A Year in Vermont

A YEAR IN VERMONT

Kieran Beville

PART ONE – WINTER

N athan wasn’t running from anything when he left New York. That was the part no one ever seemed to believe. He hadn’t been fired. He hadn’t been dumped. He hadn’t burned out, had no scandal chasing him, and no heartbreak to nurse. If anything, life in the city had finally settled into something like stability. He was thirty- seven, healthy, modestly successful, and entirely unremarkable in the best possible way.

Romantically, he’d done what most people do—tried, hoped, compromised. There had been a few long relationships over the years, one that came close to lasting, close enough that her toothbrush stayed in the cabinet and her parents sent him birthday cards. But it faded, like most things that aren’t quite right. She wanted a different pace, a different life, something more ambitious than the quiet rhythm he seemed to fall into by nature. It ended kindly, without blame, but the parting left him with a lingering disquiet he tried to ignore, but never could.

He wasn’t heartbroken—just tired of mistaking closeness for connection. Somewhere along the way, he’d started to believe that maybe what he was looking for just didn’t exist. For years, he’d made a quiet living ghost-writing other people’s memoirs—CEOs, athletes, a washed-up screenwriter or two. His name was never on those covers, but the checks cleared and the work kept coming. It was good work, even noble in its way, helping people make sense of their lives. Still, somewhere around the tenth book, he started to feel like a ghost himself.

He had two novels of his own out in the world—modestly received, quietly published – the kind of books that earned kind reviews and small advances. But between ghost-writing contracts and city rent, there was never much left. The third novel was overdue, and the words—once urgent—had grown elusive.

The farmhouse in Vermont came up by chance. A friend of a friend was leaving it vacant for the year, looking for someone quiet to keep the pipes from freezing. It had a porch, a woodstove, and no internet. Nathan didn’t think twice.

He told himself it was just about the book – a year away to listen to himself and think. No distractions, no subway, no client notes in the margins—just a winter to write through, a spring to thaw in. What he didn’t expect—what he couldn’t have written if he tried—was that the best story was close but costly.

It was late December when Nathan Devlin left Manhattan behind. The sky above the city was a heavy iron gray, the streets slushed with dirty snow, the honking of horns and impatient shouts bouncing off glass and steel. He packed two suitcases, a laptop, and a few battered notebooks into the trunk of his aging Volvo and began the drive north.

He was thirty-seven, a working writer with two novels behind him and a third one breathing down his neck. His editor was patient, his agent less so. Nathan had promised the new manuscript by spring. But inspiration had gone missing somewhere in the noise and rhythm of New York life. He needed quiet. He needed space. He needed Vermont.

A friend of a friend had told him about a rental in a small village called Maple Hollow. It was a farmhouse on a hill, surrounded by evergreens and birch, with a long gravel driveway that curved away from the main road. The owner, a widow named Miriam Hart, lived in the cottage next door.

He arrived on a snowy afternoon, the kind of snow that muted everything, blanketing the world in white silence. The farmhouse looked like something out of a Thomas Kinkade painting, with smoke curling from the chimney and a wreath of pinecones and red berries hanging on the front door.

Miriam greeted him before he even had the car in park.

"You must be Nathan. I'm Miriam. Come in before you freeze solid."

She was in her late fifties, silver hair braided over one shoulder, a red woollen shawl wrapped snugly around her. There was a quiet strength in the way she moved—easy, unhurried—that caught his attention.

Her skin, delicate and fair, carried a heat that whispered of hidden fire, and when she smiled, there was softness in her eyes that made Nathan pause, a brief, unexpected flutter in his chest. The way the shawl slipped just enough to reveal the curve of her neck felt intimate.

He found himself noticing the faint scent she wore—something earthy, a mix of wood-smoke and lavender—that seemed to settle around her like a whispered promise. It was enough to make him aware of her presence in a new way, a quiet pull that lingered longer than it should.

The house was cosy and old-fashioned, with creaky floors and floral wallpaper and mismatched furniture that looked lovingly used. There was a wood-burning stove in the living room and shelves full of books in every corner.

"You write, don't you?" she said as she showed him the study.

"I try to."

"Then you’ll like it here. The quiet is good for thinking."

He spent the first few days settling in. Snow piled high against the windows. He made fires, drank tea, took long walks through the woods bundled in layers of clothes. At night, he read or scribbled notes in his journals. The words came slowly at first, like timid birds testing their wings at dawn.

