Zenya, who could hear a worm turn in the soil, responded instantly to the faint crunch of Rita’s footstep; her tent zip whipped down and her head emerged, a long braid over one shoulder, yawning wildly.

  ‘Oh. Hi, Rita.’

  ‘Sorry, so sorry to disturb you. I just wondered if there were any strawberries left.’

  ‘I can do better than that.’ The pretty hippy whipped back inside her tent, then appeared holding a basket covered with a tea cloth.

  ‘I come bearing carbs.’ She lifted the cloth as if it were a metal cloche. ‘Spelt and caraway. Good for your stomach. A Betty’s Tearoom special.’

  Rita beamed. ‘Oh, sod being healthy, you’re a saint. Do you have any butter?’

  ‘No, but the Snack Shack fridge does.’

  With the goats and chickens fed and Henry sniffing around nearby, the pair sat on fold-up chairs at the end of the orchard, taking in the view and munching on the rolls, butter and

  homemade raspberry jam, a fresh flask of coffee at their side.

  ‘It really is just so idyllic here,’ Zenya crooned. ‘I pinch myself every day. Thank you so much for believing in me.’

  Rita smiled. ‘I never had a doubt.’

  ‘Even when I crawled out looking like some kind of neolithic woman making my nettle tea the day you met me.’

  ‘That made you even more employable.’

  They both laughed.

  ‘I can’t believe I missed the goats being born, oh my God they are so sweet… and I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to help you.’

  ‘Don’t be silly, I’m glad you have a life outside of here. We really must christen them.’

  ‘Ha, yes.’ Zenya smirked. ‘I’ve been thinking about this. Something suitably nonsensical, like Billy Idol or Vincent van Goat.’

  Rita shrieked. ‘Oh my God. Genius! Billy and Vince for short, that’s it… well done.’

  Zenya eyed Rita for a moment, then poured them both a top-up from the flask. ‘So, how are you feeling about the retreat? Now everyone’s gone, I mean.’

  Rita hesitated. ‘Honestly? A bit… wrung-out.’

  Zenya nodded. ‘I can only think of it like after a music festival. The noise stops and suddenly your own thoughts get loud. I hear you.’

  Rita exhaled, tearing a roll in half. ‘It went well, though, didn’t it? A proper mixed bunch but no one left early, and a couple hinted they may return.’

  ‘You should be really proud.’ Zenya nodded.

  ‘I am. Proud of how far we’ve come already. But I keep thinking about what’s next. How can we make it better? Is enough money coming in? All the worries of a new business. And I’d better shake myself as new guests are arriving in under three weeks.’

  Zenya smiled. ‘Don’t fret. We are a team and we’ve got this.’ She became animated. ‘I checked the review page last night. Every single one of the last lot have left a glowing report.’

  ‘Oh wow. I didn’t even think to look; that’s amazing. Um… what did Paul say?’

  ‘I’ll go and grab my phone – and something else I want to show you, hang on.’ Zenya darted to her tent then ran back and scrolled to the retreat Facebook page. ‘He gave five stars obviously and oh yes, here we go. A truly unforgettable stay. The yurt was surprisingly comfortable, the host incredibly attentive, and I left feeling… well, deeply satisfied on every level. Would absolutely come again. And again.’

  Rita reddened; Zenya smirked. ‘I told you that you were the hostess with the mostest.’

  ‘I’m saying nothing.’ Rita sighed.

  ‘You don’t need to… and Madam Satisfaction.’ Zenya reached into her pocket and pulled out a folded paper, a sketched floor plan. ‘You remember your idea of converting the outhouse into a fancier toilet and shower area? Well, we can do this quite easily. Keep the outside rustic; there is basic plumbing in there with the old utilities. And to keep in line with your sustainability thoughts, we can swap to a solar-powered water heater on the roof.’

  Rita opened the paper, eyes scanning the notes, the little drawings. ‘I love it,’ she said quietly. ‘Really love it.’

  Zenya tried to hide her delight. ‘Good. So I suggest we get this next shorter retreat out of the way, then we can start implementing changes for the next one. Jude’s friend from an eco-build co-op said he could take a quick look for free. It may be worth him looking at solar for the farmhouse too. I am pretty handy, and I know that Teo would get stuck in too.’ Zenya paused. ‘I hope you don’t think I’m interfering.’

