Season of Trust
In early May, when the grass had taken on a deep, juicy green and the morning mist still clung to the veranda panes, Evelyn and Thomas finally began to wonder whether they might rent out their cottage themselves, without any middlemen. The idea had been ripening for weeksfriends had spoken of agency fees, forums were full of grumbles about estate agents. What mattered most, though, was the wish to decide for themselves who could be trusted with the house that had sheltered them for the last fifteen summers.
After all, a cottage isnt just square metres, Thomas said, pruning the wilted raspberry canes while stealing a glance at his wife. Wed like people to treat it with respect, not as a cheap hotel.
Evelyn dabbed her hands on a towel at the porch and nodded. That year they planned to stay in town longerMolly, their daughter, was about to start a crucial stage of her schooling, and Evelyn would need to help. The cottage would sit empty for most of the summer, yet the upkeep costs would never disappear. The solution seemed obvious.
That evening, after dinner, they walked through the housefamiliar route, now seen through a fresh lens: what needed tidying, what should be tucked away so as not to tempt strangers with superfluous clutter. Books and family photographs were boxed and stored on the high shelves; fresh linen was folded in a neat stack. In the kitchen Evelyn stripped the cupboards down to the essentials.
Lets record everything, Thomas suggested, pulling out his phone. They snapped pictures of each room, the garden bench, even the old bicycle leaning against the shedjust in case. Evelyn jotted down the minutiae: number of pots, types of duvet covers, where the spare set of keys lay.
Later, as a gentle May shower turned the garden paths into puddles, they posted an advertisement on a rental website. The photographs turned out bright: through the windows one could see tomato vines already stretching up past the greenhouse, while dandelions blossomed thick along the path to the gate.
Waiting for the first inquiries felt both anxious and oddly joyouslike the moment before guests arrive, everything is ready but you have no idea who will step through the door. Calls came quickly: some asked about WiFi and the TV, others whether dogs or children were allowed. Evelyn answered honestly and in detailshe remembered how it felt to look for a place herself and knew the value of the little things.
The first renters arrived at the end of May: a young couple with a sevenyearold child and a mediumsized Labrador, who over the phone had assured them the dog was utterly quiet. They signed a simple paper on the spot, name and address at the top, payment terms underneath. Evelyn felt a flutter of nerves; the contract was not formally registered, but that seemed sensible for a seasonal arrangement.
The first days passed peacefully. Evelyn visited once a week to check the garden and water the tomatoes, bringing fresh towels or a loaf of bread from town. The renters were friendly: the child waved from the kitchen window, the dog greeted her at the gate.
After three weeks, the rent began to slip. At first the excuses were forgetfulness or a bank error, then vague stories about unexpected expenses.
Just what we needmore nerves, Thomas muttered, scrolling through messages on his phone as the sun set behind the apple trees, casting golden ribbons across the floorboards.
Evelyn tried to negotiate gently: gentle reminders, offers to split the payment later. Yet tension grew; each conversation left a lingering awkwardness and a vague, exhausting fatigue.
By midJune it became clear: the renters intended to leave early and had left part of the payment unpaid. When they moved out, the cottage smelled faintly of cigarettes on the porch (despite the request not to smoke indoors), trash littered under the veranda, and paint stains marred the kitchen table.
Ah, the utterly quiet dog, Thomas said, eyeing the scratched pantry door.
They spent the day cleaning in silence: hauling out rubbish, scrubbing the stove, washing old towels. The strawberry plants at the fence were already blushing with fruit; between tasks Evelyn plucked a handful of berriessweet, still warm from the rain.
After that episode they argued for a long time: should they continue at all? Perhaps they should enlist an agency? The notion of strangers handling their home and taking a cut for merely handing over the keys felt wrong.
By midsummer they tried again, this time choosing tenants more cautiously, demanding a months advance and spelling out the house rules in detail.
The new experience proved no better. A family of two adults and a teenager arrived on Saturday evening and immediately invited guests for a couple of days. The parties stayed for almost a whole week, laughing loudly in the yard and barbecuing until the small hours.
Evelyn called several times, asking them to keep noise down after eleven. Thomas checked the garden and found empty bottles beneath the lilac bushes.
When they finally left, the cottage looked weary: the sofa was splattered with wine, trash bags lingered by the shed, and cigarette butts lay under the apple tree.
How much longer can we endure this? Thomas murmured, sorting the remnants of the barbecue.
Evelyn felt a growing disappointment; it seemed unfair that people treated their home as if it were theirs.
Maybe were at fault? We should have been stricter, she thought.
In August another enquiry arrived: a young couple without children wanted the cottage for a week. After the previous dramas, Evelyn was especially meticulousshe clarified every condition over the phone, insisted on photo documentation at movein, and requested a deposit.
The renters agreed without protest; they met at the gate in the scorching midday heat, the air trembling over the path to the shed, insects buzzing from the open windows.
