Born-Again Happiness “Sir, please stop following me! I told you—I’m mourning my late husband. Don’t…

Stop following me, sir! Ive told you alreadyIm in mourning for my husband. Please, dont keep pursuing me. Im starting to be frightened by you! My voice grew shrill and echoed strangely.

I remember, I remember But still, I cant shake the feeling that youre mourning yourself rather than your late husband. Forgive me, he replied, persistent and calm, his words trickling out as if they floated on thick swamp mist.

I was supposed to be restingretreating from a world I scarcely recognised. I had chosen an old spa on the edge of the Surrey woods, seeking only quietude, the hum of bees and warbling of robins, not the unwanted advances of overeager men. My husband Charles had died suddenly not long before, his life snuffed out like a candle in a draft. It was his second heart attacknothing the ambulance could do. Together, wed been hoarding pounds in jam jars for a flat refurbishment that now would never come to be. Left behind with my two teenage boys, I was a solitary shadow drifting in the half-light of loss.

The staff at work had pressed a holiday voucher on me when I returned. Dont be so stubborn, Alice, they said. Youre not the first widow and wont be the last. You have children. You must live. Take a few weeks, clear your mind.

So I grudgingly departed, suitcase in hand, heart leaden. Forty days had passed since Charless funeral, and the sorrow clung to me sharper than nettles.

The spa assigned me a room with a young woman named Gemma. She blazed with a relentless light, all laughter and sunshine, which at times felt jarring to my gloom. She drew the attention of the resident jesterthe kind every institution like this harbours. As is generally acknowledged, these places teem with bachelors, divorcees, and weathered widowers. I cautioned Gemma about the jester, certain he was married for at least the second time.

Oh, dont fret, Alice! Im not as green as I look, she chirped, and fluttered away on butterfly wings to her evening assignations. I, meanwhile, barricaded myself with paperbacks I couldnt remember reading, and let the tellys flickering blue wash me numb.

One bright morning, carried by a rare buoyancy, I looked out and saw the woods frosted in golden morning haze. I had an urge to walk the forest paths and listen for thrushes. Thats when I first encountered the stranger.

Id noticed him in the dining hallunfortunately. He was short, a head below me, with a gaze that was too bold by half; an odd, satiny baldness gleamed under the lights. Yet, he was prim as a tailors dummy and always sported a spotless suit. Each supper he would bob a little bow at my table, and Id coldly nodpurely out of English manners. One evening, he sidled right over.

Missing home, madam? he inquired with a voice as velvety as warm treacle.

No, I replied stiffly.

Come nowno fibs. Your face is etched with sadness. Perhaps, if you let me, I could help?

You have the truth of it. It is grieffor my departed husband. Do you have any more questions? I wiped my hands with my napkin and started to stand, eager to sever the thread of conversation.

My apologiesI didnt know. My condolences. But still allow me to introduce myself. Valentine, he said quickly, afraid I might vanish forever.

Alice, I said flatly, moving away.

Yet after that, Valentine would install himself at my table every night, always with a clutch of bluebellscommonplace in these woods, but somehow enchanting. I wont lieit was nice. Still, I had no plans for romance.

Valentine was undaunted. He began to join in my evening walks. I swapped my shoes for flats, self-conscious about my heightno matter to him. He used the velvety depth of his voice like a spell. I half suspected this was how he snared his women.

Soon enough, I was letting him lead me onto the makeshift ballroom floor in the lounge evenings, and we shared trips to the village for apples. More than once, Valentine tried to lure me to his room. I, stubborn as a tin soldier, held out.

The day before our departures, Valentine cornered me once more. Alice, darling, tomorrow we leave. Will you drop by my room for a cup of tea this evening? Just a cup of tea.

Perhaps, I replied, hedging.

That night I decided to be kind to him, knowing full well what might happen. His small table was dressed up with floral plates, borrowed cutlery, and slabs of Battenberg. The fizz of supermarket prosecco greeted me.