  ‘I love your enthusiasm when mine is waning slightly.’ Rita smiled. ‘This place really is becoming something, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s already something,’ Zenya said gently. ‘You made it that way.’

  Rita took a sip of coffee. ‘I just wanted to create a space where people could relax and exhale.’

  Zenya spontaneously kissed Rita’s cheek, then, shocked by her own reaction, pulled away embarrassed. ‘You did. And you will, yourself, be able to do both again. I know it.’

  There was a brief silence and then Zenya ventured, ‘I saw Jago kiss you.’

  Rita plucked at a loose thread on her shorts, heart thudding.

  Zenya held up a finger. ‘Hang on one sec.’

  She vanished back to her tent again and returned moments later clutching a small silver tin, chipped and scuffed.

  ‘I’m not taking any kind of love potion.’ Rita raised a brow.

  Zenya opened it to pull out a deck of cards and a little booklet.

  ‘Better.’ Zenya grinned. ‘Guardian angels. Just pick one. Don’t think. Put your hand in and the right one will find you.’

  Rita rolled her eyes but reached in. Her fingers brushed past a few smooth cards before settling on one. She pulled it free. Clarity.

  She stared at the word. The letters were embossed in gold, surrounded by clouds and light beams. Zenya took it from her gently and reached for her accompanying guide. Reading aloud, her voice lilted with delight.

  ‘You are being shown the truth of a situation. Trust that the fog is lifting. What was hidden is now revealed. Clarity will bring peace, not chaos. You already know what to do.’

  ‘That’s a bit on the nose,’ Rita said eventually.

  ‘Truth always is,’ Zenya replied softly. ‘But this card… clarity… isn’t about fixing everything. It’s about seeing things as they really are… and deciding if you want to go with them anyway.’

  Rita’s throat tightened. ‘I don’t know if I’m brave enough for that.’

  Zenya smiled and tucked the tin back under her arm. ‘You don’t have to be brave all at once. Just honest. With yourself, first.’

  With a lighter heart, Rita walked slowly back to the farmhouse. She so appreciated Zenya and what they had, a blossoming true friendship built on trust, support, and the quiet knowing that love, in its purest form, can take many shapes.

  FORTY-SIX

  Rita had spent the entire day trying not to think about the angel card. Which, of course, meant she’d thought of little else.

  By six o’clock, the sky had started to blush with the promise of sunset, and she could no longer sit still. She waxed, bathed, and styled her hair the way Kelly had shown her. Dressing like she might be heading to something casual-but-significant: not full glam, but enough to say ‘I like you’. High-waisted jeans that did good things for her arse. A tucked-in white linen blouse. Diamond ear studs and coral lipstick. Smart white pumps to finish.

  By the time she stood in front of the bathroom mirror, dabbing perfume onto her wrists, her stomach was doing cartwheels.

  ‘Clarity,’ she whispered to her reflection. ‘Peace, not chaos.’

  Outside, the old Suzuki Jimny sat waiting, blue and battered, not quite matching her smartened-up appearance.

  As she set off down the drive, Rita drummed her fingers on the steering wheel and let the windows down. She needed air. Air and answers, that was all. And now she was going to ask. Now she was going to know.

  Rounding the bend, she caught sight of Hawthorn Acre and nearly turned around. But she didn’t. She took a deep breath, flicked the indicator, and turned in slowly, tyres crunching over gravel.

  Jago was feeding his goats. Cedric, father to Billy and Vince, was bleating theatrically before Rita had even stepped out of the car.

  Jago looked up. His eyes narrowed, the crease between his brows flickering as if unsure how to read her arrival. He straightened, shifting his weight from one foot to the other like a wary animal himself.

  ‘You came,’ he said.

  Rita nodded, taking a steadying breath. ‘I did.’ She smiled, despite the somersaults inside her.

  ‘Do you come in peace?’ he questioned with a lopsided dimpled smile.

  ‘I do.’ Rita felt her breath quicken slightly

  Jago looked right at her. ‘You look good.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  They weren’t aware they were speaking in staccato, but both knew that the big fat Jenken–Jory elephant of a will was about to stomp into the room and start the slow, inevitable legato song of truth.

  Jago’s gaze flicked toward the farmhouse, then back to her. ‘Shall we talk?’

