“I’m Eleanor,” she said, and held out her hand.
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They walked along the pier as the winter sun broke through the clouds. He talked of books; she talked of her garden. By the time they reached the end, he had made her laugh—truly laugh—for the first time in a decade.
Eleanor laughed, her cheeks flushing like a girl’s. She almost threw it away. But that Sunday, she found herself on the train to St. Ives.
He didn’t shake it. He held it. “Hello, Eleanor.”
Eleanor never expected to find love again. Not after the war took her husband and left her to raise three children on the windswept coast of Cornwall. For twenty years, her world had been small: mending socks, baking bread, and watching the Atlantic crash against the cliffs from her kitchen window.
