The Widower (18+) | [Complete]

One

When he passed away three, short years later, moments like those became my favorite memories of him. Boating past these islands reminded me how truly lucky I had been.

In the middle of my daydream, the engine sputtered to a stop. Crap.

I smacked the side of the engine over and over with my palm, but nothing responded. I turned to find the current had drifted me painfully close to the rocky coast of one of the largest islands and even closer to one of its jetties and ancillary structure that jutted out into the river. I pulled out the paddle steer away just as the engine purred to life.

I fell back into the boat, the paddle flying from my hand. The boat careened toward the structure—and as I screamed—smashed into the side of it.

. . .

I only realized I had been knocked out when I woke up. I lifted my head and almost passed out again. The pain was so sharp in my skull, I could think of nothing else. My vision came back and I uttered every curse word I knew.

I stood up carefully. My head throbbed, but it was bearable. I climbed out onto the shore and looked around. My boat was partially out of the water, mangled with the wood of the damaged structure. I felt lucky I had my phone to call for help.

Except, I didn't have my phone.

I continued to list more curse words and then migrated into other languages.

I stared up at the towering stone mansion on the hill above me and my stomach turned. A second later, I vomited onto the ground and began to feel light-headed once more. That's a sign of a concussion, right? I hadn't dated enough doctors to know the answer to that.

I walked a little further and made it out of the trees. A lovely, green lawn with sprawling gardens appeared in my view. As I continued to walk, a few people tending to it saw me and stared. I instinctively tried to smooth out my hair, but it made my head scream. A short man ran over to me and starting pulling me with him toward the medieval monstrosity before me.

"El doctor está adentro," he said. The doctor is inside. I nodded to him and followed his lead.

Once inside, my head began to throb again. "What's this fuss? What happened?" An older woman in an apron shuffled out of a room. Her pale skin and indiscernible British accent were the only things convincing me that she wasn't my mother. She looked so much like her—the dark, pixie haircut, and the cheerful, round cheeks—but maybe that was the head injury talking.

"I'm so sorry. I was on my boat and the engine malfunctioned," I explain.

"Oh, darlin'," the woman cooed. "I was askin' about your head!"

. . .

They had taken me to the infirmary inside the castle where a doctor inspected me and concluded I did indeed have a concussion. The older woman, Mildred, sat with me the whole time seeming truly concerned about my well-being. She kept me awake and talking, asking me about my work, my hometown, and eventually, my career despair. Without realizing it, I was spilling my life story to her—everything from my parents to my hesitation to move back home to Maine. She made me feel so safe, I forgot to call anyone.

"You are so young. There's no reason for you to fret over a family just yet," she flattered me.

"Do you have kids?" I asked her.

"None of my own, but I've raised my stepson since he was five." She handed me some tea. "And I've been the family's nanny for years. I see the master's children as my own as well."