Every thing has its season
Margaret Wilson, fresh from retirement, does not sit idle. She belongs to the breed of upbeat optimists who seem to draw energy straight from the sun. She never complains about lifewhats there to moan about? She married for love, had a daughter, and later divorced when her husband wandered off. Out of sight, out of mind, she says, but she still has friends, a beloved job, and a taste for travel.
It is travel that now fills the sudden gap in her days. Not packaged tours, but real, selfplanned trips. She learns to book hostels, map out routes, and hitch rides. A small notebook with contacts who will offer her a nights stay in any corner of the country always rests in her daypack.
One drizzly lateautumn afternoon she heads for a tiny Cotswold village famous for its timber cottages. Rain has been falling since sunrise, turning the lanes into shimmering streams. Slightly damp, Margaret reaches a carved, lowroofed house with a tall porch. She is to be let in by James Turner, an old friend of her late sister, who has agreed to host a stranger for a couple of nights.
The door opens to a tall, slightly stooped man with silverstillthick hair and eyes the colour of a clear autumn sky.
Come in, Margaret, weve been expecting you, he says calmly, as if greeting an old acquaintance.
The house smells of cedar, a warm hearth, and something faintly familiarperhaps homemade apple jam. James is a man of few words. He silently hands her a large flannel towel, places a kettle on the table, and steps back, leaving her to warm herself by the fire.
They spend the evening with tea. Conversation stalls; he is reserved, she feels like a lingerover guest. Yet when the topic turns to travel, a spark lights his eyes.
Ive roamed a lot myself, he says suddenly. Worked as a geologist. Traveled the whole country.
He stands and hands her an old, worn map dotted with notes, route lines, and strange symbols.
This is your life, Margaret states, not asking.
It used to be, he corrects quietly.
The next morning the rain stops. To Margarets surprise, James offers to show her the village. He leads her not down the main streets but through backalleys known only to locals, pointing out the home where a famous painter was born and an abandoned smithy whose door still bears a rusted iron lock. He speaks little, but each word is measured, as if he guards his voice.
Margaret watches him, finds herself genuinely interestednot the brightsunlit squares of Italy nor the noisy bazaars of Asia, but a deeper, calmer curiosity, like the still water of a forest lake.
She had planned to leave in two days, but she changes her mind, saying the itinerary could be altered. James nods without surprise. The following dawn he wakes her.
Lets go, he says. Ill show you something.
They walk a dewslick path through a pine wood. The air is thick and heady. Suddenly the trees part, revealing a glassy lake, motionless and shining like a mirror. The predawn sky reflects in pink and gold. It is so quiet you can hear the earth breathing.
They stand in silence, not awkward but fullfull of the moment, of nature, of unspoken thoughts hovering between them.
After my wife died, I thought life had ended, James says, not looking at her. Lost the purpose in everything. Then you arrived you started talking about how beautiful dawn can be. I suddenly remembered what it feels like to want to see that again. Thats why were here now.
Margaret looks at his strong, workworn hands, the wrinkles at his eyes, the clear calm in his gaze. She says nothing grand. She simply places her hand over his. Warmth meets warmth.
I think Ill stay another day, if thats alright, she says.
He turns, and in his eyes she sees not autumn chill but bright summer sunshine.
Am I opposed? he asks. Im all for it.
They walk back, and the silence between them is now differentdeep and understood, like the smooth surface of a lake. Their hands occasionally brush, the most natural movement in the world.
At home, James, without being asked, begins chopping wood for the fire while Margaret finds flour and a jar of honey in the kitchen.
Fancy some pancakes? she calls out the window.
From the woods comes a soft, approving hum, somewhere between a cough and a chuckle. She starts cooking, surprisingly comfortable in this strangers warm kitchen.
James returns, washes his hands.
It smells heavenly, he says, and to Margaret that is the highest compliment.
She does not stay just a day. A week passes like that first sunrise by the lake. They talk about everything. He shows her his geological journals, sketches of rocks and minerals. She recounts crazy rideshare companions and a night spent in an abandoned chapel in a Yorkshire hamlet. They laughhard, a lot. It is astonishing to find someone whose laughter echoes in your own chest.
But the tickets are bought again, her daughter waits for her back in London, and reality presses in. Two days before she must leave, Margaret sits on the porch watching James mend a birdhouse.
Im leaving soon, she says, testing the words.
He nods, still focused on his work.
I know.
That evening, over dinner, he suddenly sets down his fork.
I have a matter to discuss, Margaret, he says, unusually formal. Theres a littleknown fissure three hours away, where unique rock formations surface. I was planning a trip there Would you accompany me as a hobby guide?
She looks into his most honest eyes and understands its his way of asking her to stay.
How many nights should we pack for? she asks, playing it cool.
As many as you want, he replies, meeting her gaze. The spot is wild, no hotelsjust a tent.
She realizes this is more than an invitation; its an invitation into his world, his silence, his life.
Im free for the next two days, she smiles. Very free.
The next morning they set off in his aging Mini, winding down bumpy lanes that snake between lakes and pines. The wind whistles through the open windows, and the car smells of pine sap, the old dog in the back, and that unmistakable masculine scent of tools and road.
When they reach the edge of the fissure, standing on a steep drop above a turquoise river, Margaret freezes. It isnt just a pretty picture; its power, centuries of silence, and grandeur.
James stands beside her, looking not at the view but at her.
So? he asks softly.
Im staying, James, she whispers, turning toward him. For as long as youll have me.
He smiles.
Am I opposed? he repeats their first joke. Im all for it.
High above the river, under the cries of solitary birds, two retirees who have found each other at lifes crossroads hug tightly, as if afraid to let go of this fragile, unexpected happiness. It arrives lateperhaps too latebut exactly when it is needed.
