With chickens fed and on her way to tend to the goats, Rita conducted her daily ritual of having a look in the barn to try and muster up further ideas. With all the rain they had had, it had seemed a gloomy outlook all around, but today, the sun was shining and despite not having waxed her shapely legs for at least two months she had even put on shorts with her wellies.

  Looking around at the newly cleared barn, and with the help of Hilda’s cash injection, everything somehow seemed less daunting now. There would be cushions. Lanterns. Maybe some fairy lights strung across the beams. She just needed to work out a timetable of what exactly the programme of classes would look like. Also, how she would cater for food and beverages. All of which would need to be high quality but not overly expensive.

  As if her daughter was reading her mind, Rita’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a message prompting her to check her email.

  I love it. You’re good at this, Mum! Sennen had typed. Just made a few minor tweaks to what you sent over. Here it is.

  Rita began to read aloud.

  ‘Escape to Seahaven Bay Retreat – where the sea meets the soul. Nestled in nature, our cosy, back-to-basics yurts offer a front-row seat to a view so breathtaking, it feels like heaven on earth. Step into our sea-view barn for rejuvenating sessions including gong ceremonies and yoga, or gaze at the stars and moon in quiet wonder. Embrace the wild with cold-water sea swims, then nourish your body with fresh, raw, healthy foods – or head to the picturesque harbour to find a charming local hostelry. It’s time to lose your inhibitions and find your soul. Welcome to the Seahaven Bay Retreat – your rustic hideaway by the sea…’

  ‘Lose your inhibitions, eh, Mrs Jory,’ a deep voice enquired.

  Rita nearly dropped her phone at the unexpected interruption. And on seeing who was in front of her she wished she’d tended to her hairy legs and sorted her hair, which was now almost two-tone.

  Jago Jenken, proprietor of Hawthorn Acre, was the kind of man who turned heads without even trying. He had thick black hair and vivid green eyes, and one dimple that sat deeper than the other when he smiled, lending an uneven charm that made his grin all the more captivating. Even in worn work clothes and boots thick with mud, he looked better than most men in a dress suit. His voice was deep, the kind you felt in your chest, and his eyes held a mischievous twinkle that reminded her, achingly, of a younger version of her Archie. There was something about the way he carried himself, open and magnetic, that made it impossible not to watch him a moment longer than was proper.

  ‘Everything OK?’ Rita stuttered.

  ‘I found one of your goats in my top field. Just brought her back and – hope you don’t mind – just popped her in the pen. I hate to say it, I think she might have met my Cedric halfway. It is spring, mind.’ Jago winked.

  Was he flirting with her? He never had before. Then again, thanks to the long-standing Jenken–Jory feud, she’d barely exchanged two words with him before she sold him Archie’s beloved cows and tractor. When Archie had been alive and their paths had crossed, she’d found her mind wandering, tinged with guilt, down deliciously forbidden roads, imagining all the things a married woman could only dream about. When it came to the tractor sale, she had been so consumed by grief that even if Matt Damon had appeared topless on a white charger, she wouldn’t have noticed.

  If he was flirting, he clearly believed beauty was only skin deep, because she looked like a pig in a wig today – and her legs were so hairy you could practically plait them.

  ‘Shit. OK, thank you. I expect it was Camilla; she’s trouble, that one. Has been known to ignore her constraints on occasion.’

  ‘Naughty girl.’ Jago smirked, his voice low and teasing. Rita’s face reddened as the handsome one continued. ‘You all right? Must be hard coping on your own.’ Jago looked around the now-empty barn. ‘You’ve done a good job getting this ship-shape, though.’

  ‘Err, thanks.’ Rita’s words came without thought. ‘And are you looking after those cows all right?’

  ‘Looking after them like my own.’ Jago hesitated for a second. ‘Anyway, I thought you were allergic to…’

  Rita was wide eyed. ‘How did you kn⁠—?’

  Jago was swift in his reply. ‘So… do you think you’ll stay here? At the farm, I mean?’

  Something tightened in Rita’s chest. The question caught her off guard, touched a nerve she didn’t even realise was quite so raw.

  ‘I’m not selling to you, Jago Jenken.’ Rita was sharper than she intended. ‘Not now, not ever.’

