The stifling city air weighed heavily on Eleanor the day the letter arrived. The envelope, yellowed with age, carried the scent of salt and the seaand something faintly familiar, like the whisper of childhood. With trembling fingers, she broke the wax seal and unfolded the parchment. Her grandmother, Margaret, had left her the old house by the Cornish coast, the very one where shed spent her happiest summers.
Eleanors heart raced, joy and sorrow mingling. She could almost feel the warm sand beneath her bare feet, hear the crash of waves, and see her grandmothers gentle smile as she welcomed her at the door.
She dialed Gregory at once. His voice crackled through the receiver, distant and impatient, as if shed interrupted something far more important.
“Gregory, I must go,” she said, steadying her voice. “Grandmothers willshes left me the house by the sea.”
A beat of silence. Then, “That old place? Practically crumbling, isnt it?”
“Its not crumbling!” she snapped. “Its grand, full of history. You rememberI spent every summer there as a girl. My parents would send me off without a second thought because Grandmother Margaret adored me. Shed hold my hand as we walked to the shore when I was small, and later, Id race there with the village children. Wed pack sandwiches and apples and stay till dusksun, waves, laughter…”
“And how long will you be gone?” His crisp, businesslike tone yanked her back to the smog-choked city.
“I dont know, but certainly not a weekend,” she sighed. “I need to settle things. I havent been back since my second year at Oxford. Its been three years since I graduated. Ill take leave. And you” She hesitated, pouring hope into her words. “You could join me later. Its only a days journey. Leave at dawn, and youd be here by evening. Take a few daysunpaid, if you mustand well rest. By the sea.”
“Cant say Ive missed the sea,” came his flat reply. “Fine, Ill see how work goes…”
The words hung heavily. He would “see”just as he always did, always choosing his work over her.
Three days later, Eleanor packed her trunks, her heart fluttering with anticipationand the quiet hope that Gregory might change his mind, drive her to the station, kiss her goodbye, and promise to follow. Instead, three hours before her train, his call came.
“Eleanor, I cant take you. Urgent matters. Youll manage a cab, wont you?” His voice held a false note.
“Of course,” she said, the hurt thick in her throat. “Dont trouble yourself.”
The cab ride passed in a blur. The city bid her farewell with indifferent grey skies. Thenher heart lurched. At a crossing stood his carriage. And not just standing. Gregory, her Gregory, was gallantly assisting a slender young woman in a flowing summer frock onto the pavement. They smiled, exchanged words, and vanished into a cosy tea house.
“Stop here!” she cried, voice shaking. “Ill pay the farelet me out!”
She stumbled from the cab, her feet unsteady. Fury and pain rose like a tide. She flung open the tea house door and froze. There they sat, bent over a shared menu, fingertips nearly touching.
“Hello,” she said, her voice sharp as frost. “How terribly busy you are. Ive only one thing to saygoodbye. And dont call again. Ever.”
She turned and left, ignoring his sputtered protests. Back in the cab, she clenched her fists until her nails bit into her palms.
The journey passed in a hazefirst the cab, then the stuffy train carriage, then another cab winding down country lanes. Anger and despair churned inside her. Traitor. Liar. Nothing.
The surly driver finally halted before wrought-iron gates tangled with ivy. “Here you are,” he muttered.
Eleanor paid and hauled her trunks out. The driver called after her, “Give a shout if you need” but he was already gone, leaving her alone before the gates.
The silence was profound. The air, thick with the scent of heather and salt, carried the dust of years. She fumbled with the heavy ring of antique keysher grandmothers giftand at last, the rusted padlock clicked open.
The gates groaned inward. The garden was wild, Grandmothers flowerbeds overrun with defiant blooms. She strode to the oak door, its lock stiff with disuse. After a struggle, it yielded with a sigh.
Inside, the house stood frozen in time. No scent of baking, no dried herbs hanging from the rafters. The grand hall soared upward, its carved staircase just as she rememberedthe banisters shed once licked, much to her mothers dismay. Stained glass cast jeweled light upon the worn floorboards.
“Its all mine now,” she whispered. “Thank you, Grandmother. Now I have my own house. And my own sea.”
Room by room, she wandered, brushing dust from furniture. The parlour with its great hearth, where she and Grandmother had toasted crumpets on winter nights. The dining room with its massive oak table. The sideboard held Grandmothers prized porcelaindelicate as eggshell, painted in cobalt. A cup bore the inscription: “1890.”
A sharp bang upstairs startled her. Probably a loose shutter. She climbed the steps, heart thudding. Grandmothers bedroom was just as she rememberedthe enormous four-poster bed, its silk canopy faded. She sank onto it, sending up a cloud of dust.
Thena knock at the door.
Her pulse leapt. Who could it be? She unbolted the door to find a kindly-faced woman.
“Hello, Eleanor,” the woman smiled. “Remember me?”
Through the wrinkles, Eleanor recognized Mrs. Thorne, mother of her childhood friend, Lydia.
“Mrs. Thorne! However did you know I was here?”
“Saw the gate unlatched. Knew the mistress was home. Your grandmother asked me to keep an eye on the place. And my Lydiamarried hastily and moved to Bristol. Its just me and my son now. Remember Edmund?”
Eleanor nodded. Edmundthe older brother whod seemed so aloof. Hed left the village years ago.
“Well, hes back now. If you need anything, just ask. Staying long?”
“Im not sure. Just on holiday for now.”
“Come by if you need help. Edmunds handyfixes things.” Mrs. Thorne studied her. “Youve your grandmothers look about you.”
The days passed in a whirl of cleaning. The house was vast, the dust oppressive. One task loomed largestthe crystal chandelier in the parlour, shrouded in cobwebs.
She called on Mrs. Thorne. “How ever did Grandmother clean that chandelier?”
“Oh, that old thing! Edmund will helphes just back from the smithy.”
Soon, a tall, broad-shouldered man stood at her door. His face was weathered, his eyes warm with laughter.
“Hullo,” he grinned. “Youre the Eleanor who pinched all our apples?”
She laughed. “Guilty. And you must be Edmund?”
“Right you are.” He hefted a ladder. “Now, wheres this monster of a chandelier?”
They worked together, polishing each crystal drop until it gleamed. Edmund joked, reminisced, and for the first time in years, the house rang with laughter.
When the chandelier sparkled, he climbed down. “Whats next?”
“The whole second floor.”
“Let me help. Youll be at it till midnight otherwise.”
By dusk, the house was clean. “Im starved,” Edmund declared. “Fancy the village pub?”
Over supper, he regaled her with tales. Later, they walked along the cliffs, the sea warm as milk. At the gate, he bid her goodnight.
She fell into bed, weary but contentuntil the phone shrilled. Gregory.
“Eleanor! Hows the house? The sea far?”
Her voice turned to ice. “Its perfect. Why do you ask?”
“I miss you. Ill come down. Send the address.”
She thought of Edmunds honest smile. Of Gregory in the tea house. And her grandmothers voice in her dream: “Make the right choice.”
“Dont bother,” she said coldly. “Were done. Goodbye.”
She hung up, the choice clear. Not between city and seabut between the past and something true.
Time passed.
Eleanor made the house her home, found work nearby. The old walls echoed with laughter again. She married Edmund in a quiet ceremony on the terrace, the sea their witness.
Now, they stood together under the stars, her hand resting on the gentle swell of her belly. Their child.
She looked at the sea, at the man beside her, and whispered, “Thank you, Grandmother.”
Somewhere inside, a crystal pendant chimed softly in reply.