Miriam would stop by with a pie or a jar of soup, always insisting she had extra. She never stayed long, but she always asked how the writing was going. Her presence became a rhythm to his days.

One morning in early January, they went into town together to the general store. It was a ramshackle place with a potbellied stove and shelves full of everything from canned peaches to knitting needles.

"They don’t get many strangers here," Miriam said, watching him browse the rows of maple syrup and local honey.

"Do I look that out of place?"

"Just a bit, but don’t worry, they'll warm up to you."

She was right. People nodded to him on the street, asked how he was finding the place. He started to feel a part of things, in a quiet, peripheral way. The village was small: a post office, a bakery, a church with a steeple that sang out the hours. And snow – always snow. It softened the edges of the world, hushed the air.

One night, a storm knocked the power out. Nathan had just sat down to write when the lights flickered and died. He lit candles, wrapped a quilt around his shoulders, and stared at the blank page.

A knock came at the door.

It was Miriam, holding a lantern.

"Thought you might want some company," she said, "And maybe some whiskey."

They sat by the stove and talked, the firelight casting shadows on the walls. She told him about her late husband, Arthur, who had built the cottage next door with his own hands. They had raised two sons there, both grown now and living in other states.

"It gets quiet in winter," she said, "Sometimes too quiet."

"I thought that was what I wanted."

"And is it?"

He thought for a long moment. "Yes and no."

She smiled, understanding something without needing it explained.

The fire crackled low in the hearth, casting flickering shadows across the worn wooden floor. Nathan and Miriam sat close, the warmth from the flames brushing against their skin – heat growing in intensity between them.

She shifted slightly closer, her hand resting briefly on his arm. She caressed his hand, skimming up his arm, her fingers sliding beneath his shirt, tracing the line of muscle along his side with a touch both deliberate and hungry. Miriam’s breath hitched as he pulled her closer, the heat of his body pressing into hers. His lips found her neck, soft and urgent.

Her hands roamed freely now, sliding beneath his shirt, down his back, feeling the steady beat of his pulse. Nathan’s own hands tangled in her silver hair, pulling her nearer, wanting to feel every inch of her warmth.

Their hands moved with growing urgency, eagerly pulling at each other’s clothes. Fabric slipped away beneath heated touches, breath quickening as they undressed each other with a fierce, hungry need. Every movement was deliberate but charged, as if they couldn’t wait to close the distance between them. —his shirt, then hers—falling to the floor. The firelight flickered over skin flushed with desire, casting a golden glow on the curves and angles of their bodies.

Miriam guided him gently to the thick rug before the hearth, their bodies melting together as the fire’s warmth wrapped around them. Her skin was soft and warm beneath his hands. Their breaths grew faster, eager, engulfed in an overwhelming intensity of desire. Their mouths met again—this time with a hunger that was both fierce and tender. Nathan’s hands explored the swell of her hips, the curve of her waist, tracing the lines that felt both new and achingly familiar.

She arched into him, a low sound escaping her lips as their bodies moved in sync, the crackling fire a steady rhythm beneath their shared heat. Time slipped away in waves of pleasure and breath, the room alive with the sound of soft sighs.

The coming together was intense, a meeting of years of longing. Wrapped in each other and the glow of the hearth, Nathan felt something shift deep inside—a quiet certainty that this was only the beginning.

The days passed. He wrote more. Something about the silence, the snow, the steady rhythm of life in Maple Hollow began to open him. Characters stirred to life on the page. Scenes unfolded like remembered dreams.

One morning, Miriam invited him to help her tap the maple trees.

"It’s early yet, but with the thaw we might get lucky," she said.

They trudged through knee-deep snow, drills and buckets in hand. She showed him where to place the spiles, how to hang the metal pails beneath.

"It seems like a lot of work for a little bit of syrup," he said, wiping his brow.

"Some things are worth the wait." Her words lingered with him.

By late February, the snow began to melt. Icicles dripped from the eaves. Birds returned, cautiously at first. The manuscript was halfway done. Nathan no longer counted the words each day. He no longer feared the blank page.

One evening, he found himself knocking on Miriam’s door.

"I brought dinner," he said, "Thought maybe you’d like a break from cooking for the neighborhood."

She looked surprised, but pleased. She stepped aside.