  He led her down the garden to a wooden bench tucked beside a sprawling buddleia bush, its long purple spires swaying gently, butterflies hovering in the warm air. The view unfolded in quiet splendour, revealing the same vast, shimmering stretch of ocean she could see from the High Meadow.

  ‘Not a bad spot for a chat,’ Jago said, lowering himself onto the bench.

  ‘Nearly as good as my view,’ Rita replied dryly.

  She settled beside him, eyes scanning the distant horizon. Seabirds wheeled and cried overhead, their calls catching the breeze.

  ‘Noisy buggers,’ she muttered.

  Jago nodded, still facing forward. ‘There’s been a lot of noise lately.’

  ‘There has.’ Rita half smiled. ‘Funny, though. All that noise… and it’s the silence that’s been driving everything.’

  Jago didn’t speak for a second and then put his hand on her knee. ‘I’m so sorry I ran out on you the other night, after the birth, you know.’

  ‘I didn’t understand what was going on.’ Rita sighed deeply.

  ‘I… I… panicked,’ Jago groaned. ‘Are they doing OK, the kids, I mean?’

  ‘Fine, thanks to you, Vincent van Goat and Billy Idol are doing just great.’

  ‘Bloody brilliant!’ He removed his hand and sighed deeply to himself.

  Another slightly awkward silence, until Rita turned towards him, her jaw set. ‘I’m so sorry I touched a nerve the other day, about you being single. You’re right, I know nothing about your past.’

  ‘My wife left me five years ago,’ Jago stuttered. ‘Ran off with my best mate because she was pregnant with his kid.’ Rita felt another surge of guilt at her meanness. ‘So, with Mum in a home and Dad’s dying wish that the farm was not to fall into the hands of a stranger, and me unable to watch the whole sorry cheating saga unfold in front of my eyes, I came back. I decided to continue with what Dad had taught me in scraps and slivers growing up and do the best I could.’ He paused, his gaze distant. ‘So here I am. Living in a bay in Cornwall, with mainly cows and sheep for friends, trying to earn an honest living and bring back my sanity.’

  There was something in his tone now. Something cracked and raw.

  ‘Shit,’ was all Rita could muster.

  ‘Yes, shit.’ Jago managed a smile. ‘My vision was to move back here, heal, find a partner, start a family, and maybe one day retire here by the sea.’

  ‘And live happily ever after.’ Rita let out a little laugh. ‘But we know that rarely happens, right.’

  He suddenly was serious. ‘And when I said I liked you, Rita, I meant it… more than I’ve liked anyone in a long time. You’re the first woman I’ve trusted since my wife did the dirty.’

  Her hand flew to her heart. The words tumbled out of her before she could think. ‘Teo… is… Archie’s son.’

  Jago’s voice cracked slightly. ‘I know.’

  ‘Of course you do.’ Her voice was cool now, sharp with exhausted emotion. ‘You know everything, don’t you?’

  He swallowed. ‘Quite a lot, yes.’

  Rita ran her hands through her hair. ‘It’s OK. You have to tell me. Every single detail. Warts and all.’

  Jago stretched his long legs out in front of him. ‘Where to begin?’

  ‘How about the very beginning.’ Rita blew out a huge breath as Jago began his sorrowful soliloquy.

  ‘OK… My mother… had an affair. My dad, God bless him, wasn’t the life and soul of the party, but he was kind. Steady. A good farmer. A good man. Her lover, my biological father, was full of banter. A good man, too, just with a wandering eye.’

  He paused. ‘When I was eighteen years old, my mother told me everything. I couldn’t believe it at first. But she said she’d had a crisis of conscience, then made me promise not to tell my dad. I’ve never known pain like it. Holding that secret. Because my dad… he was my dad. The man who raised me. Loved me. He was there for me until the day he died last year. I was so grateful for him.’ He looked down at his hands. ‘The affair, it wasn’t love. I know it. It was distraction for my mother. She hated the farm, but she’d never have left. Too easy being with a man who provided. She liked the rebellion, the thrill. And when I came along, well, that cemented it. Precious Isobel, a single mum? She could barely look after herself and was never going anywhere after that.’

