ESCAPE TO SEAHAVEN BAY

  NICOLA MAY

  ALSO BY NICOLA MAY

  Seahaven Bay

  Marry Me in Seahaven Bay

  How Do I Tell You?

  How to Fix a Broken Heart

  Cockleberry Bay

  The Corner Shop in Cockleberry Bay

  Meet Me in Cockleberry Bay

  The Gift of Cockleberry Bay

  Christmas in Cockleberry Bay

  Ferry Lane Market

  Welcome to Ferry Lane Market

  Starry Skies in Ferry Lane Market

  Rainbows End in Ferry Lane Market

  A Holiday Romance in Ferry Lane Market

  Ruby Matthews

  Working it Out

  Let Love Win

  Star Fish

  The School Gates

  Better Together

  Love Me Tinder

  Christmas Evie

  Escape to Futtingbrook Farm

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Email Signup

  Also by Nicola May

  A Letter from the Author

  How Do I Tell You?

  How to Fix a Broken Heart

  Why I Wrote This Story

  haven (noun) a place of safety or refuge: a haven for wildlife. A haven in times of trouble: a haven of peace and tranquillity

  ‘There is a voice that doesn’t use words. Listen.’

  – Rumi

  For Harry and Jeff – my safe haven

  ONE

  Rita Jory sat at her desk in the study surrounded by curling receipts, unopened bank statements, and a growing sense of dread. She was sorting through bills she couldn’t afford to pay, juggling minimum payments on credit cards that had long since lost their shine. Living on credit and dust, she thought as tears sprang to her eyes. The five thousand pounds she’d squirrelled away, her ‘just-in-case’ safety net, had all but vanished.

  With her head in her hands, she let out a long, tired breath. Something had to give.

  She couldn’t keep pretending this was sustainable. The farmhouse, beautiful as it was, was too big, too quiet and too expensive for one. The idea of selling up flickered at the edge of her mind, unwelcome and frightening. She looked around at the familiar, worn furniture in the study that had once been the farm office, the framed family photos on the shelves, the view of the fields from the window by the desk. This place held everything, memories, love, mistakes. Letting it go would feel like losing the last thread connecting her to a life that once made sense. It would feel like letting Archie down.

  She stood abruptly. She had to get out, clear her head, breathe in some sea air, talk to someone with two legs. Anything to stop the rising panic from settling in.

  The blue Suzuki Jimny coughed into life with a familiar judder, the engine giving its usual unnerving shake before settling into a throaty purr. Twenty years old and proud of it, the car was squat, boxy, and slightly battered. One wing mirror was held on with duct tape, the paint had faded to the colour of a stormy sky, and the interior smelled faintly of wet dog. Archie had always said he’d buy her a new car, but Rita didn’t want one, saw no point. Plus, she loved the quirkiness of Jimmy the Jimny. She checked the petrol gauge, relieved to see she wouldn’t need to fill up just yet – another expense she could ill afford right now.

  Archie’s much newer Land Rover still sat parked behind the hay barn. Despite everything, she couldn’t bring herself to sell it. It still smelled of him inside and besides, as Archie always used to say, ‘It’s always good to have a back-up.’

  He had always been a sensible husband in so many ways. Practical, measured, a man who rarely acted on impulse. That steady nature had rubbed off on her over the years, quietly taming her spontaneity. Was that a good thing? She wasn’t sure anymore.

  Which was why the convertible he’d bought himself had taken her by surprise. A shiny, impractical flash of mid-life madness that didn’t fit the man she knew. She couldn’t understand how it figured into all his carefully laid plans, but, as always, he’d schmoozed her into it with that easy charm. He’d promised moonlit drives along the cliff path, the roof down, the wind in their hair, and a bottle of something fizzy waiting in the boot.

  She turned the radio up loud to drown out the familiar, exhausting whirl of what ifs circling her mind like greedy gulls. What if she’d been firmer, forbidden him from buying it altogether? What if she’d chased after him that day instead of letting the door slam shut on his obvious anger? What if he’d just stayed five more minutes, long enough to cool off, long enough to come back? What if he’d taken a different route? What if she’d made him a coffee, distracted him, delayed him, anything? He might still be here now.

  As Rita’s old jeep rolled out of the gravel drive of Seahaven Farm, tyres crunching over the potholes, and turned left onto the lane that wound its way the ten-minute journey to the harbour, she tried to push her muddled thoughts out of her mind. It was ridiculous to live somewhere so beautiful, in a place she loved, and not be able to appreciate it, nor make ends meet. She had to find a way. The road snaked steeply downhill, flanked by hedgerows, bright green and heavy with springtime, and fields that sloped lazily toward the glinting sea. With the windows down, she turned the music up and breathed deeply, inhaling the salty air whipping through the car. For the first time in a while, Rita felt a moment of much-needed peace.

  The harbour at Seahaven Bay really was picture-postcard beautiful. A horseshoe of weathered stone wrapped protectively around a jumble of fishing boats, yachts, and a couple of old trawlers which, when on fishing downtime, served as a favourite perch for the odd cormorant. Tangled ropes and salt-stained buoys lined the quay, where lobster pots were stacked beside coils of sun-bleached rope. Gulls wheeled overhead, crying out as if they owned the place. Which, in a way, Rita thought, they did.