They ate by candlelight. He had made pasta with roasted vegetables and opened a bottle of wine he’d brought from the city. They talked about books, about music, about the difference between loneliness and solitude.

Nathan excused himself after dinner and went back to the farmhouse, feeling lighter than he had in weeks. Sitting at the old roll-top desk Miriam had dusted off for him in December, he glanced at the clutter of notebooks and scattered papers—silent witnesses to the long, slow birth of his new manuscript.

The novel he was writing no longer resembled the dystopian satire set in a crumbling Manhattan that had initially consumed his thoughts back in New York. Instead, it had morphed into something quieter, more vulnerable: a story about a woman named Claire, living alone in a weathered farmhouse, navigating grief, healing, and unexpected companionship.

Claire tapped sugar maples in early spring, baked pies for her neighbors, read poetry by lamplight, and lived a life steeped in the rhythms of the land. One winter, a man arrived—a writer, lost and searching, much like Nathan himself.

He stared at the paragraph on his screen. The words no longer felt like fiction. They belonged, in part, to Miriam—and to him. He had begun the new story the night the power had gone out, and Miriam had arrived at his door with a lantern and whiskey. That evening had shifted something inside him, unlocking the story he needed to tell—not just on the page, but in his life.

Now, nearly 40,000 words in, the story wasn’t just Claire’s. It was a reflection of second chances and the courage it took to accept joy when it knocked unexpectedly.

Nathan ran a hand through his hair, wrestling with a scene he’d rewritten three times: a dinner between Claire and the writer, heavy with everything left unsaid. He remembered the dinner he and Miriam had just shared—the pasta, the wine, the jazz humming softly in the background—and the way her hand had found his during their dance.

He opened a new document and began again. Claire served dinner at the small kitchen table, candlelight softening the lines of her face. The writer took the offered glass of wine and said nothing at first, the weight of unsaid words hanging in the air.

“You don’t talk much,” she said gently.

“I talk all the time,” he replied. “Just… not out loud.”

She smiled. “Well, I’m listening – out loud or not.”

He looked at her. “You scare me a little.”

“Why?”

“Because I think you see me more clearly than I see myself.”

Her expression softened – open and unguarded.

“And what do you see when you look at me?” she asked.

He hesitated. “Hope.”

Nathan leaned back in his chair. It wasn’t perfect, but it was honest—the kind of truth he hadn’t managed to write in years. He saved the file and glanced at the shelves lined with books—some his, most not—writers he admired, writers he envied. For so long, he had measured success by reviews and sales. But now, the only metric that mattered was whether the story stirred something inside him - whether it was real.

A knock at the door brought him back. Miriam stood there, holding a bowl filled with the warm scent of apples and cinnamon. “I made a crisp,” she said. “And I need someone to tell me I didn’t ruin it.”

He smiled, “Perfect timing. I just finished a scene.”

“Ah—the book you never talk about,” she teased, stepping inside.

He hesitated. “It’s about… a woman who lives in a farmhouse and a man who’s not sure who he is anymore.”

She raised an amused brow, “Sounds familiar.”

He laughed softly, a little sheepish, “Maybe. It’s not really fiction anymore. It’s more like a mirror.”

Miriam set the bowl down and looked at him for a long moment.

“Then I hope,” she said quietly, “that you give them a happy ending.”

Afterward, she played an old record on a turntable, something jazzy and slow. They danced, awkward at first, then easier. Her hand fitted perfectly in his.

Outside, snow still lined the edges of the fields. But the air had changed. There was a softness to it, a promise of something new. Spring was coming. And something else, too. Something neither of them had spoken aloud. Yet.

The next morning brought a thick fog that clung low over the snow-covered fields. Nathan stepped outside with a mug of coffee, steam curling into the damp air. From her porch, Miriam raised a hand in greeting, a shawl wrapped tight around her shoulders. The quiet between them had become companionable, like the hush of snow falling in the woods.

He walked down the path between their homes and handed her a second mug. They drank in silence for a while, listening to the far-off crack of ice shifting in the woods.

"There's a pancake breakfast at the firehouse tomorrow," Miriam said eventually. "Maple Hollow tradition. Fresh syrup, loud neighbors, kids sticky with smiles. You should come."

"Wouldn't miss it," Nathan said, and surprised himself with how much he meant it.