At the end of their stay they discovered the microwave was ruinedsomeone had heated foil insideand they refused to pay for the damage.
We barely broke anything! It was an accident! the woman protested.
Evelyn felt anger rise for the first time that summer, but she held back sharp words.
Lets try to resolve this calmly. Accidents happen. Lets agree on compensation without a fight.
After a brief discussion they kept part of the deposit to cover the repair and left without a scene.
When the gate slammed shut behind them and only the heat and the hum of bees remained under the terrace roof, Thomas and Evelyn felt a strange mix of relief and fatigue.
They both knew this could not go on.
That evening, as the heat lingered and the long shadows of the apple tree stretched across the yard, they sat on the veranda with a notebook. The air was scented with freshly cut grass and appleslarge Antonovka fruits lay halffallen to the ground. Evelyn flipped through the photos taken at the last checkin, silently marking with ticks everything that now required attention.
We need a detailed checklist, she said without looking up. So everyone knows what to leave behind: dishes, appliances, linen, rubbish.
Thomas nodded. He was weary of the endless talks, but understood that without a list things would revert to the old way. They wrote that photos should be taken together with guestsat arrival and departure. They added a clause about the deposit, clarified the key handover process, listed how to use the appliances, and what to do if something broke.
They argued over wording for a long timetrying not to sound hostile, to make people feel like guests rather than suspects. Each line kept a sliver of trust, yet drew a clear boundary. Evelyn insisted the contract include a phone number for emergenciesso anyone could call straight away if needed.
Later, as night fell and the veranda grew cool, the tablecloth damp from evening dew, they no longer quarreled. The new checklist was neatly transcribed into a notebook, then typed into a spreadsheet on the laptop. The photo archive was sorted into folders: before, after, handover, return. It felt as if they had washed not only the kitchen counter but also a hidden corner of their minds.
The first test came quickly. In early August a woman called to ask about the rules, listened carefully to the photo requirement and deposit, and asked for details. She arrived with her husband and teenage daughter. The family seemed calm: they asked where the garden tools were kept, whether they could use the bike, and when to water the roses by the porch.
Wed like to stay for two weeks, if thats alright, the woman said, signing the agreement without hesitation.
Together they toured the cottage, noting the condition of furniture and appliances. Evelyn pointed out spare bulbs, showed how the irrigation pump worked. The family listened, took photos, even asked where to dispose of waste.
Will it inconvenience you if we come for the harvest? the husband asked, holding the gate open.
Not at all, Evelyn smiled. Just give us a headsup.
This time everything moved differently. No complaints arrived during the two weeks. When Evelyn checked the greenhouse, the kitchen was spotless, and a bowl of freshly picked strawberries sat on the table with a note: Thank you for the trust. All is well.
Thomas peeked into the shed: bicycles stood still, tools neatly arranged. No bottles, no butts. Someone had swept away last years leaves under the apple tree. Even the microwave was gleaming.
On the day of departure the family met them at the gate, walked through the house, crosschecking the checklist. Evelyn ticked off: no new scratches, linen washed and folded.
Thank you for the clear instructions, the woman said as she left. It made things easier for us and for you.
Evelyn returned a restrained smile; caution still lingered inside, but her heart felt lighter. They refunded the deposit without fuss. The contract and checklist were tucked away in a folderready for the next season.
August waned. Days grew shorter, mornings cloaked the beds in a gentle mist. Evelyn and Thomas cleared the plot, gathering the last courgettes and peppers, trimming the dry blackcurrant branches. The house smelled of apples and fresh laundry.
That summer they learned to say no without guilt, to explain rules without irritation. Each point on the new checklist whispered carenot suspicion, but concern for the house and its guests.
Its calmer now, Thomas confessed one evening, standing at the window, watching the darkening garden. I used to fear that too many conditions would drive people away. Now I see that honesty makes it easier for a decent person.
Evelyn smiled from the hallway, a basket of apples in her hands. She knew trust had not vanishedit had simply matured, become more guarded but not closed.
In September they posted another advert, this time with confidence rather than anxiety. The description listed every rule, accompanied by photos of rooms, the garden, and the checklist laid on the kitchen table.
Responses came quickly. People asked practical questions about water and heating, about transport links. One young man wrote, Thanks for the honesty and detailits rare these days.
Evelyn and Thomas discussed the upcoming season without the old fatigue. They understood that peace was possible, provided they paid attentionto themselves and to those who would stay in their home.
The final night before the cottage closed for the year was unusually quiet. A gentle wind brushed the fields; somewhere a dog barked faintly. Thomas locked the shed with a new padlock and joined Evelyn on the veranda.
Think we should add anything else to the rules? he asked.
No, she replied. Weve learned the essentials. Just remember to stay human.
They sat together, watching the garden. Ahead lay another season and new encountersthis time without the fear of losing what mattered most.
