‘I didn’t know that.’ Rita felt tears pricking her eyes.

  ‘Sometimes there’s things in life we don’t ever need to know.’ Stan paused for a second. ‘Your Archie, he said the wind in the branches helped him think.’ The wise man looked up into the tree’s vast canopy, where the leaves shimmered and whispered their own secrets. ‘So, it’s the right place.’

  They carried the bench together, placing it to look out where the view opened wide to the sea, sky, and the endless pull of the horizon. Henry plonked himself down under it and whimpered.

  Rita ran her fingers over Archie’s name, then sat down slowly, letting the silence settle. She could almost feel him beside her, grinning that lopsided grin.

  ‘I’ll add it to the retreat map,’ she whispered. ‘A place for remembering. For listening. For love.’

  Stan tipped his cap. ‘Not sure what he’d have said to them kind of words.’ He smiled. ‘But you’ll have to tell me all about this new business of yours.’

  Rita’s voice cracked. ‘Stan, I’m so sorry that I had to let you go.’

  ‘Apologise when you’re wrong, not when you’re real, love – and well, Jago, he says he can spare me for a couple of days a week, to help you with this retreat malarkey and any other bits you may need.’

  ‘Really?’ Rita felt a warmth go through her.

  ‘Yep! I can spread my time across every weekday, if you like, if that helps an’ all.’

  ‘Oh, wow, that would be amazing, but I’m not sure I can pay you right away, Stan.’

  Stan put one of his big hands on top of her small one. ‘It’s covered.’

  ‘No, that’s not fair.’

  ‘Nor is the weather that often up here, but we just get on with it, don’t we?’

  Rita smiled warmly. ‘I have to ask you something.’

  ‘More, she wants more.’ Stan laughed.

  ‘Did you leave me a note in here?’ She pointed to the hole in the tree.

  ‘A note? What kind of note?’ He screwed up his face. ‘I barely have time in the day to brush my hair.’ He winked as he took off his cap and rubbed his bald head. ‘Your Archie loved you like the tide loves the moon, you know. And maybe that’s all you need to know.’

  Rita started nodding furiously again, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘Now come on.’ Stan opened the passenger door. ‘I’ve got a goat pen to fix properly before that Camilla becomes even more of a four-legged scandal.’

  FIFTEEN

  Rita opened the annexe door to a smell of garlic, rosemary… and something burning.

  ‘Don’t panic.’ Zenya fanned the smoke alarm frantically with a tea towel. ‘It’s only the edges.’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Hilda held court from her velvet recliner. ‘I let you use my facilities, and you burn the pigging place down.’

  ‘I thought you’d appreciate the company, and it beats you cooking for yourself, I guess.’ Rita smirked. ‘How was the funeral today, anyway?’

  ‘It was marvellous. Eulogy too long and very dull but they’d got caterers in for the wake. A proper job it was. Sausage rolls that even Mrs Munroe couldn’t find fault with. And I think Betty Bloom must have provided the scones, because they were to die for.’

  ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ Zenya piped up, pushing the sleeves of her flowing green smock up with her chin as she began to prepare a green salad.

  ‘Oh, I didn’t know him, dear. He was a husband of a woman I used to go to primary school with.’

  ‘Don’t ask,’ Rita mouthed at Zenya’s perplexed face.

  Rita peered into the oven behind her. ‘So, what exactly are we having, then?’

  ‘Rustic vegetable tart,’ Zenya announced proudly.

  ‘Heavy on the rustic, by the smell of it,’ Hilda piped up, moving herself to the pine table in the kitchen, where she sat down, glasses perched low on her nose, this week’s obituary page open. She didn’t look up to speak. ‘If the bottom’s not soggy and it’s got no unidentifiable herbs in. I’ll try it. I read recently about a woman taking nearly her whole family out with wild mushrooms.’

  Zenya laughed. ‘I promise not to kill you, Hilda; I’m too looking forward to working with your daughter-in-law.’

  The tart hit the table with a dramatic clatter, accompanied by a mismatched salad, a bottle of cheap white wine that Rita had brought with her, and three tumblers that had once belonged to Hilda’s mother and had survived the Blitz and two marriages.

  Rita poured, then raised her glass. ‘To surviving the week and officially welcoming Zenya to our dysfunctional farmhouse family.’

  ‘To being fed and having a bit of company,’ Hilda added.

  ‘To chaos, women, and wellness spa dreams.’ Zenya laughed.

