She sighed and opened her book, read a few pages, then, not able to concentrate, closed it again and stared out at the sea beyond. As her gaze moved between the horizon and Zenya’s camp, the little robin returned and began hopping around near her feet, and the sentiment between the pages of Wild began to stir wild thoughts within her. The courage it had taken the woman to walk the Pacific Crest Trail alone, hauling her grief and her pack over mile after mile until she’d shed more than just the weight on her back was incredible. And with her mind feeling suddenly clearer, her dad’s words drifted in: ‘Everything is written, Reety; you just need to sometimes look for the direction signs.’ What if she could create that space for herself… and, even better, for others too?

  Images tumbled into her head: The White Lotus and that glossy hotel show she loved. The new Pilates studio in town. Sennen’s tales of digital detox weekends and yoga retreats for hen parties. Morag, describing the High Meadow as ‘heaven on earth’.

  Betty had even told her about a woman in Polheron who charged eighty pounds a head to lead ‘transformational hikes’ to Seahaven Point. The finale involved screaming into a pillow in the back of a converted camper van to ‘release years of buried emotion’. People cried, journalled, then paid extra for herbal tea and a grounding crystal.

  Rita had thought it was ridiculous when she’d heard about it. And yet… not. The mud, the screaming, the overpriced tea, it all pointed towards something. Not just wellness, but purpose. A softer kind of hope. And in a world spinning faster with war, wildfires and fakery, there was a real hunger for stillness, for healing. Maybe she could offer it, right here, in a setting that was already perfect.

  Her thoughts picked up speed. A place for people whose lives no longer made sense. Who’d lost something, or everything, or themselves. Not five-star, swans made out of folded towels… just quiet. Kindness. Healing in mind and body, cradled by nature.

  Seahaven Bay had the cliffs, the peace, the surf, the views. And when the weather played fair, Cornwall could pass for anywhere in the world. She had bedding, plenty of it. And, certainly, space for screaming.

  Mad? Possibly. Reckless? Definitely. But so was surviving without Archie, but six months on, she’d managed that.

  Her pulse quickened. A retreat needed a name. A website. Social media. Start-up cash… she’d cross that bridge later.

  Names began swirling.

  ‘Salty Haven,’ she tried aloud – too sharp.

  ‘Seagull’s Rest’ – too tired, like a postcard.

  ‘The Sea Sanctuary’ – no, sterile, like a clinic.

  She rubbed her temples, trying to catch the balance between coastal calm and new beginnings. Then, almost without thinking, the words slipped out softly: The Seahaven Bay Retreat.

  ‘Yes!’ Rita shouted. That was it.

  It felt right.

  SEVEN

  ‘A retreat? At the farm? Reet, it’s only ten o’clock, don’t tell me you’ve been on the sherry already!’

  Rita smiled at the familiarity of her best mate’s Cockney accent.

  ‘One sec, Kel.’ Pushing in her earbuds, she continued to scrape burnt soup from the bottom of a pan. She’d meant to soak it last night. She’d meant to do a lot of things.

  ‘I’m serious, Kelly.’ Rita sighed, throwing the pan back in the soapy water and wiping her hands with a tea towel. ‘I’ve got the peace, I’ve got the quiet, the sea air, two beautiful beaches down the road, mud, plenty of mud. You can’t move online without being lured to survive on just fruit juice in some fancy resort for the joylessly thin, or someone sobbing into a mug of cacao saying it’s the best thing that’s ever happened to them.’

  ‘But you hate yoga, and the one and only time you did Pilates, you couldn’t walk for a week.’

  ‘I don’t hate it,’ Rita replied, defensively. ‘I’m just suspicious of any activity that makes me fart involuntarily.’

  They both laughed heartily.

  ‘Rita Jory, née Brown’ – Kelly reverted to the tone she reserved for both her husband and her particularly maddening beauty clients – ‘I’ve known you since we were eleven years old. You’re grieving. You’re lonely. You can’t just have a load of random strangers sleeping under your roof.’

  ‘I’m not talking about random strangers. I would be selective. Hopefully, the sort not to steal the towels. Maybe even a bit… woo-woo. Saying that, they can bring their own towels. And they won’t be under my roof. I was thinking more of yurts in the High Meadow than a deluxe double with a courtyard view.’