The breakfast was noisy and chaotic in the way of all small-town gatherings: children racing between tables, local gossip fluttering like snowflakes, the clatter of forks and laughter in equal measure. Nathan sat beside Miriam and was introduced to people who already knew his name. He answered questions about his writing with humble shrugs and vague smiles.

Afterward, they helped stack chairs and fold tables. He watched Miriam laugh with a woman who'd brought in six pies and a basket of preserves. She glowed with a sort of unhurried purpose, a contentment Nathan hadn’t realized he envied.

That evening, back at the farmhouse, he returned to his desk. Words flowed more easily now, shaped by the cadence of village life, by the people he was growing to care about.

He’d nearly finished a chapter when a soft knock came at the back door. Miriam stood there, holding a tin of biscuits.

"I baked too many," she said.

He took them with a smile. "Thank you. Want to come in for a bit?"

She nodded, stepping inside. They sat on the couch, her hand brushing against his as they reached for the same biscuit. They both laughed.

Outside, the snow began again, silent and steady. And inside, for the first time in a long while, Nathan felt he was exactly where he belonged.

PART TWO – SPRING

B y the second week of March, the snow that had blanketed Maple Hollow for months began to melt in earnest. Tiny rivulets trickled down the hillside, gathering into muddy creeks that wound their way through the fields. The trees, still bare, rattled softly in the wind, and Nathan began to hear the songs of birds returning—warblers, finches, chickadees. The landscape, once a painting in grayscale, was slowly waking up.

Nathan’s writing followed the rhythm of the thaw. What had begun as a careful, deliberate process now spilled out of him, scene after scene, pages accumulating like new growth. His characters had voices, his plot direction, and he found himself writing not out of obligation, but desire. He worked in long stretches with the windows open to the damp, earthy air, the scent of thawing ground and wood-smoke drifting in.

Miriam stopped by less often now. She was busy with her garden—clearing beds, turning soil, planting early greens. But when they did see each other, something had changed. There was a quiet intimacy between them now, like a conversation that continued even in silence.

One afternoon, Nathan walked over to her cottage to find her on her knees in the garden, dirt caked into her gloves, cheeks flushed.

“Do you grow vegetables too?” he asked.

“Mostly. Lettuce, peas, beans. Later there’ll be tomatoes and flowers, of course.”

He crouched beside her, resting his arms on his knees. “Need a hand?”

She looked up at him, eyes bright. “I wouldn’t say no.”

And so began a new routine. In the mornings, he wrote. In the afternoons, they worked side by side in the garden, their sleeves rolled up, boots caked in mud. She showed him how to start seeds in the little greenhouse behind her cottage, how to prune raspberry canes, how to read the weather by scent and cloud movement.

They shared dinners more regularly now. Sometimes she cooked; sometimes he did. They sat on the porch when the evenings were warm enough, sipping wine, watching the light stretch later into the day. The conversations were easy—about the village, about literature, about the slow unraveling of grief.

One evening in early April, as rain drummed steadily on the metal roof, Miriam told him about the year after Arthur died.

“I couldn’t bear the silence at first,” she said, wrapping her shawl tighter. “I’d lived with his voice in my ear for thirty-five years. When it stopped, the quiet was deafening.”

He watched her closely. “How did you manage?”

“I didn’t, for a while. I let the house go. Stopped baking. The garden turned to weeds. But seasons don’t wait. The next spring came whether I was ready or not. And somehow, I found myself out here again, planting seeds. That’s the thing about spring—it insists.”

Nathan nodded, her words stirring something deep in him. “It’s my favorite time of year, I think. Hope without guarantee.”

She smiled. “That’s what planting is, too.”

That night, as he lay in bed listening to the rain, he thought of how easily she had let him into her world, how gently she had handled his presence. He was no longer just a tenant. He was something else, something closer. And he wasn’t sure when it had happened—only that he didn’t want to leave.

The village came alive with spring traditions. There was a seed swap at the town hall, a poetry reading at the library, and the long-awaited opening of the bakery’s ice cream window. Nathan found himself invited to dinners, to trivia nights, to long Sunday walks with Miriam and her friends along the old logging trail that snaked up toward the ridge.

One morning in late April, Miriam invited him to the Saturday market in the next town over. The drive was short, but scenic—hills misted with green, wildflowers peeking out from ditches, sheep grazing in soggy pastures.

The market was set up in a big red barn, its doors thrown open to the warming air. Inside, there were stalls of fresh bread, honey, handmade soap, and early spring greens. Musicians played bluegrass on a low platform at the far end. Children danced in their boots on the dusty floor.