  On the corner where the cobbled quay met the narrow, winding road up through the town stood the Winking Pilchard, Seahaven Bay’s oldest pub. Despite its peeling teal paint, tile-slipped roof, and empty hanging baskets waiting for their summer injection of colour, it still remained a firm favourite with locals and tourists alike.

  From the first time she had holidayed here as child, Rita had loved the hustle and bustle of Seahaven Bay, with its harbour the centre point, flanked by narrow, winding, and sloping streets and even steeper stone stairways. A plethora of businesses new and old, including the Pasty Palace, Batter Days and Fiona’s Fudge endlessly flogged their wares.

  Dotted amid the shops and eateries were street-facing houses and short, pebbled alleyways leading to secret low doorways.

  Betty’s Tearoom had been a regular haunt for Rita and her children through the years. Painted a cheerful buttercup yellow, the harbourside café’s awning fluttered like a gingham flag in the wind.

  Betty Bloom, with her white hair, now dyed a bright pink, ran the place like a flour-dusted general. She’d been baking in Seahaven Bay longer than Rita had been alive and swore she could judge a person’s character by how they prepared and devoured a cream tea. Woe betide anyone who put cream on a scone first on her shift!

  As Rita walked by, Betty waved frantically from the large bay window to usher her inside.

  ‘All right, my lover.’ Betty’s soft Cornish accent soothed Rita’s frayed nerves as she stepped into the café. ‘I was thinking of you just yesterday and wondered how you were getting on. Even said to my Derek, “I haven’t seen that Rita Jory for a while,” and here you are.’

  Rita made her way to the counter. ‘Aw, that’s nice to hear and wow, it smells extra good in here today.’

  Betty, standing behind the counter, expertly slid a tray of plump and golden scones into the display case, then wiped her hands down her apron, smiling gently. ‘How are you coping, darling? I bet you miss the big fella, like we all do.’

  ‘I’m all right.’ Rita sighed. ‘Grief’s a funny thing. I’ll be OK for days then something, a song, or an expression Archie might have used, will just trigger me and I’ll start howling like a banshee. Last time it was “Fields of Gold”, would you believe. Sting was on the radio. And suddenly I could picture Archie, laughing in the field behind the b
arn, grass in his teeth, pretending to be a scarecrow. And there I was, sobbing like Robbie had left Take That again.’

  Betty shook her head in sympathy. ‘I can’t even imagine. Derek grinds me down most of the time, and – husband number four or not – I’d miss the old bugger if he weren’t here.’ She blew out a huge, exaggerated breath. ‘Well, the good news, young Rita, is that you’re just in time for a hot cuppa and one of these.’ The pink-haired woman pointed to a fresh batch of cinnamon buns. ‘On me. And I insist.’

  Rita smiled. ‘And I will gladly take you up on that offer, thank you.’

  Rita sat whilst the affable baker served a giggly young couple who were clasping hands across their table as if they couldn’t bear to let go. Rita watched them with a quiet smile, and a touch of heartache.

  Betty, tea towel over her shoulder, brought over the tea and tasty pastry and with a massive ‘oof’ sat her ample frame down opposite Rita. She lowered her voice. ‘Look at those two, either having an affair or just met. No normal couple would be that close once they realise men and women shouldn’t really share a bathroom, let alone a whole life together.’

  Thinking that maybe Betty and her mother-in-law should do a comedy double act, Rita shoved a bit of pastry in her mouth and shut her eyes at the deliciousness of it.

  Betty smiled at the sight of her enjoying her fresh bakes.

  ‘I see a Reformer Pilates studio has opened on Fore Street,’ Rita said, taking a tentative sip of her tea ready for the full rundown.

  ‘Ooh yes.’ Betty’s expression became animated. ‘Very plush. Not sure why they had to show off with all those balloons outside, though. Caught a glimpse of the woman who runs it – has eyebrows on her hairline and dressed head to toe in pink Lycra. She’s come down from Liverpool, evidently.’

  Rita couldn’t help but laugh.

  Betty lowered her voice again. ‘So, forgive me for being so ancient, but what exactly is it? I’ve heard of Pilates, of course, but the “Reformer” bit makes it sound even posher. I was going to say I’d better get with the lingo if they are going to be coming in here, but the people who go there will probably only eat tofu and drink milk straight from the teat of a donkey like those Egyptians used to do.’

  ‘Machines.’ Rita shook her head at Betty’s bluntness and grinned. ‘Apparently, it’s all about strengthening your core and stretching muscles, but with a bit of fancy equipment.’

  Betty raised an eyebrow. ‘Oh, I tried one of those wobbly plates once. My tits went so berserk I had to get off for fear of giving myself two black eyes.’

  Rita laughed again. ‘What are you like! It’s meant to be brilliant exercise. I might try it when I get some time.’ Rita didn’t dare add ‘and money’ for fear of the Seahaven Bay Facebook Gossip Group getting hold of that news flash.

