.
