Like Father, Like Son.

Florence went over the whole house again; dusting here, rearranging there. She nervously stopped in front of the big antique mirror above the fireplace and brushed a wisp of graying hair off her forehead. Her face still looked young and firm at fifty. Only now was she beginning to get gray hairs in an otherwise thick shock of auburn hair. Although she never wore any makeup, today, a pale rose gloss shone on her lips. A simple pair of drop pearl earrings was the only accessory on her otherwise immaculate, fine-boned face.

A gravelly sound jolted her out of her reverie. Smoothing down her pale green, paisley, Laura Ashley dress, she made her way to the front door just as a beat up navy Volkswagen Beetle pulled up.
“Flo,” a tousle-haired young man called out as he stepped out of the car.
“Damian, it’s wonderful to see you,” she replied as she walked towards him.
They hugged and then he reached among the old newspapers and debris on his back seat and came up with a mixed bouquet of flowers with the Tesco wrapper still attached.
“These are for you. They seem like a silly idea now that I’m here and can see how beautiful your garden is.”
“Don’t be silly. It was a nice thought. I’ll find them a vase.”

He opened the boot, got out a big hold all and they walked towards the house.
Florence was flustered and excited. It had been a while since she had had people staying in the house. Her nephew looked just like his dad at that age. Tim had been as tall, handsome, and carefree.
“How are your parents?”
“Oh, they’re fine. You know, the same as usual. Dad’s just got back from his Middle East posting. Mom’s redecorating the house. They send their love.”

She had met Tim when she was nineteen. They were at the same university and shared the same circle of friends. They were inseparable. They had the same idyllic future planned out. Travel the world, live in the country, have lots of children. Then along came Agnes. She was her younger sister. She was rebellious, fun, and the life and soul of every party.

When she and Tim broke up and he started going out with her, she told herself she didn’t resent her. At their wedding, she was maid of honour and often stayed with Damian when his parents went abroad on their many travels.

There had been some boyfriends and a husband. But years later, here she was, widowed, rich and lonely. Her husband had had an accident with one of their cows. He had returned from the village pub late one night and had not seen the animal, which had escaped from the barn, step out in front of the car. He was buried in the village cemetery; the cow’s hide graced the living room.

Damian had just graduated from his Agricultural Economics degree and just like his father, was full of bright-eyed ideas. He was here to help convert the farm holding into an organic farm. She had to admit she had neglected the farm but as she did not really need an income from it, she let the handful of workers get on with it. The produce was very low and it did need an overhaul.

At first, it was strange having someone around the house. After a few weeks, they had fallen into a pattern. They would rise early and have breakfast before he started on the farm work. At midday, he would come in, glowing from the work and full of appetite. She enjoyed watching him devour the food she had prepared and learned which his favourite dishes were. At night, they would read and chat by the fire.

Sometimes they walked down to the village pub and had a beer and caught up on the local gossip. All the young women showed their interest in him. On some occasions, she would burn with a jealousy and possessiveness that she could not fathom. She was protective of him and yet knew it was a matter of time before we got lured away by a young woman.

As she laundered his clothes, she would inhale his manly scent, savoring the fragrance. Once she cut his hair, thankful for the opportunity to run her fingers through it and resisting the urge to kiss his neck. When she swept up the locks, she kept a thick, dark blonde tendril in her pocket which she later put in her bedside drawer.

The workers had gotten used to the new methods and the farm looked better. As Damian organized his return to the city, from where he would visit regularly to check on things and set up outlets, Florence felt the fear of abandonment. She wondered if he had any idea of her irreconcilable feelings.

“Now do drive safely,” she said, as he threw his bag into the boot.
“And give these to your mother,” she added, handing him a basket of perfectly golden new potatoes, succulent leeks, plum tomatoes and leafy lettuces.
“I’ll miss you Flo. But remember, I’ll visit in a little while,” he said.
He hugged her, brushed away her graying hair from her forehead and kissed her fully on the lips.