The summer I will never forget

The Summer I Will Never Forget

It was Saturday. I sat in my office, looking at the rain slapping against the large windowpanes. The view was like being underwater and looking up at several tall glass buildings. In some way, it was a pleasant change from the miles of brick and concrete that generally caught my eye. I had devoted my life and leisure hours to the highly successful company I had created. Frankly, whether it was sunny, rainy, or snowing, I hardly noticed.

But today, for the first time, I had a feeling of uneasiness—maybe because it was the height of summer. Most of my close colleagues had left for their summer holidays. I could almost hear them laughing with their children while building sandcastles on some sunny foreign beach. I looked at my diary. Why don’t I go away for four days at the end of next week? Somebody once told me Vilanova i la Geltrú, a town forty kilometres outside of Barcelona, was ideal for a long weekend. As it was the peak of the summer season, I thought there was very little chance of finding a satisfactory hotel. Still, I called a hotel I found on the internet: the Marea.

Speaking to them, I apologised for the last-minute decision and asked if they had a room from next Thursday night to Monday night.

"Sir," was the reply, "we have just had a cancellation, but it is for one of our best suites on the top floor. However, I am afraid we can only make it available on a weekly basis, from Wednesday next week to Tuesday night the following week."

I held the phone away from my ear while my brain spun like a top, calculating the right decision. Within five minutes, all the necessary paperwork was finished and a deposit was paid.

The following Wednesday, I walked into an elegantly furnished suite with a magnificent view of the sun slowly setting over the Mediterranean Sea. As I threw my jacket over a chair, I was determined to view it as a symbolic act—shedding the weight of all the responsibilities I lived under daily. That night, I walked to a local bistro for dinner and went to bed early.

The next morning, I went down to breakfast and was pleased to see a small à la carte menu served at a table designated under my name. I had a table overlooking the beach. It was certainly a privileged spot, but I supposed it came with the cost of the room. I looked around the dining room; this was a brand-new experience for me. I think the last time I had a proper summer holiday was with my parents, when I must have been in my early teens.

To my right was a family of four. The two children seemed to have no interest in breakfast; they were champing at the bit to go to the beach. There were three tables with young couples: two couples were holding hands across the table, while the third looked as though their night had been unsettling. There was another table with a family of five enthusiastically planning their day ahead.

Then I noticed a group of three people on my left, finishing their coffee and about to leave. From where I sat, I saw two elderly, good-looking parents with what I assumed was their grown-up daughter. It was the daughter who caught my attention. Not only was she as striking as her parents, but her face radiated a kindness and an understanding of life that was extraordinarily rare. I could not stop staring. My gaze was interrupted by a waitress asking for my breakfast order. While replying, I saw out of the corner of my eye the handsome trio leaving. The younger woman left in a wheelchair. The sight cast a sudden shadow over my morning.

At ten, I went down to the lobby to get a map of the city, intending to find the local market during my morning walk. I had slept extremely well, and my desire to shed my coat of responsibilities seemed to be working. There in the entrance hall, I saw a wheelchair with two elderly people trying to navigate some steps. I rushed over.

“Please, let me help.”

“That would be very kind of you," the gentleman replied. "I suffer from occasional arthritis, which is sometimes very painful.”

“Where are you headed?”

“We are just going for a morning walk to the market.”

“Extraordinary! I came down to find a map because I intended to walk to the market myself. It would be my pleasure to help you with the wheelchair. But first, let me introduce myself. I am Richard Cross from England.”

He introduced himself as Henri Deprez, and his wife as Sophie. "And in the wheelchair is our daughter, Rebecca."

Up to this moment, all I had seen of her was a large straw sunhat that covered her entire face. Now, the hat tilted back.

“Hello, I am Rebecca.”

She was even more beautiful than I had imagined. It wasn’t only that aura of kindness and understanding that I had perceived from a distance; it was the complex harmony that truly makes a face beautiful—the high cheekbones, the delicacy and colouring of her skin, the perfect line of her nose, and the sparkle, depth, and rich colour of her eyes. Framed by a mass of long dark hair, she had beauty in spades. All I could manage to say was, “I am very pleased to meet you.”

The four of us set off for the market with me pushing the wheelchair. It was a very peculiar feeling. First, I had never assisted anyone with a mobility impairment before; second, my hands on the wheelchair handles seemed to shake with sudden emotion. As we trundled through the market, many locals called out greetings, asking Rebecca how things were progressing. Finally, we found a quiet café with a shaded terrace brimming with flowers. After positioning the wheelchair, we sat down, and I asked, “Tell me, why is it that you know so many people in the market?”

By this time, Rebecca had taken off her hat and was preparing to join the conversation. She looked adorable nestled amongst the flowers.

Her father replied, “The hotel you are staying in used to be our family residence. We sold it to the present owners on the understanding that they would demolish the old house to create a hotel of superior standing. Part of the deal was that we would be given a two-bedroom apartment in the new building. Our main residence is near Madrid, but we come here for a month every summer.”

Rebecca looked at me. Her dark blue eyes had a powerful effect on my emotions. “Richard... may I call you Richard?”

“Of course.”

“First, let’s order coffee. I know you are dying to know why I am in a wheelchair.”

As we drank our coffee, Rebecca shared her story. “A few years ago, a friend and I were hitchhiking in Southern Spain. We accepted a lift from a handsome man driving an open-top sports car. It was the greatest error of my life. He started showing off... the inevitable happened, and we went off the road at high speed. Both he and my friend died. I barely survived, with a very slim chance of recovering from multiple spinal injuries. This resulted in several months in the hospital. I now follow a rigorous occupational therapy programme in the hope of making some sort of recovery. Richard, you've been such a trooper wheeling me about all morning—tell us a little about yourself.”

