The Farmhouse
"His car breaks down on a country road. The widow who takes him in hasn't had company in five years. The storm will last all weekend—and she has very specific ideas about how to pass the time."
The engine died at mile marker 23.
No warning lights. No coughing or sputtering. Just... silence. The rental car coasted to a stop on a road I'd never traveled, in a county I couldn't name.
No cell service.
No other cars.
And thunder rolling in from the west.
I walked for an hour before I saw the farmhouse.
White clapboard, red barn, smoke rising from a chimney. It looked like a painting of somewhere time forgot.
A woman met me at the gate.
"Car trouble?" she asked.
"How did you know?"
"Only reason anyone walks this road." She opened the gate. "Storm's coming. You'd better come in."
Her name was Edith.
Sixty-three years old. Two hundred and eighty pounds. Hands rough from farm work, face weathered from sun, eyes sharp enough to cut.
"Husband died five years ago," she explained, pouring coffee in her kitchen. "Run the place myself since."
"Alone?"
"Alone." She sat across from me. "Neighbors check in sometimes. Otherwise, just me and the animals."
"Must be lonely."
"Sometimes." She looked at me. Really looked. "You married?"
"Divorced."
"Where were you headed?"
"Conference in Minneapolis. Doesn't matter now."
"No." She smiled. "I suppose it doesn't."
The storm hit at 8 PM.
Wind that shook the windows. Rain that sounded like gravel on the roof. Lightning that turned night into day.
"Electricity's out," Edith announced, lighting candles. "Happens every big storm. Won't be back until Monday."
"Monday? It's Friday."
"I know." She handed me a candle. "You're stuck here all weekend. I hope that's okay."
"Do I have a choice?"
"Not really." She smiled again. Something different in it now. "I'll make up the spare room. Unless..."
"Unless?"
"Unless you'd rather not be alone."
We started with dinner.
She'd been cooking when I arrived—pot roast, potatoes, vegetables from her garden. We ate by candlelight, drinking wine she'd made herself.
"You don't get many visitors," I observed.
"Hardly any." She refilled my glass. "Young man like you, showing up at my door... feels like providence."
"I'm not that young. Forty-two."
"That's young to me." Her foot found mine under the table. "Young enough."
"Edith—"
"I'm going to be direct." She set down her fork. "I haven't been touched in five years. Haven't felt wanted. Haven't felt alive in that way." Her eyes held mine. "You're here for three days. I'm not asking for forever. Just... company."
I should have politely declined.
Found a way to sleep in the barn, wait for the storm to pass, pretend nothing had been offered.
Instead, I said: "Show me your bedroom."
She undressed with practical efficiency.
Flannel nightgown over her head. Cotton undergarments folded on a chair. Body revealed in candlelight—heavy breasts, rounded belly, hips wide from childbearing, skin soft from years of weather.
"I know I'm not—"
"Don't." I crossed to her. "Don't apologize for anything."
"You're kind."
"I'm honest." I kissed her. "You're beautiful."
"You don't have to say that."
"I know." I kissed her again. "I'm saying it anyway."
We went slowly.
Exploring. Relearning. Her body remembered things her mind had forgotten—the way to arch into a kiss, the sounds to make when touched, the rhythm of desire long suppressed.
"Oh—" She gasped when I found her breast. "I forgot—I forgot how good—"
"Let yourself feel it."
"I'm trying—" She pulled me closer. "I'm trying—"
"Don't try." I lowered her to the bed. "Just feel."
I made love to Edith like time had stopped.
Which, in a way, it had.
No schedule. No conference. No world beyond this farmhouse and this storm and this woman who'd been alone too long.
I kissed every inch of her. Found places that made her cry out, places that made her laugh, places she'd forgotten could feel anything at all.
"Please—" She was begging now, five years of need cracking open. "I need—I need you inside me—"
I slid into her.
And everything changed.
She wept when she came.
Not sad tears—release. Five years of loneliness, of grief, of touch-starvation flooding out with her orgasm.
"God—" She was shaking. "I didn't know—I didn't know I still could—"
"You can." I held her. "You absolutely can."
"Again?" she asked. "Can we—again?"
"The storm lasts all weekend." I kissed her forehead. "We can do whatever you want."
We made love through Friday night.
Then Saturday. Then Sunday.
The storm raged outside. Inside, we created our own weather—hot and cold, thunder and calm, the endless rhythm of two bodies learning each other.
"Stay," she whispered on Sunday night.
"The storm's ending."
"I don't mean the storm." She pulled me close. "Stay. Here. With me."
"I have a life—"
"Do you?" She looked at me. "A conference you didn't want to attend. A divorce you haven't processed. A job you never mention." Her hand found my face. "What's waiting for you out there that's better than this?"
I stayed.
Not forever—at first, I told myself. Just until I figured things out.
But weeks became months. Months became a year.
I learned to farm. To fix things. To wake up next to a woman who wanted me, needed me, loved me in a way I'd never experienced.
"The conference called again," Edith says one morning. Two years now. "They want to know if you're coming back."
"What should I tell them?"
"Tell them what you told me." She pulls me toward the bedroom. "That you found somewhere better."
I found somewhere better.
I found someone better.
I found home.