  ‘Oh God, yes.’ Kel sounded excited now too. ‘That would mean having to clean. And you don’t want to be doing too much of that. And I guess if they are a bit woo-woo, as you say, they won’t care about luxury.’

  Rita put on an affected voice. ‘The natural world can become their temporary home.’

  Kelly giggled. ‘Look at you with your yurt talk. And what the deuces do you mean by woo-woo?’

  ‘You know. Crystals. Meditation. Ecstatic dance.’

  ‘Ecstatic dance? That sounds a bit pervy, if you ask me.’

  Rita sat down on one of the mismatched wooden chairs at the kitchen table. Henry had been on one of his regular wanders around the farm, and barked at the window to be let in. She got up to open the door for the old labrador, while continuing to think out loud. ‘Maybe I can invent some new activities. How about a bit of naked star and moon watching out in the fields? And I’m sure that there was a programme on the other Sunday showing goat yoga too? YES! That would be free to run as well! I just need to gen up on the universe and teach the girls how to balance on the back of a downward dog and we’re sorted. No one ever need know they are coming to the Fawlty Towers of fitness.’

  Kelly guffawed. ‘If any of it involves getting naked with Jago Jenken from Hawthorn Acre then I’m in.’

  ‘Kel! Who’s being pervy now! You only met him the once, when his tractor careered through the back field, didn’t you?’

  Kelly laughed. ‘Once met, never forgotten, that stud.’

  Despite the long-standing Jory–Jenken tension, Rita had to admit that the few times their paths had crossed, there had been something about the neighbouring farmer: a wicked sort of charm she used to ogle from afar without it ever feeling like she was misbehaving.

  Rita laughed back. ‘Don’t let your Ron hear you say that.’

  ‘He wouldn’t even notice. He’s getting on my wick at the moment. In fact, I was thinking I may come down for Easter if you don’t mind. On my tod.’

  ‘Sennen and Alex may be coming then, too, so yes, the more the merrier.’

  ‘Perfect. My Dylan is on manoeuvres. He’s not even allowed to tell me where at the moment. So, I’d love to get out of London for a break.’

  ‘And Kel, I know it might sound mad to you, but I need to try something. The farm’s not going to run itself, and the finances are… well, they’re a bit of a mess. I don’t want to sell it. I can’t.’

  ‘So, what are you waiting for, Gwyneth Paltrow?’ Kelly laughed. ‘You’d better get down that work shed and start whittling a new sign for this retreat of yours.’

  Rita ended the call and slowly shook her head. Dear Kelly was practical, sharp, and allergic to nonsense. That was why she loved her. But it had been a long time since she had felt even a tiny flicker of enthusiasm about anything. The retreat idea had planted itself in her like a seed, and for the first time since the funeral, she wasn’t just surviving the day. She was imagining something beyond it.

  EIGHT

  The next morning, Rita woke with purpose. Goats and chickens fed and Henry snoring at her feet, by 8 a.m. she’d made a strong coffee, flipped open her laptop, and sat at the kitchen table ready to start drafting a business plan. It was time to stop drifting. Time to make something of Seahaven Farm before it slipped through her fingers.

  With a grimace she checked the balances of the various outstanding credit cards, took a huge slug of coffee and had barely written the words Wellness Retreat – Draft Ideas when there was a light tap at the door.

  Zenya stood on the step, smiling politely, as though this were the most ordinary thing in the world. ‘Morning, Rita. Would it be terribly rude to ask for a shower and a proper cup of tea right now?’

  Rita nodded her inside. ‘Come on in. I’ll pop the kettle back on.’

  Zenya followed her into the kitchen, glancing at the laptop. ‘You’re at it early.’

  Rita hesitated, suddenly self-conscious. ‘I’ve had an idea. A sort of wellness retreat. Using the barn and the High Meadow where you are. Obviously the barn will need a good scrub and clear-out and I’ll have to buy stuff. Yoga mats, cushions et cetera. Maybe a gong. Plus get in staff for all the, you know, woo-woo stuff.’

  Zenya’s mouth curved into a slow smile. ‘Woo-woo stuff, eh.’ She sat down at the table.

  ‘Well…’ Zenya tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. ‘I major in all kinds of weirdness, so would of course be up for an interview.’