  Jago raised his hands in mock surrender, eyebrows lifting. ‘Whoa. An angry Jory, I’ve seen a few of those in my time.’ He softened his tone. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just thought…’

  She cut in again, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. ‘I wasn’t born bloody yesterday.’

  ‘All right, all right.’ Jago sounded contrite now. ‘I really didn’t mean to strike a nerve.’

  Rita blew out a breath, already regretting her tone. ‘I’m setting up a wellness retreat, actually. So, if you want to come and release the stresses of farm life by screaming into a pillow, you’ll be very welcome.’

  Jago raised an eyebrow, the flirty spark returning. ‘And you need a retreat for that?’ He didn’t look away, the one dimple flashing like a dare.

  Her temper fizzled out like a match dropped in water, and she tried not to smile. ‘Anyway, it’s more than just pillow-screaming. There might be goat yoga too.’

  ‘Ah,’ he replied, mock serious, ‘your Camilla’s just had a bit of practice for that already.’

  Rita rolled her eyes, but her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Damn him.

  Jago smirked. ‘Anyway. There was a gap she must’ve squeezed through. I roughly mended it. The whole goat pen really could do with a seeing to.’

  ‘Couldn’t we all,’ Rita stuttered, followed by a rapid and embarrassed, ‘I mean… but thank you, thank you for doing that.’

  Another lopsided smile. ‘Well, you know where I am.’

  With that, all six foot one of deliciousness strode off towards Hawthorn Acre.

  Rita let out a slow breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding. The flutter Jago Jenken had just stirred in her wasn’t unwelcome. If anything, it reminded her she was still alive, but it unsettled her all the same. Archie’s absence was still so raw, his presence lingering in every corner of the house. She wasn’t ready to be feeling anything new, not yet. And yet there it was, a quiet spark, gently nudging at the edges of her grief.

  TWELVE

  The faded sign of the Winking Pilchard, a cartoonish silver fish with one eye cheekily closed, swayed gently in the breeze. On calm evenings, the pub’s bench-lined terrace would fill with locals and visitors alike, pints in hand, waiting for the sun to drop below the horizon and another day to reach its final chapter. On stormy days, it was the place to hunker down, listen to the wind whip against the stone, and tell stories that grew taller with every round. As with a lot of the now few and far between old-fashioned hostelries, the Winking Pilchard was more than just a pub; it was a compass point in the lives of the Seahaven Bay folk. And nestled at the harbour’s edge, it marked the perfect boundary between land, sea, and all the magic in between.

  As the landlord gave Rita a huge, welcoming smile, the familiar scent of woodsmoke hit her like a wave, stirring a rush of nostalgia that caught her off guard and causing her breath to hitch. It was only the second time she’d set foot in the pub since Archie’s wake, and the warmth of the place, once so comforting, now felt bittersweet. She hesitated, emotions teetering, until a sudden flurry of floral fabric and jangling bangles swept in behind her.

  ‘Honestly, Reet,’ puffed Kelly, brushing wind-blown hair from her face. ‘That was not my kind of hill, in these heels.’ She shivered. ‘I can’t believe it’s April and so bleeding cold.’

  ‘I did tell you to wear your trainers… and a coat.’

  ‘You said we were going out, out.’

  Rita laughed and smiled warmly at the landlord. ‘You all right, Pete; you remember Kelly?’

  Pete ‘the Pilchard’ Perkins slid two large glasses of cold French Sauvignon Blanc over the worn bar without a word. He knew their orders already. He knew everything.

  ‘I never forget a face, you know me, and can I say, young Kelly, that you look as fit as a bargee’s ferret this evening,’ the strong Cornish accent conveyed. ‘And these are on me.’ He winked.

  Kelly guffawed. ‘I’ll take it, whatever it is, I’ll take it.’

  ‘Never trust a man with mutton-chop sideburns,’ Rita quipped.

  The landlord’s ample stomach wobbled. ‘Oi! I’ll have you know they’ve won competitions, these ’ave.’

  ‘Cheers, Pete,’ Rita said as she and Kelly laughed in unison.

  They settled into what had been Rita and Archie’s favourite corner booth, the one tucked just under the crooked window that looked out to the harbour, its glass slightly misted from years of salty sea air. A few regulars nearby raised their glasses in a friendly toast, their faces flushed from the warmth of good company.

