**A Decade in Waiting**
My luck in love had run dry. At thirty, I found myself divorced after three years of marriage.
“At least we never had children,” Id tell my colleagues at work. “Wouldve been cruel to leave them behind.”
Id misjudged Tatiana. She wasnt the settling typetoo fond of nights out with her girlfriends. Id fallen for her lively charm, only to realise too late that she was restless, even reckless.
Then came the assignment. “James,” the chief engineer said, “we need you in Cliffside, a village about thirty miles out. A month, maybe less, depending on how quickly you sort their equipment. Since youre a free man nowno family tying you downits perfect timing.” He grinned.
I didnt mind the change. Cliffside was new to me. They offered a dormitory, but it was under renovation. “Or theres a cottage near the substation,” they said.
“Noisy repairs arent my thing,” I joked. “Id rather board with a landlady. Maybe shell feed me wellbachelor perks.”
So they placed me with a widow named Eleanor. Stern, quiet, wrapped in long black dresses, a scarf always covering her hair. At first glance, I thought her older, but her movements were quick, her energy unmistakable.
We kept to ourselves, but she cooked superbly. I paid her for mealsbetter than the local canteen.
“Listen, Tom,” I asked my workmate one day, “my landladyEleanorshes not old, but she dresses like a mourner. Thought she might be religious, but Ive never seen her pray.”
“Eleanor? Youve never seen her without the scarf?” Tom raised a brow.
“No. Shes always covered. But breakfast is always ready, and dinners hot. Cant complain.”
“Ah, thats the way,” Tom chuckled. “My Maggie scolds me if I come home drunk, but she feeds me all the same. Love her for it.” His eyes shone.
I nodded. “Foods a mans weakness.” Then, after a pause: “Whyd you ask about the scarf?”
Tom sighed. “Shes hiding her beauty. Tragedy struck. She and Michaelmy cousinwere madly in love. Married barely a month. He took a shortcut over the frozen river one night, the ice gave way They found the car downstream come spring.”
I whistled low. “Five extra miles by the bridge. But he rushed it.”
“Exactly. Eleanors been a widow sincetwenty-seven, twenty-eight now.”
That evening, I walked in to find Eleanor with her back turned, brushing out long, dark waves. The door creaked. She spun, and I frozestunning, truly stunning. She gasped, twisted her hair up, and yanked the scarf down.
“Eleanor,” I said softly, “why hide such beauty?”
“I made a promise.”
Later, over wine (she barely sipped), I coaxed her story out.
“I still love him,” she whispered. “At his grave, I vowed to live only in memory of him.”
“Memory matters,” I said, “but lifes meant to be lived, Eleanor.”
She nodded. “Youre kind. Youll find happiness.”
Days later, my assignment ended. I left heavy-hearted, though shed given no hint of feeling the same. “Goodbye, James. Be happy.”
Ten years passed. I never remarried. Then, driving home from holiday, I saw the sign: *Cliffside*.
“Should I?” I turned anyway.
The road was paved now. Her house had a new fence. I hesitatedwhat if shed moved? A dog watched silently.
Then a voice: “Looking for someone?”
I turned. There she stoodmore beautiful than ever, no scarf, no mourning dress. Recognition lit her face.
“James. The man who told me lifes meant to be lived.” She smiled. “Come in. Teas waiting.”
“I couldnt drive past. Ive always remembered you.”
We married five years ago. She stays home now, raising our daughterher mirror image. Happiness, at last, under our roof.
*Sometimes, the heart knows before the mind catches up.*