  ‘Presently powered by cheap wine and sheer delusion,’ Hilda cut in.

  They clinked.

  For a while, there was only the sound of cutlery scraping plates and soft hums of approval. The tart, against all odds, was rather good.

  ‘Ooh.’ Hilda grimaced. ‘I can taste some kind of herb I don’t recognise.’

  ‘It’s probably tahini paste that I stole from the restaurant I was washing up at last summer.’

  ‘Oh, you do work sometimes then?’ The old woman stuffed another forkful in.

  Rita shook her head. ‘Hilda! Do you have to be so rude, all the time?’

  ‘Rude, dear? I prefer “honest with flavour”.’

  Zenya grinned. ‘I’ve done a lot of kitchen work. It suits my transient lifestyle. But I’ve also picked up a few cooking skills along the way, which have proved useful when surviving on not a lot.’

  ‘I admire your grit.’ Hilda took a large swig of wine and wrinkled her nose.

  ‘Thank you,’ Zenya acknowledged. ‘And Granny Jory, for the record, I officially love you. I can feel that you’ve alchemised your pain into something the rest of us get to smile at.’

  It was the first time Rita had known Hilda lost for words.

  Later, as Rita loaded the dishwasher, she found herself watching Zenya chatting away to her mother-in-law. The young woman tilted her head when she listened like she really did care. There was something magnetic about her, something wild and deeply kind.

  With Hilda moving to her bedroom, Zenya got up from the table and stretched. ‘I’d better hit the hay. I’m going to make a proper start on the vegetable garden tomorrow.’

  After finishing tidying, Rita made drinks and took them outside. The moon hung low, silvering the tops of the waves way in the distance and catching the tips of the long grass that covered the orchard. She had suggested that Zenya move into the spare room in the upstairs of the annexe above Hilda’s flat, and was happy to pay her bed and board and give her a fee for each session she was going to be running. But the free-spirited thirty-year-old wasn’t having any of it. She would accept being fed and getting the going rate for her services. Plus, the use of the amenities in the annexe would be a bonus, but it was under the stars where she was quite happy sleeping. She was also delighted to be introduced to the vegetable patch and with May being a prime time for planting, she had said she would gladly help getting it back to its full growing and eating potential.

  Her tent, now tucked at the back of the orchard, still with a view of the ocean, was positioned next to the low stone wall for a bit of shelter. She had made it cosy with bunting, solar lights, and two old wicker chairs from the barn. Zenya now sat on one of them wrapped in a blanket. She looked entirely at home when Rita appeared wearing a night torch on her head.

  ‘It’s still a bit nippy for May.’ Rita held out a mug. ‘Thought you might like something to warm you up.’

  Zenya took the mug with both hands. ‘You read my mind.’

  ‘Isn’t that your job?’ Rita’s lips turned upwards in a half smile.

  The wild woman smiled. ‘Hot chocolate, too, what a treat.’

  They sat side by side for a while in companionable silence, listening to the soft bleating of sheep drifting over the fields, mingling with the distant call of gulls and the gentle, steady rhythm of waves lapping against the cliffs down below. The occasional cluck of a nearby hen completed the quiet symphony of farm and sea. The goats were clearly sleeping.

  Rita broke the silence. ‘You really like it out here, don’t you?’

  Zenya nodded. ‘I do. It’s quiet. Simple.’ She looked up to the sky. ‘And the stars don’t ask anything of me.’

  Rita gave a small laugh. ‘A caravan is about my limit.’

  ‘I tried that.’ Zenya breathed a big breath. ‘But even then I felt like the walls were closing in on me.’

  ‘Have you lived like this for a long time?’ Rita enquired gently.

  Zenya took a sip of her drink. ‘I was in foster care, mostly, as a kid. Never stayed anywhere long. Five homes by the time I was ten. When I was old enough to leave, I didn’t want anything permanent. I’d had enough of people telling me where I should be, how I should behave, what I should want.’ Her voice tailed off.

  Rita quietly absorbed the woman’s pain.

  ‘Society with all its boxes. Wife. Career. Mortgage. Kids. It doesn’t know what to do with someone who colours outside the lines.’

  ‘So why Cornwall?’

  Zenya shrugged. ‘I love the landscape and being by the sea just fills my soul with joy. Plus, people tend to stare less down here when you say you live in a tent and believe in the healing power of plants.’

  Rita smiled. ‘We stare a bit.’

  Zenya laughed. ‘Yes but give me curiosity over judgement any day.’