Nathan watched as Miriam moved through the space with ease, greeting friends with warm hugs and shared laughter. He lingered near a flower stall, his eyes following her as she bartered over a jar of rhubarb jam. She looked completely at home — radiant in a way he hadn’t seen before. A bundle of tulips caught his eye. Without hesitation, he purchased them and stepped outside, the flowers cradled in his arms.

“For you,” he said, offering them to her with a smile.

Her eyes softened as she accepted the bouquet into the crook of her arm and her smile lingered long after they had been placed in a mason jar on her kitchen table.

They drove back with the windows slightly open, warm wind in their hair, and folk music playing low on the radio. Nathan felt light, expansive. As if the spring had settled in his chest.

That night, they cooked together in the farmhouse kitchen. He made roasted potatoes and asparagus; she baked a chicken, with herbs from her window box. They moved easily around each other, reaching for utensils, brushing past in narrow spaces. After dinner, they lingered with tea, neither mentioning the late hour.

Eventually, he walked her home, the stars spinning quietly overhead.

At her door, she turned to face him.

“I’m glad you came to Vermont,” she said.

He reached for her hand. “So am I.”

There was a pause, the air between them full of things unsaid. Then, gently, he leaned forward, and she met him halfway. The kiss was slow and certain, the kind that unfolds like a story waiting to be written. They stood close, foreheads touching.

“I didn’t plan for this,” she murmured.

“Neither did I.”

But neither pulled away. She invited him in. Nathan closed the door behind them, the chill of the Vermont evening slipping away as Miriam stepped closer. Her eyes caught his with a sharp, knowing glance before her hands moved to the edges of his shirt, fingers tracing the line of his collarbone with deliberate pressure.

He felt heat flood through him, more immediate than he’d expected. Her touch was sure and confident, the warmth of her hands a stark contrast to the cold that had clung to his skin just moments before. Nathan’s breath hitched as she slid her fingers beneath the fabric, skin meeting skin in a whisper of fire.

Nathan’s lips found her neck, pressing soft, teasing kisses along the hollow just beneath her ear. The scent of her—earthy, faintly spicy—wrapped around him – pulling him deeper into the moment. She caught his wrist, guiding his hand down to the curve of her waist, feeling the strength in his fingers.

Clothes fell away between them, hurried and breathless, every layer shed, fueling the heat building between them. Every touch ignited a slow burn that spread from their skin to their nerves, a tension both fragile and fierce. Nathan’s hands explored the lines of her body—soft, warm, alive—with a reverence that surprised him.

They moved together with a rhythm that was at once raw and tender, a careful balance of urgency and ease. Miriam’s breath hitched against his collarbone; her body arched toward him, drawing him in like a tide.

Their lips met again, hungry and demanding now, and Nathan gave himself over to the heat, the connection—the way her presence pulled him into something vivid, undeniable.

………………….

May bloomed with green and gold. The hills turned lush almost overnight, and the woods filled with the hum of insects and the laughter of children from the village school on field trips. Lilacs perfumed the air. The riverbanks swelled with meltwater and the days stretched long and golden.

Nathan finished the first full draft of his novel. He printed it out and stacked the pages on the desk, then just stared at them for a long time. Not out of pride, exactly, but disbelief. It was done. It had grown in that quiet farmhouse, in the spaces between words, and in the slow unfolding of a relationship he had never expected.

He walked next door and found Miriam weeding a row of young carrots.

“Finished?” she asked, seeing his face.

He nodded. “I think I actually like it.”

“Then that’s something.”

She wiped her hands and gestured to the porch. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”

They sat there together, looking out over the garden, the trees, the slow-moving clouds. He told her about the book—what it was about, what it wasn’t, and what he still wasn’t sure it needed. She listened, as always, without interruption.

“I want to stay past summer,” he said suddenly. “If that’s all right.”

She turned to him. “The house is yours as long as you need it.”

He hesitated. “That’s not the only reason I want to stay.”

Miriam took his hand, her touch firm and certain.

“I know.”

They didn’t say more. They didn’t need to. The garden rustled softly around them, and the bees danced among the blossoms, and the future—unspoken, uncertain—felt like something that could be planted and grown, if they tended it right.