  He gave a hollow laugh. ‘I don’t think he was her only lover, either. And now she’s burning through his savings in the care home up at Seahaven Point, three gourmet meals a day and her arse wiped for eternity. Where’s the fairness in that?’

  Rita exhaled slowly. ‘So, you do know who your real father is, then?’

  Jago nodded once, then closed his eyes. ‘I know of him, but I didn’t know him, not really. He died when I was just seven.’ His bottom lip wobbled. Rita felt her heart thud. A knot tightened inside. And then it came, the words she now knew were true, words she hadn’t wanted to believe till now.

  ‘Mum told me Hilda never knew for certain, but I reckon she did. She does,’ Jago said quietly. Rita gasped and went to speak. He put his hand up to stop her. ‘I don’t remember much but what I do remember is that my dad and Ralph used to work together on the farm sometimes. And that my mum was really sad for a while when I was younger; she was grieving for Ralph, too, I expect. Who knows? But knowing her, like I do… it was probably because her plaything had been taken away.’

  Rita shook her head. ‘So, you are the mystery brother. You’re Archie’s brother.’ She gave a small tut. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Please don’t hate me,’ Jago said, offering a small, cautious smile.

  ‘It’s a lot,’ Rita admitted with a half laugh, half groan. She closed her eyes, trying to process it. ‘With you and Teo.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Jago’s eyes met hers.

  ‘So, now it all makes sense – the rift. Hilda’s actions.’

  ‘Yes, the rift was between the women,’ Jago said.

  ‘And Hilda being Hilda,’ Rita added, ‘would’ve known how to control the situation, cut the Jenkens off completely. Keep Ralph and my Archie at a distance from her. It makes sense now. It’s so sad, though.’

  ‘It really is.’ Jago looked out over the ocean.

  ‘She adored Ralph; it must’ve broken her. That’s why she’s so bitter. And why she’s trying to keep me away from you, too.’

  Jago nodded. ‘I’d kind of hoped that now Archie and my father have passed, she might be able to forgive.’

  ‘Yes.’ Rita’s voice was gentle. ‘You were the innocent party in all of this.’

  ‘And we both share a certain disdain for my mother.’ Jago managed a smile.

  Rita looked out to the horizon, where the sky was deepening to a bruised mauve and the sun hung low like a deep orange yolk, slipping slowly into the sea. She spoke, her voice barely above a whisper. ‘“‘Hope’ is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.” I love that poem. Emily Dickinson. Clung to it, after Archie died. I don’t know why… it just… stayed with me. It’s a powerful reflection on the quiet, enduring nature of hope, even through life’s darkest and most turbulent moments.’

  Jago said quietly, ‘That’s beautiful.’

  There was a long pause. The silence between them felt heavier until she took a minute to look right at Jago’s face, like really look at it. Archie hadn’t been lucky enough to be in the queue where dimples were given out, but he’d had the same lopsided smile as the striking man in front of her.

  ‘Your colouring, your eyes…’ she let slip. ‘No wonder I…’ Rita paused. They held their gaze for a second until Jago suddenly jumped up and stretched, a tired smile tugging at his lips.

  ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m starving. Let’s go inside before we get bitten to death by mosquitos.’

  He led her into the kitchen of the old farmhouse, where rustic met modern in a way that felt effortlessly cool. Reclaimed wood shelves were lined with artisan jars and sleek black matte cookware, while industrial pendant lights hung low over a polished marble island. A smart coffee machine sat ready beside a neat stack of vinyl records leaning casually against the wall. The walls were painted a calming slate grey, softened by a few pots of fresh herbs on the windowsill.

  Jago looked around the space proudly. ‘Since Mum moved into the care home, I’ve been doing a bit of sprucing up. Thought it was time this place felt like mine, you know? Got rid of the clutter, added a few bits and pieces here and there. Figured if I’m going to be cooking for myself, might as well do it somewhere I actually like.’

  ‘It’s really funky, I love it. I need to get round to doing our… I mean, my place now the money is coming in.’

  ‘Pizza and garlic bread OK?’ He grinned. ‘Only the best for Mrs Jory.’

  ‘Ah. The classic modern man’s cordon bleu kitchen with a take-out menu.’

  Forgetting the enormity of what she had come here for, Rita laughed. Jago walked over to the fridge and pulled out a bottle of Sauvignon. ‘A white wine for the lady?’