Seven long years had passed since the earth embraced Lydias body. Seven years of silence, ringing louder than any music, and loneliness that clung to the walls like the scent of woodsmoke. Stepheneveryone called him Steviewas left alone at sixty-three. Not old, not young, as if stuck between two shores: behind him, a life once full of love; ahead, only the quiet, joyless drift toward an inevitable end.
God hadnt spared him health. His body, hardened by years of farm work, still held strength, but his soul was broken and hollow. Lydia had faded slowly, painfully, and hed cared for her until her last breath, until the final tear slid down her withered cheek. Then she was gone, leaving him alone in this wide world. Theyd had no children, so theyd lived heart to heart in their own little universe, bounded by the lanes of their village.
Hed grown used to Lydia being the sun of his small world. Her warmth filled the house, her light made it a home. Her hands cooked the richest stews, baked pies with pastry so light it melted on the tongue. She ran the household: the dairy cow, the chickens, a calf fattened each year so theyd have their own meat come winter. The garden was her kingdom, ruled by neat rows of carrots, onions, and potatoes. His work was the heavy laborplowing, digging, mending what broke. He was the outer wall; she, the heart of their fortress.
A man gets used to anything. Stevie got used to the silence. At first, it pressed on him, rang in his ears, made him jump at every creak of the floor. Then it became background noise. Dull? Yes. Unbearably empty? Absolutely. But what could he do? That was fates will, and you dont argue with fate.
The village women, of course, had noticed him. Stevie was a fine figure, a hard worker, his house well kept, and childlesswhich in the village was like winning the lottery. They sent matchmakers, dropped hints, some even bold enough to propose starting a family. But he brushed them off like bothersome flies.
“I miss my Lydia,” hed explain, staring past their heads into the emptiness. “Shes up there, watching. She wouldnt approve of another woman in her home, shadowing her memory.”
But in the quiet of his thoughts, he reasoned differently: “To live together, there must be at least a spark. A drop of fondness. And there isnt any. Maybe Im not ready yet. My soul hasnt moved on.”
After Lydias death, hed sold the cowwhat use was so much milk to one man? A fine Jersey she was, giving two pails a day. He sold her to a neighbor, guilt twisting inside him as if hed betrayed another living thing tied to Lydia. But he kept raising a calf each summerfor meat. So he lived: his own meat, his eggs, milk borrowed or bought from the neighbors, sometimes given out of pity by Annie next door, who watched him with silent sympathy.
Stevie walked with a limp. Years ago, a stubborn horse had broken his leg. The bone set crooked, but hed shrugged it offno time for fussing. The limp became part of him, and in recent years, a cane appearedoak, carved, a gift from Lydia. No one minded his uneven gait now; it was just how things were.
That day, he sat at the kitchen table, alone, ladling freshly made stew into a deep bowl. Summer heat hung heavy, the air shimmering over the fields. The door to the porch stood wide open, letting in lazy waves of scorched air. Suddenly, a shadow crossed the sunlight on the floor.
“Afternoon, Stevie! Just popped indoor was open, so I thought, why not?” The booming voice of Arthur, his neighbor two doors down, filled the room. Arthur was younger, brimming with energy and plans Stevie couldnt fathom.
“Afternoon,” Stevie grunted. “Fancy some stew? Just off the stove. Chop some spring onions inwont regret it. Join me.”
“Dont mind if I do! Love your stew. Hot as it is, a warm meals always welcome. Well cool off after!”
Between mouthfuls, Arthur eyed Stevie slyly.
“Been thinking, Stevietime you remarried. No life for a man, stirring pots alone. A wifed cook your meals, warm your bed, well you know.”
“You playing matchmaker now?” Stevie smirked. “Found me a bride?”
“Why not? How longll you mourn? Youre still fitcould have your pick!”
“A wife isnt just a body,” Stevie said quietly but firmly. “Must be soul to soul. To understand without words. One look, and you know.”
“Oh, soul!” Arthur waved a hand. “Youre past seventy! Whats soul got to do with it? At your age, its about having someone to tend you, fetch your tea. Think ahead!”
“Ahead?” Stevie set down his spoon, staring straight at him. “You think Im some doddering fool, ready to shack up with the first woman wholl have me? No, Arthur. Ive still got choices. And Ill live as I please.”
“Didnt mean it like that! No offense,” Arthur backpedaled. “Just looking out for you. Got an aunt, Agatha. Next county over, village by the lake. Firecracker of a womannot old, sharp as a tack. Keeps pigs, geese, a calf. Handsome, too. Names Agatha! I visited lately. Lively, full of life, and alone. Fancy a trip? Meet her. Like herjob done. Bring her back. Eh?”
“Whats in a name?” Stevie sighed. “Living togethers work. Modern women love themselves more than labor. Will she tend the garden, the livestock? They want pampering now, carrying on their backs. Im no young man. And at my age, courting feels odd.”
“Rubbish! Ill come with. Shes familywell be kin! You know me, I know you. Well get on fine!”
The talk dragged on till evening. Wearied by Arthurs push and his own sudden curiosity, Stevie gave in. Theyd go in two days, Saturday, in Arthurs battered old Rover.
When Arthur left, Stevie sat in the stifling quiet. The idea of remarrying, once vague, now had weight. He scanned his home, seeing it fresh: dust on the sills cluttered with junkjars, nails, dried leaves Lydia once gathered. The floor, long unscrubbed. A mountain of dishes in the sink.
Next dawn, he rose early, spurred by some inner whip. He wiped the sills, tossed the clutter, mopped the floorthe clean smell oddly lifted him. Then the dishes. He found an old bottle of soap, squeezed out froth, watched the plates shine like new.
“Blimey,” he thought, scrubbing mugs. “Moods better already. Should do this more often.”
Saturday morning, Arthur honked outside. Stevie wore his only good suit, still decent, though it smelled of mothballs and yesterday. The road was long, potholed. They arrived by noon.
Arthurs car halted by a crooked but sturdy fence. A woman stepped outpleasant-faced, mid-fifties, a good decade younger than Stevie. Her smile was broad, rehearsed.
“Finally! Lunch is going cold! What took you?” she called.
Her tone, her familiarity, sent a chill through him. Clearly, hed been “matched” without his say. His hand twitched toward the door handle, ready to order Arthur to turn back. Then he heard her whisper:
“Hes crippled?” Her eyes fixed on his cane.
“No, Aunt Agatha, just an old break. Limps a bit. Nothing serious,” Stevie said stiffly.
She stepped closer, offering a hand. Her palm was soft, unnaturally smooth.
“Welcome, dear. Im Agatha,” she simpered.
He shook awkwardly. “Afternoon. Stephen. Or Stevie.”
His glance took in the yard: tidy beds, a whitewashed shed, not a speck out of place. “Hard worker,” he noted. “Proper homemaker.”
Inside, the order was meticulous. But the table stole his focusgroaning with food: braised potatoes with pork, pickles, golden pancakes beside a crock of cream, bacon, spring onions, and meat pies steaming fragrantly. “Generous,” he thought. “Pulled out all stops.” Arthur winked: “Told you!”
Agatha proved a lavish hostess, piling his plate, showering praise:
“Oh, Stephen, so distinguished! Cant believe you live alone! At your age, youre splendid! And the limpnothing! Arthur said youre lonely?”
“Alone,” he nodded.
“Children?”
“No. Just me. Thats why Im here.”
“Oh, same