PART THREE – SUMMER

T he first morning of June woke Nathan with the sun spilling gold across the floorboards of the farmhouse. He blinked awake, listening to the chorus of birds greeting the day, their calls vibrant against the stillness of Maple Hollow. The air was warm and thick with the scent of honeysuckle and wildflowers. Outside, the trees swayed gently in a soft breeze, their leaves alive with summer’s pulse.

Nathan stretched, savoring the rare peace that filled the house. He didn’t rush to his desk, didn’t feel the old pressure knotting his chest like a clenched fist. The manuscript he’d labored over all winter had been sent off weeks ago. For once, the waiting was quiet, calm—a pause to breathe.

He poured himself a cup of coffee and stepped onto the porch. The sky was endless blue, and across the fields, the farmhouse next door showed a flash of white curtains in Miriam’s window. He thought of her immediately, the way the summer light caught the silver strands in her hair, the warmth in her smile that no city could replicate.

From inside the cottage, a soft humming floated out, mingling with the buzz of bees in the garden.

Nathan carried his coffee across the gravel path, stopping by Miriam’s porch. She looked up as he approached, wiping her hands on a worn apron, cheeks flushed from tending the vegetable beds.

“Good morning,” he said, offering her the steaming mug.

Her eyes crinkled in a smile. “Morning. You’re early.”

“Couldn’t sleep,” he admitted.

She stepped aside, inviting him in with a nod. The cottage was cooler inside, shaded by the overgrown lilacs that tangled around the porch rails. The smell of fresh herbs and earth rose from pots on the windowsill.

They sat on the porch swing, swaying gently, the hum of the summer world pulsing around them.

Nathan let the silence stretch, listening to the rustle of leaves, the occasional birdcall.

“Have you gone swimming yet?” Miriam asked, tilting her head.

“Not yet,” he said, a flicker of anticipation warming his voice. “I remember you mentioned a spot by the river.”

She smiled, eyes glinting mischievously. “It’s our secret place. You’ll like it.”

That afternoon, they set out together. The sun was high and warm, dappling the forest floor as they followed the narrow path through birch and pine. Nathan felt the tension from months of city life melt with every step deeper into the woods.

When they reached the river, Miriam slipped off her sandals, her bare feet sinking into the cool water at the edge. The current was gentle, the water crystal clear, reflecting the sky in shimmering ripples.

“Go ahead,” she said softly. “The water’s perfect.”

Nathan hesitated, feeling suddenly shy. But the heat of the day, the freshness of the place, and Miriam’s calm presence pulled him forward. He shed his shirt, revealing a lean frame marked by years of walking city streets rather than woods. Then he stepped in.

The river was colder than expected, sending a sharp thrill through his body. Miriam laughed, her voice light and inviting, and plunged under the water. When she surfaced, droplets clung to her sun-kissed skin, and the afternoon light danced on her silver hair.

Without thinking, Nathan reached for her, hands sliding over wet skin, fingers tracing the line of her neck. Their eyes met, and something electric passed between them—an unspoken promise suspended in the summer air.

She leaned in, breath warm and slow, lips brushing his. The kiss deepened, a melting of years of loneliness and unvoiced desire. The river held them, cool and wild, as they lost themselves in the heat of the moment.

When they finally broke apart, laughter bubbled up between them, breathless and light.

“We should do this more often,” Nathan whispered.

Miriam’s smile was slow and knowing. “Agreed.”

The days that followed blended into a delicious routine. Mornings were for coffee and quiet conversation on the porch. Afternoons found them in the garden, harvesting raspberries and tomatoes, or wading in the river where their laughter echoed between the trees.

One evening, after a rainstorm had passed and the air was thick with the smell of wet earth, Miriam invited Nathan inside. The cottage was cool and shadowed, lit only by the flicker of candlelight. She poured wine into two glasses, the deep red catching the glow.

They sat close on the couch, the quiet crackle of the wood stove a soft counterpoint to their words. Nathan brushed a stray lock of hair from Miriam’s face, his fingers lingering on her cheek. Her skin was warm, and her eyes held a depth that made his heart quicken.

“Do you ever regret coming here?” she asked quietly.

He shook his head. “Not for a second. This place... you... it’s changed everything.”

Her hand found his, fingers curling around his palm. “I never thought I’d find this again. Not after Arthur.”

They shared a silence heavy with memory and hope.

