**The Riddle at the Doorstep**
Margaret Thompson sat on the old wooden bench under the cherry tree, its branches heavy with ripe fruit. The harvest was the best she’d seen in years—almost as good as back in ‘92, when she and her daughter Emily would spend whole afternoons making jam. Now the cherries just dropped to the ground, staining her worn-out apron with dark splotches. She didn’t bother getting up—what was the point? The apron was already past saving anyway. Nearby, a goat named Daisy dozed on a long tether. The neighbors always grumbled when Margaret let her roam free—Daisy was infamous for nibbling laundry off clotheslines or trampling flower beds. She had a special fondness for roses.
“The carrots’ll be ready soon,” Margaret murmured, eyeing Daisy. “I’ll give you some, though you don’t deserve it. Who ate Mrs. Higgins’ cabbages last week? Now I’ll have to share my own crop… Oh, Daisy, the rain’s coming, and there you are, lounging. Up with you—into the pen, or we’ll both be soaked.”
Dark clouds rolled in, and a distant flash of lightning split the sky. Margaret sighed and got up to fetch the washing. It wasn’t quite dry yet, but better to bring it in now than to scrub mud out later. The lines sagged, and she didn’t have the strength to tighten them.
“Hello? Anyone home?”
Margaret nearly dropped the bedsheet she was folding. A young woman stood at the garden gate, dressed in jeans and a white vest with thin straps. There was something faintly familiar about her face—especially the mole above her lip—like someone from an old, faded photograph. “Excuse me,” the girl asked, a touch impatient, “does James Wilson live here?”
“No, no one by that name,” Margaret answered, shaking her head. A gust of wind snatched the sheet from her hands, but the girl caught it deftly and handed it back.
“But that can’t be,” she stammered, pulling a crumpled slip of paper from her pocket. “This is the address, isn’t it?”
Margaret glanced at the note. The street and house number were correct—this was her own home. But there’d never been a James Wilson here. “Where’d you get this?” she asked, a strange unease settling in her chest.
“Who is he to you, this James?” she added, keeping her voice steady.
“Tall, handsome, dark hair, and eyes… just like yours, bright blue,” the girl replied, her voice cracking.
Margaret shook her head. “No Wilsons here. There was an old bloke down the lane, a mechanic, but he passed away years ago,” she said, remembering the neighbor.
The girl seemed to deflate, like a balloon her Emily used to love as a child. Her shoulders slumped, her gaze dulled. “How am I supposed to find him now?” she whispered, more to herself than to Margaret.
Fat raindrops began pattering against the ground. Margaret shoved the washing into the girl’s arms. “Take this inside. I’ve got to get Daisy settled.” The girl obeyed, looking dazed as she trudged toward the cottage. Margaret wrestled the goat into the pen and hurried back in, finding her guest still standing in the hallway, clutching the damp laundry.
“What’s your name, love?” Margaret asked, brushing dirt from her hands.
“Abigail,” the girl replied, offering a small, tired smile that revealed a dimple in her cheek.
“I’m Margaret. Come on, I’ll put the kettle on—you can’t go out in this.” She led her into the kitchen.
While the old stovetop kettle hissed, Margaret fetched a jar of strawberry jam and dusted off a second teacup. Abigail fidgeted, twisting a spoon between her fingers. “Do you live alone?” she asked, watching Margaret scrub the cup clean.
Margaret nodded, but lied. “Aye, just me. My husband, Arthur, passed five years back. My Emily’s in London—visits with the grandkids now and then.” She wouldn’t admit Emily hadn’t come home since her father’s funeral. Why burden a stranger with heartache?
Abigail barely seemed to listen, lost in her own thoughts. As Margaret poured the tea, she finally asked, “Who is he, this James?”
Abigail sighed, her voice trembling. “Guess he’s nobody now.” She told her how they’d met on a train, how he’d taken her to a café, then a hotel. “I thought it was forever,” she whispered. “He gave me this address, said he lived out here but was just passing through. Told me to visit.”
Margaret listened, an old ache stirring in her chest. She remembered being young, when a farmhand named Thomas had promised her the moon—only to vanish the moment he found out she was expecting Emily. Thank God for Arthur, who’d loved them both without question. “I had a Thomas once,” she said softly. “Full of grand promises, then gone like smoke. But life sent me a good man in the end.”
Abigail smiled weakly, hiding her face in her hands. They talked for hours, the rain easing outside, neither in any hurry to stop. When Abigail checked her watch, Margaret nudged her gently. “Station’s only a couple miles—you’ll make the train.” She pressed a jar of jam into her hands, hugged her, and murmured, “Real love’ll find you yet.”
Abigail wiped her eyes, managed a real smile this time, and left. Margaret stood in the doorway, watching her go, before sighing and heading out to untie Daisy. Something warm flickered in her chest. Maybe life had a little goodness left for her, too.