**The Riddle at the Doorstep**
Edward Whitcombe sat on the bench beneath the old cherry tree, its branches bowed under the weight of ripe fruit. The harvest was the best in years, like that long-ago summer of ’92 when he and his daughter Emily had spent days making jam. Now, cherries dropped to the ground, staining his old work trousers with dark splotches. He didn’t bother brushing them off—what was the point? The trousers were only for chores anyway. Beside him, on a long tether, lay the goat Daisy. The neighbors grumbled whenever Edward let her roam free—she was a menace, snatching laundry off lines or trampling flower beds. She’d always had a taste for blooms.
“Carrots will be ready soon,” Edward murmured, glancing at Daisy. “I’ll share a few, though you don’t deserve it. Who ate Mrs. Higgins’ cabbages? Now I’ll have to split the harvest… Oh, Daisy, rain’s coming, and there you are, lazing about. Into the pen, or we’ll both be drenched.”
The clouds darkened, and lightning flickered in the distance. Edward sighed and went to fetch the washing. It wasn’t quite dry, but better to bring it in now than scrub mud out later—the lines sagged, and he hadn’t the strength to raise them higher.
“Hello? Anyone home?” came a voice.
Edward started, nearly dropping a sheet. At the gate stood a young woman in jeans and a white vest with thin straps. Her face, with a faint mole above her lip, stirred something in his memory—like a face from an old, faded photograph. “Excuse me, does James Harrington live here?” she asked with a touch of impatience.
“No one by that name,” Edward said, spreading his hands. A gust of wind snatched the sheet away, but the girl caught it deftly and handed it back.
“No? But—” She hesitated, pulling a slip of paper from her pocket. “This is the address, isn’t it?”
Edward glanced at the note. The street, the house number—it was his. But there’d never been a James here. “Where’d you get this?” he asked, a strange unease tightening his chest.
“Who is he to you, this James?” Edward added, keeping his voice steady.
“Tall, handsome, dark hair, and eyes—” Her voice wavered. “Like yours, blue.”
Edward shook his head. “No Harringtons here. There was an old fellow, a mechanic, but he’s been gone near ten years,” he said, recalling a former neighbor.
The girl seemed to deflate, like one of those balloons Emily had loved as a child. Her shoulders slumped, her gaze dulled. “How am I supposed to find him now?” she whispered, more to herself than to Edward.
Heavy raindrops began to drum the earth. Edward thrust the washing into her arms. “Take these inside. I’ll see to Daisy.” She obeyed in a daze, heading for the porch as Edward wrestled the goat into the pen.
When he returned, the stranger still stood in the hall, clutching the damp laundry.
“What’s your name?” Edward asked, shaking water from his sleeves.
“Charlotte,” she replied, forcing a small smile that revealed a dimple in her cheek.
“I’m Edward. Come on, I’ll put the kettle on—you can’t go out in this,” he said, leading her to the kitchen.
While the old kettle hissed, Edward fetched a jar of raspberry jam and dusted off a second cup. Charlotte fidgeted with a spoon. “Do you live alone?” she asked, watching him rinse the cup.
Edward nodded, though he lied: “Just me. My wife, Margaret, passed five years back. My daughter Emily’s in the city—visits once a month with the grandkids.” He didn’t share that Emily hadn’t come home since her mother’s funeral. No need to burden a stranger with grief.
Charlotte listened absently, her mind elsewhere. As Edward poured the tea, he finally asked, “Who is he, this James?”
She sighed, her voice trembling. “No one, I suppose.” Then she told him—how they’d met on a bus, how he’d taken her to a café, then to a hotel. “I thought it was real,” she whispered. “He gave me this address, said he lived in the village but was just passing through town. Told me to visit.”
Edward listened, and an old ache bloomed in his chest. He remembered his youth, when a smooth-talking bloke named Thomas had promised him the world, then vanished after learning Edward’s first love was expecting. Thank God for Margaret—she’d taken him as he was, no questions asked. “I knew a Thomas like that,” he said. “Full of promises, gone by dawn. But life led me to better things.”
Charlotte smiled weakly, hiding her face in her hands. They talked as the rain slowed, neither in a hurry. When she checked the time, Edward said, “Station’s not far—three miles on foot. You’ll make the train.” He packed her a jar of jam, hugged her, and murmured, “The right one’s still out there.”
Charlotte wiped her eyes and left with a last smile. Edward watched her go, then went to let Daisy out. A quiet hope flickered in his heart—maybe, just maybe, life had something good left for him too.