Nathan’s lips traced the curve of her jaw, then her neck, each touch igniting a trail of fire beneath her skin. Miriam’s breath hitched, her fingers tightening in his hair. Their bodies moved together with a familiar urgency, years of longing pouring out in soft gasps and whispered n.

The night stretched long, filled with the sounds of rain tapping against the windows and the steady beat of two hearts finding rhythm.

Summer nights in Maple Hollow were magic—sticky with heat, scented with honeysuckle and the promise of possibility. Nathan and Miriam explored this new closeness with an openness neither had dared before. They learned the shape of each other’s bodies and the quiet places where touch meant more than words.

One late July evening, after a dinner of grilled vegetables and fresh bread, they found themselves tangled in the sheets of the farmhouse bed, shadows flickering on the walls.

Nathan traced patterns on Miriam’s skin, memorizing every curve, every soft sigh. The world outside faded into nothingness, leaving only the rawness of their connection.

Between kisses, he murmured, “I never imagined summer could feel like this.”

She smiled, “Neither did I.”

Their bodies moved together in an ancient dance, passion tempered by tenderness. It was a reckoning and a celebration all at once—two souls entwined in the slow heat of the Vermont night.

The village itself seemed to glow under the summer sun. Nathan attended the weekly farmer’s market with Miriam, buying fresh peaches and homemade cheese, watching children dart between stalls with sticky fingers. The simple life, the shared smiles, and the rhythms of small-town living flowed through him like sunlight through open windows.

One Saturday morning, they helped Miriam’s neighbor pick blueberries in the fields. The sun warmed their backs, sweat mixing with laughter as they filled baskets with the sweet fruit.

Later, Nathan returned to the farmhouse, a quiet satisfaction blooming in his chest. He watched Miriam from the porch as she washed the berries in the kitchen sink, her hands steady and sure.

When she caught his gaze, she held it, a secret promise shimmering in her eyes.

But summer was not just warmth and light. There were moments of doubt and vulnerability, too.

One afternoon, as a thunderstorm gathered overhead, Nathan sat on the porch steps, the sky darkening to bruised purple. Miriam joined him, slipping her hand into his.

“I worry about the future,” he confessed. “About what comes after this—after the book, after the summer.”

She squeezed his hand. “The future is a wild river, Nathan. You can’t control it, only choose how you float.”

He smiled, comforted by her wisdom.

Their lips met again beneath the rumble of thunder, the storm outside a perfect echo of the storm inside.

As July gave way to August, the heat softened into golden afternoons. The nights grew cooler, the fireflies appearing in shimmering clouds.

Nathan and Miriam grew closer still, their relationship deepening with every shared secret and cherished moment.

One Sunday morning, they lay wrapped in each other’s arms, sunlight filtering through lace curtains. Nathan traced shapes on Miriam’s skin, whispering dreams he hadn’t dared speak aloud.

She smiled sleepily. “Whatever comes next, we face it together.”

He kissed her forehead, feeling the steady beat of her heart beneath his palm. For the first time in a long time, Nathan believed in the promise of tomorrow.

PART FOUR – FALL

Fall came to Maple Hollow like a sigh—soft and heavy with meaning. The trees transformed, their leaves turning brilliant shades of ochre, crimson, and rust. Nathan and Miriam spent their afternoons walking the tree-lined paths behind the cottage, the smell of wood-smoke in the air, and the sound of brittle leaves crunching beneath their feet.

They didn’t talk about what came next. They didn’t need to. Instead, they spoke in gestures. A warm hand placed over another. A second cup of tea poured without asking – a glance that lingered a little too long. Love had taken root quietly between them, somewhere in the space between snow and soil. It wasn’t sudden. It had been growing all year.

Miriam showed him how to press apples into cider, and Nathan taught her how to use the voice memo app on her phone. “You’re officially a 21st-century woman,” he teased, grinning as she scowled at the screen. She showed him where the sumac grew red and wild on the edge of the meadow, and he surprised her with a bouquet of asters and late goldenrod.

They started eating dinners together more often than not—some in his farmhouse, some in her cottage - all with the easy rhythm of something that had quietly become natural.

He finished his manuscript in early October. It was crisp outside, the kind of morning where the cold bites your fingers but the light is gold and uplifting. He printed out the final pages, stacked them neatly, and walked with them in his hands to her cottage in both triumph and nervousness.

“I want you to read it,” he said. “It’s yours as much as it is mine.”

