The Cottage in the Douro – Part 1: Terraces

The cottage stood at the top of a terraced hill, among vines that fell away in green steps to the river.

"There is no signal," said Henrique, holding his phone up at the window like an offering.

"Good," said Beatriz.

"No wifi."

"Better."

"No office."

She took the phone from his hand and put it in the kitchen drawer, with the key to the car. "Henrique. We have run the shop for twenty years. Nobody will die if we are unreachable for two days."

He looked unconvinced. He was forty-seven, solid and kind, with a habit of checking his pockets for his keys even when he was holding them. She had loved that habit for twenty-two years.

The cottage was warm, whitewashed and simple. The friend had left a basket by the door: bread, olives, a jar of honey and a bottle of Douro red, dark as ink. They carried it all out to the terrace, where the whole valley opened in front of them, gold in the late sun.

"I had forgotten it looked like this," said Beatriz.

"The valley?"

"Us. Without the spreadsheets."

He poured the wine, and they sat shoulder to shoulder on the stone wall, watching a boat crawl down the river far below like a small white insect.

"Can I ask you something?" said Henrique.

"Yes."

"When did we last do nothing?"

She thought about it honestly. "The honeymoon."

"Twenty-two years."

"I was thinking twenty."

"I am trying to be generous," said Henrique, and she laughed until she had to put down her glass.

"Green?" he said, softly.

"Green," said Beatriz. "Very green. Come here, husband."

Continue the story: Part 2 – Harvest Light.