  Rita laughed before she could stop herself. ‘Well, how about now? I guess it doesn’t hurt to get things moving!’

  Zenya shrugged lightly. ‘I like helping people find their way back to themselves. And this place…’ She glanced towards the window, where morning sunlight spilled across the fields. ‘You already know what I think of it here.’

  Rita folded her arms, pretending to think it over, though her heart had already jumped ahead of her. ‘All right, then. What can you offer, Ms… er…’

  ‘Just Zenya. And energy work. Herbals. Meditation. Bit of sound healing,’ she replied matter-of-factly, taking the mug Rita offered. ‘I also make an excellent lemon balm tea and for the record, I’m actually a pretty good cook.’

  Rita raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you have a gong?’

  ‘Not yet.’ Zenya’s eyes gleamed. ‘But I know exactly where we can get you one.’

  ‘Right. Let’s do this properly. First question. What does the word “retreat” conjure up for you?’

  Zenya’s expression softened. ‘A soft place to land. And maybe a gentle shove in the right direction when you’re ready to learn about yourself.’

  Rita stuck her bottom lip out. ‘That’s lovely. I may have to use that for my website, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’ll cost ya.’ Zenya grinned.

  Rita laughed. ‘OK, next question. Why would you want to work for the Seahaven Bay Retreat?’

  Zenya’s smile widened. ‘Because I think it’s exactly where I’m meant to be.’

  Rita nodded slowly. ‘Big statement, that. Care to elaborate?’

  Zenya took a sip of her tea and let out a little groan of pleasure. ‘Because it wouldn’t feel like working. This place has got heart.’ She paused. ‘I can already tell that you’ve got heart. And I suppose…’ She let out a small, self-conscious laugh. ‘I could do with a bit of that myself.’

  Rita felt emotion welling. ‘You realise it may not always be zen and candlelit, right? I’m new to this, but I can imagine it may also be cleaning out compost loos and guests complaining.’

  ‘That’s fine.’ Zenya smiled. ‘People are messy. Life’s messy. Doesn’t mean it isn’t worth pouring yourself into. And I’m more than happy to muck in from the start and help you get up and running.’

  Outside, a gull screeched. Rita took another sip of coffee to disguise the sting behind her eyes. ‘Bloody hell,’ she murmured. ‘You’re good.’

  Zenya laughed. ‘Is that a job offer, then?’

  Rita lifted her mug in cheers fashion. ‘Zenya, just Zenya. Welcome to the team.’

  NINE

  A few days later, Rita pushed open the farmhouse annexe door with her hip, arms full of folded laundry, and was immediately hit by the familiar, heady mix of Chanel No. 5, cigarette smoke, and Fisherman’s Friend lozenges.

  ‘Oh, there you are,’ croaked a voice from the depths of a maroon velvet recliner. ‘Close the door, will you, dear. You’re letting in all that optimism.’

  Hilda Jory was neatly tucked beneath a crocheted rug, legs crossed at the ankle in satin slippers, a cigarette burning with casual menace in one hand and a champagne glass full of neat gin in the other. Her silver bob was, as usual, perfectly in place as she read the obituary section of the local newspaper.

  ‘Sorry it’s taken me so long to get this back to you. You all right?’ Rita said as brightly as she could muster, dropping a mix of clothes and bedding on a side table.

  ‘Still breathing, so yes, I guess so.’ The old woman let out a rattling cough.

  ‘Eleven a.m. and on the sauce already; that’s even early for you, isn’t it?’ Rita started to clear glasses from the high table next to her mother-in-law’s reclinable armchair.

  ‘Darling girl. At eighty-six years young, I’ve earned the right to care not what anybody thinks about what I do and when I do it. Or for any of your madcap schemes, for that matter.’

  ‘What do you mean? Madcap scheme.’ Rita looked at her mother-in-law in shock – was she a mind-reader?

  ‘I haven’t seen that glint in your eye or that brightness in your voice since I told you I was moving out of the farmhouse and into here.’ Granny Jory blew a perfect smoke ring toward the ceiling and gestured towards a stack of packages on the sofa. ‘The Amazon man went to the wrong door. Three meditation cushions, some sort of gong, and an incense burner? Why don’t you see if you can get hold of Charles Manson? Or how about you pop out and daub the chickens with chakra symbols whilst you’re at it?’

