May the 2nd, 1420

He woke from dreams of mist and darkness, suddenly sitting upright in his bed, shivering and barely able to breathe. For a few seconds he was completely disoriented, but then he remembered… and the tension left his body.

He gazed down at her… her lovely face, the tanned neck and the beautiful curve of her shoulders. Her breasts were invisible, but the thought of last night brought back the memory of their loveliness and the way they felt under his hands. Had he really… oh yes, he had, and now he felt a sudden heat rising in his cheeks.

She opened her eyes.

“Did you sleep well, my love?” Her voice was a soft murmur.

His answer was hopelessly honest: “Could be better.” A short pause. “It’s the dreams.”

She smiled at him, her gaze filled with unerring confidence.

“Don't worry, my heart,” she said. “Just give me enough time.” Sam’s home

May the 1st, 1430

Sam woke up near dawn; faint light trickled through the curtains, and the other half of the bed was empty. The sheet felt cool under his hand. He got up, plodding down the hallway, following the faint whiff of a sweet aroma to the kitchen.

Rosie stood in front of the table, an apron over her nightgown, both hands buried in a bowl filled with dough. Another bowl was waiting on the windowsill, filled with apple slices and raisins, and she had lit candles in the three biggest candelabras available.

“What are you doing there, lass? It’s awfully soon to start baking, isn’t it?”

She shot him a sharp gaze.

“Would you make the crumbs, please?”

That was not the answer he had expected, but Sam knew an order when he heard one. He stepped obediently beside her, taking a third bowl and helping himself to a generous amount of butter, flour and sugar. They kneaded side by side in companionable silence, and he spread a handful of flour on the table when she reached for the rolling pin. Then the pie was in the heated oven and Rosie filled the kettle under the pump for tea. Outside, the sun had finally risen over the horizon, and the white walls of the kitchen shimmered rosy and golden.

Suddenly Rosie spoke.

“The day before our first anniversary, he sat here with me in the kitchen while I made an apple pie for you,” she said, her voice very soft. “‘You are Sam’s home’, he told me, ‘you are the rosebushes in the garden, the green rolling hills and the dark soil on his hands. Your love roots him in the Shire… thank you for being the woman you are, my dear Rose.’ And he kissed my hand.”

Their eyes met, and Sam swallowed.

“I miss him,” he whispered. “I miss him, Rosie.”

Her hand came up, stroking his cheek.

“Of course you do,” she replied. “How could you not? Be careful if you marry your Sam, my Mama warned me when you came back, for you’ll get not only a husband but an addlebrained, old bachelor extra. I guess she didn’t know better.”

To his surprise Sam heard himself laugh, but Rosie’s face was serious.

“Tell me something,” she said, her voice slightly tense. “Was Mr. Baggins right? Do I root you in the Shire? Am I really your… home?”

Sam cupped her face with both hands, drew her close, and kissed her until he felt her body relax in his embrace.

“You are my home and my roots,” he whispered close to her mouth. “You are my love, my heart and my hearthfire. And you always will be.” First things first

May the 1st, 1470

Sam sank down on the kitchen bench, heartily tired. He had spent the whole afternoon removing some stubborn roots in the back garden, and now his spine felt under his skin like a rotten broomstick.

I’m getting too old for this, he thought, too bad that Frodo-lad is in Michel Delving today… and that I couldn’t keep my hands away even though I know better.

His gaze wandered over the neatly laid table, grazing hazelnut rolls, freshly baked, dark bread and an apple pie with cinnamon crumbs. Rosie had perfected her cooking skills during fifty years of marriage to a dimension that made newlywed women pilgrimage to Bag End and listen to her advice with honest awe.

She came in, closing the door behind her and cutting off a noisy tohuwabohu of voices in the hallway; Sam could briefly sound out the shrill soprano of Ruby, the warm baritone of Robin and the penetrating tenor of young Tolman. He grinned inwardly, remembering a remark Merry Brandybuck had made last week when he came for a visit: Should there ever be an attack of ruffians again, there would be no need for my silver horn - as long as your youngest is around.

He smiled at his wife.

“What’s the uproar about, lass?”

“Oh, nothing important.” Rosie gave a snorting laughter. “Ruby accused Robin of using her newest festive blouse to make a bed for Tabby’s four kittens. Robin swore he had nothing to do with it, and then Tom sneaked by like embodied bad conscience, the blue silk ribbon from the sleeves of Ruby’s blouse dangling from the pocket of his trousers.”

Suddenly she leaned in and he felt her lips on his mouth, firm and sweet.

“And do you know what the best thing is? Within the next hour the trouble will be forgotten, they will be gone to the May feast on the Cotton farm, all of them, and we will finally be alone to have our own party.”

Sam caught her around the waist and pulled her close. With a surprised little shriek she gave in to his movement and sat down… a heavier weight than fifty years ago on that very day, but still highly cherished and deeply appreciated. And loved.

He kissed her back.

“Fifty years ago I would have carried you to the bedroom with no eye for those delicacies. But today I’d like to eat something before… erh… dessert.”

She giggled softly.

“Fifty years ago you had pig roast aplenty, a glass of wine and an enormous piece of strawberry cake before… dessert… and a generous helping of hazelnut pudding afterwards. I guess I have a better memory when it comes to kitchen business.”

Sam grinned ruefully.

“I definitely had a better stomach, and no mistake. But…” and his face brightened, “my appetite for you has never sagged, not a single day.”

She filled his plate generously.

First things first, he thought, happily digging his fork into the apple pie.