“I came to Spain promising myself I would spend five days enjoying the beauty of the country, learning what a holiday actually means, and getting some long nights of sleep," I explained. "You see, I am one of those people who has created a successful business. It is my master, and I am its slave. Seven days a week, throughout the year, my existence is devoted to the responsibilities of looking after a large workforce. So, I came here to feel like a bird let out of its cage for the very first time. My first morning has been spent in delightful company, and I only wish it may continue.”

We walked back to the hotel for the afternoon siesta and agreed to meet for dinner. I lay down on my bed, reflecting on how I had been introduced to the local market—which seemed to be the heart of all social activity here—and how I had met a family I was anxious to know better. Their daughter had opened my eyes to an entirely different way of living. I fell asleep, deeply content.

Dinner that night provided the perfect opportunity to learn more about them. Rebecca was a delightful companion—witty, amusing, and quick to laugh, with a timbre in her voice like the sound of clear water flowing over smooth stones. Her parents belonged to an old, aristocratic Spanish family, and her father owned a large business outside Madrid, though I purposely avoided talking shop. Both parents were sophisticated, elegant people, blessed with a strong sense of civic responsibility. I learned that they also had a younger son studying at Harvard.

The conversation flowed effortlessly between the four of us, touching on politics, the cultural differences between Spain and England, hopes and worries for the future, books, films, and their health challenges. The parents mentioned that Rebecca had been under strict medical care for over three years to heal her damaged back. Rebecca laughed it off lightly as her cross to bear. Amidst all the wonderful conversation, the night slipped away so quickly that the waiters eventually began closing down the restaurant around us.

My holiday suddenly found its true focus. I spent almost all my time with Rebecca, occasionally sharing dinners with her parents. At one of those dinners, they introduced me to ten of their closest local friends, resulting in an evening rich with local politics and tourism talk.

Looking after Rebecca was an absolute pleasure. One day, I hired a car and we spent the afternoon in the countryside, visiting an aunt and uncle who ran a fruit farm. For me, it was a perfect, cloudless day; I felt completely relaxed just listening to genuine, hardworking people talk about their lives. I also accompanied Rebecca to one of her occupational therapy sessions, watching her try desperately to find movement in her legs. Another afternoon was spent on the beach, where I carried her into the surf so she could feel the sea flowing over her skin.

On my last night, I asked her if we could have dinner with just the two of us, having reserved a terrace table at one of the town's finest restaurants. She looked gorgeous. Towards the end of the meal, which had been full of laughter and gaiety, I stood up and leaned in close.

“Rebecca, may I kiss you?”

“Well, yes... but surely not here?”

“I cannot think of a better place.”

With that, I leaned down and planted a tender kiss on her lips. After a few seconds, she opened her eyes and looked at me with a love and tenderness I will never forget. She took my head in both her hands and returned a passionate, lingering kiss. Our souls felt entirely entwined.

The next morning, I waved goodbye, promising to stay in touch. There were warm hugs all around, even from the hotel manager.

I went straight from the airport to my office. My staff were the first to tell me how much they had wondered where I was; they seemed entirely lost without me. There were a few emergencies I had to handle immediately, followed by replying to messages, greenlighting meetings, and reading the weekly activity report. I worked late into the night before finally leaving for my Chelsea home.

Sitting in the back of my chauffeur-driven car, I contemplated why my six-day absence had caused such a stir. Those few days of holiday had taught me invaluable lessons in the art of a well-balanced lifestyle. Today proved to me that I hadn't been giving my staff enough autonomy; they needed to carry responsibility without my continual supervision. In the early hours of the morning, I finally fell into bed, my mind drifting back to the wonderful holiday I had spent in Spain.

I woke up late the next morning, thinking of Rebecca and the time we had shared. I had deeply enjoyed looking after her—her presence, her smile, and the warmth of her family. I promised myself that if I found a spare moment in the busy day ahead, I would send her an email. I finally managed to write to her in the late afternoon. This first message sparked a constant, daily flow of chatty emails that lasted all through the winter and into the late spring. They became the part of my life I cherished the most.

In the late spring, I received an unexpected email from Rebecca saying she had an important meeting in London in three days' time. She was planning to arrive on Tuesday afternoon and asked if I could recommend a hotel. I thought the suddenness of the request was a bit unusual, assuming it must concern her medical treatments. Over the last few months, she had told me that, slowly but surely, she was regaining movement in her legs. I immediately wrote back:

Rebecca dearest,

You are more than welcome to stay at my house in Chelsea. My housekeeper, Doris, will take excellent care of you. If you give me your flight number, I will send my chauffeur to the airport to meet you. I see from my diary that I have a board meeting on the afternoon of your arrival, but I promise to be home by 7:00 PM.

At the promised hour, I arrived home. Doris opened the door.

“Has my guest arrived, Doris?”

“Yes, sir. She is out in the garden having a cup of tea.”

I hurried through the double doors into the garden. Catching sight of her from behind, I noticed there was no wheelchair—only a walking cane resting beside the garden chair.

She rose and turned toward me. She stood there entirely unsupported, smiling beautifully.

“The important meeting is with you," she said. "Come and kiss me.”

As I stepped forward, I knew at that exact moment where my entire future lay.

David Nutt June 2026