Shall we begin, Alice? he said, oddly subdued. I dont know how Ill part from you. Leave me your address. I promise, Ill visit.

Youll forget me by teatime tomorrow, like all the rest, I joked, my resistance puddling around me. What are we toasting, then, Valentine?

Isnt it obvious, Alice? To love! To love, he professed, raising his glass with an operatic sweep.

We woke at dawn in a tangle; I berated myself for dithering the holiday away. Why hadnt I let myself drift towards him sooner? It felt ludicrous, but I was smitten as a teenager. Today, I packed my suitcase, my heart throbbing wildly.

Gemma was sitting cross-legged on her bed, crying into her pillow.

Gemma dear, what happened? I asked gently.

Im pregnant, Alice. But I dont know who the father is, she snuffled. The jester? I asked softly.

Could be, could be someone elseI met a chap from the next building, only hes married, she sighed.

Oh Gemma. Phone your folks; they should come. New places, strange people. Come on, lets go see the manager. Maybe theyll have the sense we lack.

She dashed off, sobbing. Ah, well, the young must eat their fill of bittersweet porridge, I thought.

The next morning, it was time to leave. I felt an aching reluctance; twenty-four days and everything here had become part of me, most of all Valentine.

The coach idled at the curb. Valentine, bluebells in hand, bid me farewell. I gave him a hug that drew tears from my eyes. So that was the end of our breezy romance. My heart squeezed tight. If hed called me back, I might have dropped everything and run to him…

Valentine and I lived in distant cities. There were only lettersand then one day, not from him, but his wife. She said she knew everything, that nothing would come of us, anyway, since she was thirty and I had reached forty. I didnt reply. What point would there be?

Half a year on, Valentine showed up at my door. My sons stared curiously, but said nothing.

Valentine? Just passing through, or I asked, hoping hed say, Ive come for good.

Well, that depends. Am I welcome, Alice? he asked, awkward in the doorway.

The boys made themselves scarce.

Come in. Are you the bearer of any more letters from your wife? I quipped.

Sorry, Alice. I started to write, she found it my faultcant deny it. Weve divorced.

I didnt even know you were marriedif I had, thered have been nothing between us, I said, perturbed. What now?

Lets get married, Alice, he blurted out.

II have children, you see. And I dont know how theyd feel. Its not so simple, I said, though some hidden joy flickered in me.

Children can be a blessing. I have a ten-year-old daughter, Valentine added, surprising me.

A daughter? And you left her behind? I frowned.

No, Alice. I intend to bring her. Her mother drinks, you see. Well be a close family, he announced.

Hang on a second, Valentine; we dont even know each others children and here youre making me a mother overnight! Lets just pause. Ill speak to the boys and see where we are. Come now, lets have some supperyou hopeless romantic, you, I laughed.

Of course, we didnt become a blissful, jigsaw family. There were rows, slammed doors, stormy silences. We all had our corners and bruised temperseach with a different view on compromise.

Time rushed onwards.

My eldest, Andrew, married Valentines daughter, Olivia, and then, oddly, the two of them turned on ustossing accusations and grievances, claiming we had broken up the old order, ruined what was. Andrew said I should have remained a widow, that Valentine ought to have stayed with his drinking wife. They took a rented flat and vanished from our lives.

Valentine and I shrugged our shoulders and loved one another all the more for it.

A year passed.

Estranged children remained so. Olivia only phoned her father on birthdays now.

Three years later, Andrew and Olivia invited us round: a meal, a chance to meet their new son. Our joint grandson. A slow, golden joy unfurled across the kitchen.

At table, Olivia and Andrew asked forgiveness. We were rash, they admitted. Life brings all sorts of weatheryou have to forgive, and always remember your parents. They gave their boy the name Benedictpeace-bringerso thered always be peace in our family.

And thus, in this strange confluence of events, Valentine and I found our newborn happinessa happiness as surreal and marvelous as a bluebell blooming in midwinter.