  ‘Hilda, I’m not starting a cult! I’m thinking more of a retreat. And how come you know so much about that kind of stuff?’

  Rita moved the packages near the door so that she didn’t forget them.

  Hilda coughed again. ‘I’ve always had a secret fascination for old Charlie boy, dead now but aside from him being terrifying, there was something oddly charismatic about the man. Bit like a few of my exes back in the day.’

  Rita shook her head in disbelief, walked over to the open-plan kitchen, ran water into the sink and popped the glasses in to soak.

  Hilda waved her iPad in the air. ‘And this, dear daughter-in-law, is my modern-day encyclopaedia. I hope Mr Jobby was proud of his invention.’

  ‘It’s Jobs.’ Rita smiled.

  ‘Well, it certainly wasn’t Jory, was it?’ Hilda flicked her cigarette into a clam-shaped ashtray. ‘Messes with the kids’ heads – all this on tap, incessant knowledge. Me and my Ralphy, all we needed to know was what the weather was doing. And when to bring the cows down from the top field. Much simpler then.’

  Hilda butted her cigarette and took a swig of her drink. ‘Let me explain something, Rita.’ Here we go, Rita thought, ready for one of Hilda’s rambling stories. She was sure that her cantankerous mother-in-law had always thought her lazy and assumed that she had all the time in the world to not only listen but be at her disposal. Whereas in reality, Rita had been the silent backbone of the farm. Fed the animals. Brought up two kids. Everything had been in such good order. Or so she had thought.

  ‘Before I met your Archie’s father and gave up my socialite lifestyle for a life of grain and bear it, I was a show girl in Monte Carlo and danced topless in a fountain with a Hungarian ambassador, I’ll have you know. I’ve had my heart broken, my stomach pumped, and my jewellery stolen, but do you know what healed me?’

  Rita shook her head in dreaded anticipation.

  ‘Gin.’ The old girl took a huge sip of hers. ‘And distance.’

  A laugh slipped from Rita’s mouth before she could stop it.

  ‘I’m serious.’ Hilda’s fading blue eyes managed a twinkle. ‘People don’t need meditation and green smoothies. They need distraction. Booze. Sex. A good old-fashioned stroll, a right good chinwag, or even better, some proper sleep and time away from their phones. None of this let’s-feel-our-feelings rubbish.’

  Rita took a deep breath as she poured herself a glass of water. ‘I hear you, but that isn’t going to pay the bills, so whether you approve or not, the Seahaven Bay Retreat is happening. I’m going to get the barn cleared, yurts erected on the High Meadow and people are going to pay good money to come here and feel their feelings.’ Rita was buoyant. ‘I’ve realised it’s so much easier to create a simple website now compared to when I studied for my marketing diploma.’

  ‘This is the same woman who can’t even walk into her big lounge as it brings back too many memories, doing all this, is it?’

  ‘That’s cruel and it’s very different.’ Rita steadied herself.

  Hilda sniffed. ‘Well, as long as they don’t do any nonsense near me, I don’t care what they do.’

  ‘You’ll hardly notice, I promise.’

  Hilda put another cigarette in her mouth.

  Rita raised a finger. ‘And what did Archie used to say to you about smoking in the annexe?’

  The old lady flicked her lighter. ‘He said I’ll burn the place down but it’s that or the grim reaper personally wrestling the cigarette from my lips, so I’ll take my chances.’ Rita rolled her eyes. Hilda then struck like a cobra. ‘So, where’s the money coming from for all this, then?’

  Rita’s subconscious did what it shouldn’t have. ‘If Archie hadn’t racked up so much debt, it would be coming from our savings.’

  ‘But you sold the contents of the cow shed including the cows and our one and only tractor to Hawthorn Acre.’

  ‘Yes. I didn’t want the bailiffs knocking. I never admitted to anyone but Archie that I’m allergic to them, and I have to live.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you allowed the bollocking Jenkens to benefit, though.’

  ‘Hilda! I told you many times. I wasn’t thinking straight. I was desperate.’

  ‘No wonder your Thom was furious too… he was so close to Archie, that boy of yours.’

  Rita thought back to how her firstborn, by three minutes, had mirrored Hilda’s outrage, all because she’d acted without asking him first.