  ‘Fortunes to be made in this fitness lark now, aren’t there?’ Betty said as she stood up slowly. ‘Maybe it’s time I got into Lycra and started flogging glutes instead of gluten.’

  Rita’s shoulders shook. ‘Please don’t do that.’

  Betty was undeterred. ‘Evidently, charging twenty-eight quid a session, they are. I could use something to straighten this old back of mine. Do you think they’d let me come along for a trial?’

  Rita nodded. ‘I expect they’ll be keen to get locals through the door.’

  Betty’s eyes shone playfully. ‘I’d be better off getting my Derek to strap one of those physio resistance bands to the clothesline and shout encouragement at me from the patio.’

  And with that, both women burst into fits of laughter – even the doe-eyed couple looked up to wonder at what was so funny.

  TWO

  Rita had told herself the trip into Seahaven was for a bit of human contact and some basic supplies: eggs, butter and teabags, for her, and apple cider vinegar for the chickens. But deep down, she knew the real reason for her visit: she needed a book.

  Lately, her mind had been so jumpy. She’d started to read three novels and finished none, each one abandoned for a worry or dark thought and left dog-eared beside the bed. Reading used to soothe her, help her feel like herself. It was the quietest kind of healing, the kind that asked nothing, expected nothing, just let her rest inside someone else’s world for a while.

  The bell above the door of Sail Away chimed as she stepped inside, the hush of the little bookshop soothing her as it always did.

  Jude Finch looked up from behind the counter, his half-moon glasses sliding down his nose in a way that somehow felt intentional. His hair, already silvering, gave him a gravitas beyond his thirty plus years. Today, he wore cropped navy trousers, vintage trainers, and a Breton jumper, making Rita’s indigo jeans, black hoodie, light rain jacket and muddy trainers look especially scruffy by comparison.

  He’d arrived in the village six months ago, and as quite often happened in Seahaven Bay, his story quietly passed around the locals. Big London job, big flat, big break-up with a long-term boyfriend. Burned-out and broken-hearted, he’d packed up his curated coffee table books and swapped Soho for the sea.

  And now he ran Sail Away, a bookshop stroke literary hideaway, with handwritten recommendations, a back corner that perfectly fitted two immaculate Lloyd Loom chairs, and a fancy coffee machine.

  The locals had taken to him with curious affection. He was clearly not a local, but there was something about Jude’s presence that made people instinctively soften. Maybe it was the way he listened. Or maybe it was the quiet sadness he carried, the kind worn by people who’d left their old lives hoping to outrun their feelings, only to find they’d packed them too.

  ‘Long time, no see, Rita. I can’t even guess what you’d want to be disappearing into at the moment,’ he offered gently.

  Brushing a crumb off her jacket, she smiled weakly. ‘Something not too heavy, as yes, I’m finding it hard to concentrate for long on anything at the moment.’

  He tilted his head. ‘Leave it with me.’

  He disappeared into his neat shelves, returning a moment later with a copy of Wild by Cheryl Strayed.

  ‘It’s not a recent release. It’s about walking.’ He handed it to her. ‘But really, it’s about grief and losing your way, and then clawing it back through nature, solitude, and sheer bloody determination.’

  ‘I’ve heard of it.’ Rita turned it over in her hands. ‘Reese Witherspoon was in the film adaption wasn’t she? It’s been on my virtual list of must-get-round-to-reading for years.’

  ‘Then take this as a sign.’ Jude smiled.

  Mrs Munroe, Rita’s former cleaner and Queen of the Seahaven Bay Facebook Gossip Group, had said in her thick Cornish accent, ‘There’s a smell of a past unknown about that lad.’ But Rita, not one for gossip herself, always took Jude as she had found him. Past or no past he was polite and an incredible bookseller. It was the personal touch that always got to her. It was the way she believed all bookshops ought to be.

  She was just heading back up the hill to the car park when her eyes and ears were drawn to a bunch of neon pink balloons and the thumping music being piped from the external speakers of the Seahaven Bay Reformer Studio.

  Curiosity getting the better of her, Rita pushed the door open to be immediately hit by two things: Britney Spears’ ‘Toxic’ blaring from hidden speakers, and the gleam of a fully mirrored studio. One wall was boldly branded with a LONG SPINE, STRONG MIND slogan, scrawled like it had been written in pink lipstick. Inside, four red-faced Pilates devotees lay on their backs on Reformer machines, looking one shaky exhale away from total collapse as they finished their session.

  ‘Engage your cores, you floppy tarts! You’ll thank me when your arse looks like Margot Robbie’s!’ a Liverpudlian accent instructed.

  Rita tried to disguise her grin as the teacher spotted her in the mirror, swung round and ushered her to sit on one of two balance balls by the reception desk.

  Once the sweaty ladies had left, the woman approached Rita in a waft of delicious grapefruit-scented perfume. Betty had been spot on with the woman’s description, for she was in head-to-toe lilac Lycra, her bleach-blonde hair scraped into a high ponytail. Her lips were like plump cushions and her eyebrows so sharp they could slice through ham. Her perfectly fake-tanned body was firm and toned.