Never Stop Believing in Happiness

Never stop believing in happiness

Once, in the reckless bloom of youth, Emily wandered into a bustling fair in Brighton. A gypsy with eyes as dark as midnight grabbed her wrist and sang in a lilting tone:

Darling, youll end up living in a sunkissed land where the air smells of sea and vineyards.

Emily laughed back:

Nonsense! Ill never leave my own town!

Life rolled on as usual. A marriage born of a grand romance, the birth of a daughter named Poppy, plans for a second child. Yet Emily kept a job, thinking, Ill work a few years, maybe five or six, and then I can think about a boy.

Then a business trip came along that tossed all those plans into the air. Her neighbour, Nurse Jenkins, called:

Emily, theyve taken Simon to the hospital! An ambulance showed up from some unknown address on the other side of the road.

Family secrets have a funny way of slipping out of the shadows.

The return home felt like a lowbudget thriller. That very evening Emily raced to the hospital, her heart thudding in her throat. Simon, pale and with a bandaged arm, avoided her gaze like a cat dodging a bath.

Where did they take you from? she asked softly.

Silence said more than any answer.

It didnt take long to discover that a lonely woman, a colleague of Simons, had been sharing a flat for over a year. Everyones temperament was different.

Some turned a blind eye, some made a scene, then, clenching their teeth, forced a bowl of soup onto the cheaters plate. Emily, however, was made of a sturdier stuff. She didnt wait for Simon to be discharged; someone needed a hug.

Packing the essentials into an old suitcase, she took frightened Poppy by the hand and walked out of their shared flat without looking back.

Were starting fresh, love, she said, squeezing her little palm.

***

Emilys mother took them in for a while, then Emily divorced, split the square footage with Simon, and took out a mortgage. She lived on autopilot, trying to secure a future for herself and Poppy.

Years later, exhausted by work and solitude, Emily flew to the Cotswolds, to a cosy cottage owned by her mothers friend Olivia, just an hours drive from Oxford. Shed been saving every penny for a holiday, but suddenly splurged on a ticket when life became unbearable. She hoped the English sunshine would melt the ice around her heart.

Olivia, listening to Emilys bitter confessionsIll never learn to trust again, Love doesnt exist for mecouldnt bear it any longer. She quietly rang a contact who owned a local vineyard:

Giovanni, she whispered in a fauxItalian accent, find me Luca. Urgently! Tell him I have a bride waiting.

Emilys thoughts were anything but romantic. She was already in her soft robe, a book in hand, trying to shoo away gloomy thoughts as a pitchblack night settled over the countryside.

A knock sounded at the door. A minute later, Olivia burst into the bedroom, eyes sparkling:

Emily, get up! Your fiancé has arrived!

What tomfoolery is this? Emily chuckled, but she slipped on her robe and shuffled into the sitting room.

There he stood: tall, silver at the temples, eyes twinkling. Luca. In his hands he clutched a motorcycle helmet; leaning against the wall was a battered motorbike that had crept up the winding hills for twenty miles under a blanket of stars just to meet a stranger.

Olivia said youre a proper English lady? he said in halting English, his accent sounding like a folk song.

Emily, stunned, reached out to shake his hand. Luca instead took her in his large, warm palms and held on. They collapsed onto the couch, hands still clasped. He spoke barely any English; she not a word of Italian. Yet their conversation of gestures, smiles and glances was so lively that Olivia, smiling, slipped away, leaving them to their burgeoning miracle.

He left at dawn, hopping back on his iron steed. Later Emily learned his life had been a string of mishaps: two failed marriages, no children, no home. He lived in a tiny flat above his brothers garage and had almost stopped believing in happiness.

Ten days before his departure they agreed on everything. Ill come back, he said when she asked. Well live together.

***

The following months at home whirled by in a mad swirl: being made redundant, packing, tense talks with relatives who couldnt fathom her madness. Her phone buzzed nonstop.

My sunshine, how are you? Missing you. Luca.

Our new window overlooks an olive grove. Your room is waiting. Yours, Luca.

He barely flinched at the sevenyear age gap (Emily was older) or the twelveyearold daughter he would have to love.

One afternoon, perched on the sundrenched terrace of their new house, Emily asked, wrapping an arm around his shoulders:

Luca, why did you believe in us so quickly? Why werent you scared?

He turned to her, and the Tuscanlike sea of his eyes reflected a whole landscape.

An old winemaker once told me Id meet a woman from the east, a soul stormy and a heart seeking calm. He said shed bring the luck Ive been tending in my vineyards but could never find. Thats you, Emily.

And? she whispered, tears pricking.

Did you find that luck? he asked.

He gave no answer, only drew her close and kissed her as if it were both their first and last kiss. Then, flashing his sunny grin, he said:

She found me herself! Im endlessly happy.

And life really did settle.

A brilliant job appeared, they secured a mortgage on a cottage with hill views, and Luca grew fond of stepdaughter Poppy, who now studies Italian with gusto. In the mornings he brings Emily cinnamonspiced coffee to bed; in the evenings the house fills with the aroma of pasta he prepares like a maestro. His love shows up in wildflower bouquets on the table, tender touches, and the caring glance he gives her each sunrise.

Emily blossomed. She cant believe she ever thought lasting happiness didnt exist. Now she knows: happiness isnt a myth. It roams the world, stubbornly seeking its halves, and when it finds them, it binds them together so tightly that no storm can ever frighten them again.