  Kelly squeezed Rita’s hand. ‘So, I don’t want any of your many brave faces tonight. I want to know exactly how you are?’

  Rita took a large glug of wine. ‘I know it’s been a while now, but it… everything still feels… off, you know. Like he’s going to walk back in with muddy boots and a list of jobs I haven’t done.’

  ‘You were with him twenty-five years, darling.’

  ‘I know, an age. And I still can’t talk about the accident or anything about him with the kids, I just can’t, and Sennen wants me to. Meanwhile, Thom hates me. I’m sure he thinks it was my fault. It’s so hard.’ Tears filled Rita’s eyes.

  ‘It was an accident. A freak fucking accident, and it wasn’t your fault. And you must hold on to the fact that the investigating officer said he wouldn’t have suffered. That it would have been quick.’

  ‘But he was angry when he left, Kel,’ Rita said quietly. ‘He was bashing things around, in a right boot-stomping mood and what if he was angry because of something I’d done to annoy him, and I just didn’t realise what.’

  Kelly rested her hand on top of her friend’s. ‘We’ve been through this a million times, Reet. That coast road is fast; the drop is steep. Archie was at the wheel, not you. The type of relationship you had, you’d have known if it was you who’d upset him. And you can’t live in the “what ifs”, because that makes a slow death for yourself.’

  ‘Sometimes I feel maybe I didn’t know him at all.’

  ‘Because of the debt, you mean?’

  Rita took a huge noisy breath and nodded. ‘I just don’t get it. On the statements are cash withdrawals mainly, and you know what interest is like on these things. I’m living on credit cards – luckily ones that still have a bit of credit on them.’

  Kelly nodded and took a drink. ‘What exactly was he spending the money on; have you any idea?’

  ‘Nope, not a scooby.’ Rita sighed deeply. ‘I realise now why he put that post box on the gate. So I never got wind of the new cards he’d applied for in both of our names!’

  ‘Oh, Reet. Thank God you sold the cows and the tractor then.’

  ‘Yes, I still feel such guilt for that, but I’m sure Jago Jenken paid over the odds, you know, so at least Archie’s credit cards are paid off now.’

  ‘Why would a Jenken do you a favour?’

  Rita shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ She chewed her lip. ‘I flirted with him the other day. And, well… I enjoyed it. How bad is that!’

  Kelly laughed softly. ‘Reet, there’s no harm in that. Grief doesn’t come with a timetable. Doesn’t check when it’s OK to move on.’

  Rita groaned, covering her face with her hands. ‘Oh God… I’d never take it any further. Not a chance. Hilda would kill me for one.’

  Kelly nudged her shoulder. ‘Relax, you’re allowed a little harmless flirt now and then. I have a world record for it.’

  Rita smirked despite herself. ‘I don’t think Archie would’ve been impressed if he’d caught me daydreaming about Jago Jenken in nothing but his work boots.’

  Kelly’s grin was pure sauciness. ‘Let’s just sit with that thought for a moment, shall we?’

  Their eyes drifted to the hearth, where a fiddle player was tuning up, the first notes of a catchy sea shanty cutting into their conversation.

  ‘This music reminds me of the night we met Archie.’ Rita shook her head.

  ‘Oh yeah.’ Kelly’s eyes brightened. ‘If I’d have agreed to Pete the Pilch’s suggestion then my life story could have been a very different one.’

  ‘I’m not sure some of it was even legal.’ Rita snorted. Once she had stopped laughing, she put her hand on top of her friend’s. ‘That’s better. I needed to forget my woes for a bit. Anyway, tell me. What’s going on in fancy London, then?’

  ‘What isn’t going on is mine and Ron’s sex life. He only brings out the meat and two veg for birthdays, anniversaries, maybe Christmas if I’m lucky, now. I told him I was going away for a few days, and he barely looked up from his Sudoku. I’m forty-five, and like you, not over the hill. In fact, my winking pilchard is constantly wet and ready for action.’

  Rita nearly fell off her chair laughing. ‘Oh my God, Kel, that is vile and hilarious in equal measure.’ Her old London twang was suddenly overriding her muted Cornish one.

  Kel wasn’t finished. ‘I didn’t marry a man for warm cups of tea and reruns of Antiques Roadshow. I need a bit of… well, life!’ She stood up. ‘Another drink?’