She read it slowly over the course of a few evenings, curled up on her sofa in thick socks, glasses sliding down her nose. When she was done, she handed the pages back and said simply, “It’s beautiful.” Then, after a pause, “So much of it is real.”

“I didn’t change much,” he admitted.

“You didn’t need to.”

They didn’t talk about the future. Not yet. Nathan was preparing to leave for New York briefly—to deliver the final draft, meet with his editor, and discuss publication. But something in him hesitated. He told himself it was reluctance to leave the peace of Vermont. But in truth, it was her.

Then came the morning that changed everything. It was mid-October. The air was still, thick with fog, and the trees were beginning to thin. Nathan arrived at Miriam’s cottage with two steaming mugs of coffee and a plan to spend the morning planning a harvest dinner. But the cottage was too quiet. The back door was ajar. Inside, the kettle whistled on the stove. A book lay open on the floor. And Miriam was on the ground, slumped against the table leg.

“Miriam!” he shouted, rushing to her side. Her eyes fluttered open, but her mouth worked soundlessly. Her right arm lay limp at her side. The ambulance came quickly, thanks to the smallness of Maple Hollow. Nathan rode with her to the hospital, gripping her hand the entire way, whispering that it would be okay even when he didn’t doubted it.

A stroke, they told him. Not massive. Not catastrophic, but serious. She was conscious. She could speak, though her words were slurred. Her body weakened. The prognosis uncertain. Recovery, if it came, would be slow.

Nathan moved into a small room in Montpelier to be close. He stayed by her side for hours each day, bringing her books, soup from the local co-op, letters from friends. He rubbed her hands when they cramped and read to her from her favorite authors. He played her favorite jazz records on a tiny Bluetooth speaker. The staff began calling him “the writer.” A nurse confided that not many visitors came that often, or stayed that late.

For a while, it seemed like she might rally. Her speech improved. She joked again—slowly, but with fire in her eyes. She asked for the final copy of the book to be brought to her bedside.

But then things shifted. By the end of October, her strength faded. A second minor stroke followed. She grew quieter. Her smiles rarer. One afternoon, as golden leaves danced just beyond the hospital window, she took his hand and traced a word on his palm with her finger – Home.

He took her back to the cottage. It was what she wanted. Hospice nurses came during the day. Nathan stayed every night, sleeping in the armchair beside her bed, reading to her even when she seemed asleep. He cooked her soft foods she barely touched. He opened the windows for her to hear the wind, the birds, the rustle of leaves. Sometimes, they just sat in silence. Other times, she would whisper a memory, and he would write it down.

He stopped checking emails. Let the world beyond Maple Hollow fall away. His publisher sent notes about interviews, proofs, marketing. He ignored them all.

“This is the story,” he wrote one night in his journal. “Not the book. This.”

Miriam passed away on a cold morning in early November. She was sleeping, or at least, she looked like she was. The dawn light was just beginning to break across the fields. Nathan sat beside her with a blanket wrapped around his shoulders, a mug of cooling coffee in his hands. He’d been reading to her again, her favorite chapter from To the Lighthouse, by Virginia Woolf. She let out a sigh, and then nothing more.

He sat there for a long time. Neighbors came, the minister, her sons, who had been called the week before and had said their quiet goodbyes. They thanked Nathan, hugged him, invited him to the funeral. He nodded, hollow-eyed. He went through the motions.

The service was small, simple. Maple leaves scattered around her headstone. Her favorite scarf tucked into the flowers.

Back at the farmhouse, Nathan couldn’t write. Not yet. But he did read the dedication in his newly published novel aloud every night for a week, sitting on the porch where she used to knit in the afternoon sun.

For Miriam

Whose quiet love became my home

Whose absence fills every silent moment.

You were my warmth in the coldest winter

My light in the darkest night—

Forever in my heart

He stayed through the rest of the season, through the first frost, through the early snow. He stacked firewood, went to the general store and returned every nod with a quiet, grateful smile.

Nathan left for New York on the first morning of December. He spent Christmas alone, his heart heavy with grief. But in early spring he returned to Maple Hollow and bought the cottage with the advance on expected royalties from his book. He slept there, in her bed, and at dawn he walked to the place where they used to sit and talk. The air was soft with new blossoms, and though tears still came, they carried with them quiet warmth. As he whispered her name—“Miriam”—he felt less alone, as if love itself had never left him, only changed its form.

©Kieran Beville