  Rita sat lost in thought, listening to the fiddler playing as Kelly ordered their drinks and then shimmied back with two large glasses of Sauvignon Blanc.

  ‘There is something else.’ Rita’s face was serious.

  Kelly leaned into her friend. ‘Go on.’

  ‘The other day Hilda insinuated that maybe Archie had written a will. I’d never thought to look because as far as I knew he hadn’t made one. So, I searched everywhere I thought it might be, but nothing. Then I called our family solicitor, who said there was one and it had gone missing.’

  Kelly was wide eyed. ‘What the fuck?’

  Rita grimaced. ‘I know. It’s hurting my soul.’

  ‘I’d be hurting the solicitor if he doesn’t get to the bottom of it.’

  ‘I know, I know but my trust for Archie was our golden bind.’

  Kelly raised an eyebrow. ‘Wasn’t it the great Bard who said, “All that glisters is not gold”?’

  ‘Blimey, Kel. I thought you hated English Lit.’

  Kelly shrugged. ‘I did, until that hot young English teacher started when we were in Year Eleven. Remember. Mr Hayes, wasn’t it? I’d have been his Juliet anytime.’ She took a large swig of wine. ‘Oh God, thinking of him, I so need a shag.’

  They both laughed again, and Rita felt her tension loosening.

  ‘Look’ – Kel’s voice was full of care – ‘there will be an explanation. Archie was a good man. He loved you, Rita. If I mysteriously disappeared tomorrow, Ron wouldn’t even notice. Maybe I’ll come and live down here with you. Help with the retreat. Read crystals and pretend to know what “retrograde” means.’

  ‘You’d terrify the guests,’ Rita said, smiling. ‘But I’d love that.’

  Kelly raised her glass in an impromptu toast. Rita followed as her friend announced, ‘To Ron’s vanishing libido, Archie’s vanishing will, and most importantly, to the Seahaven Bay Retreat.’

  Rita grinned and they both said in unison, ‘The Seahaven Bay Retreat.’

  THIRTEEN

  In the dead of night, a furious knocking rattled the farmhouse door, jolting Rita awake. Heart hammering and feeling decidedly groggy after drinking at least a bottle of wine earlier, she reached instinctively for the shotgun that Archie had insisted should always rest beside their bed. For a moment, she froze, breath held, terrified of what she was going to be confronted with. She could hear Kelly oblivious to it all, snoring like a warthog in Thom’s old room across the corridor.

  Then came a voice, muffled but unmistakable. ‘Mum! It’s me, it’s Sennen!’

  Rita threw back the covers and charged down the stairs, gasping as her feet hit the cold kitchen flagstones. She unlocked and whipped open the door. There stood her beautiful daughter, tear-streaked and shaking.

  ‘Alex has dumped me,’ she choked, eyes red and swollen. ‘And I don’t know what to do.’

  The next morning Kelly sat hunched at the kitchen table, nursing a mug of sweet black coffee, while Rita leaned against the Aga, eyes half shut, her smudged eyeliner giving her the look of a panda. Sennen moved quietly around them, setting the table, her usual spark dimmed, her movements slow and mechanical. Yet, even with her long auburn hair scraped into a messy bun, her flared jeans and a baby pink WEDDINGS BY SENNEN T-shirt showing off her petite frame, she still looked like she’d stepped straight out of a magazine shoot.

  ‘Jesus. I come home hoping for a bit of nurturing and end up playing mum to two fully grown adults,’ she sighed. ‘And you’re getting just bacon sandwiches; I don’t have it in me to coordinate a full fry-up.’ She grabbed the ketchup from the fridge and plonked it down on the table, followed by the two plates of delicious-smelling food.

  Kelly tucked in hungrily, while Rita, aware she was a delicate shade of green, didn’t move to touch hers. Sennen busied herself by washing up at the sink.

  Between mouthfuls, Kelly looked up. ‘Great to see you, Sen, although of course I wish it were under better circumstances.’ She took a sip of coffee. ‘You know he’s a dick, right? Alex. Always has been. It’s just now you see it.’

  Rita jumped in defensively. ‘Kel! Not now.’ She put her hand on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘Tell me again, love, what happened. I was sleepy last night. I’m sorry.’