  Rita took a drink. ‘You’re braver than me. I’m staying exactly where I am to try and rebuild my life.’

  ‘And I ran from everything and ended up in your field. Maybe we’re just two sides of the same storm.’

  Rita looked up. The stars were bright tonight, clear and sharp. Somehow, beside Zenya and under the open sky, things didn’t feel quite so tangled anymore.

  ‘Maybe we are.’ Rita sighed, and took a sip of her hot chocolate.

  SIXTEEN

  Rita cast Stan a huge smile as she saw his Land Rover rattling towards her at the top of High Meadow. It was early and the sun was already up, causing sprinkles of golden light to seep through the dense branches of the Singing Tree, where they shimmered and danced on the earth below. With a cheery nod, Stan doffed his cap, then heaved the two large canvas yurts, their wooden frames bundled up like giant puzzles waiting to be solved, off the roof.

  Rita grimaced. ‘Shit, they look bigger than I remembered. Yurt assembly is a two-man job, apparently. But I’ll do my best.’

  ‘I gotta get the bases up ’ere first, Mrs Jory. Made ’em myself for you, I did. I read that having the platform elevated eighteen to twenty-four inches above the ground will create a handy crawl space to access plumbing, wiring or storage for you later on, if you go that way.’

  Rita bit her lip. It had cost more to get the ones with bases included. ‘I don’t know what to say.’

  ‘Don’t say anything; Jago provided the materials, and we haven’t put the buggers together yet.’ Stan grinned. ‘I think it’ll take us at least a couple of days to get you right with the five.’

  Rita was just perusing a YouTube video she’d found the night before on yurt erecting and positioning, when she heard the distant chug of a tractor drifting over the meadow, growing louder until Jago Jenken came into view, perched proudly at the wheel of Archie’s smart Massey Ferguson, a sheepdog by his side. Behind him, a battered trailer rattled along, piled high with the heavy wooden bases for the yurts. He gave a theatrical wave as he approached, his grin as wide as the ocean below.

  ‘Good morning, Rita. You didn’t think me and Meg would miss out on this great erection, did you?’ Jago called out, jumping down from his perch, while Meg barked and ran towards Henry, who was now off towards the gorse hedge at the edge of the field.

  Stan gave a grateful nod. ‘Perfect timing.’

  Rita felt herself blushing. ‘Err. Thanks for bringing these up, Jago, but me and Stan can manage, thank you.’

  ‘If I’m paying for Stan to help, then getting the job done quicker is a benefit to us both, don’t you agree?’ Jago clapped his hands together. ‘Let’s raise some yurts, shall we?’

  Archie had always told her never to assume. She also realised that pride or no pride she needed this help. Maybe the Jenken family weren’t all bad. Maybe Hilda’s opinion was a skewed one. Like she did with bookshop Jude, she would take Jago Jenken at face value. Innocent until proven guilty and all that.

  As the two men began unloading the bases, Rita gestured to where she wanted them positioned. The whole ethos of the retreat was about connecting with nature, so it made sense to have all the yurts facing the breathtaking ocean view. Not too close, for privacy, but near enough to suggest a gentle sense of community. It was a sweltering May day, and as Jago peeled off his T-shirt to reveal a tanned, toned torso, he threw Rita a lopsided grin.

  Rita was unable to stop her words, or a smirk from escaping. ‘Who do you think you are, Ross bloody Poldark?’

  Jago stopped what he was doing, shook his dark curls out of his eyes, and wiped his now-sweaty brow. His green eyes were twinkling. ‘I’ll be whoever you want me to be if it earns me a cup of tea and a scone later.’

  ‘That easy, eh.’ Rita laughed, shaking her head. ‘You’d better get on with it then, Jago Jenken. These yurts won’t build themselves.’

  ‘Right you are, Demelza.’ He tossed her a wink before hefting one of the circular base panels effortlessly. ‘But I’ll expect extra jam on mine.’

  Rita took a breath. Unchaste thoughts of a topless Jago Jenken smearing jam all over her began to circle her mind. ‘If you’re lucky,’ she stuttered as she hotfooted it to the Jimny, her face as red as a strawberry.

  Rita had headed back down to the farmhouse and was in the kitchen making a large flask of tea and putting ice in water bottles when she heard footsteps on the gravel outside. Expecting to see Zenya or Hilda, she was surprised to spot a young man, with a huge travel backpack, looking into the sky as if trying to decipher where exactly he was.

  At just over five foot seven, the dark-eyed, dark-haired, and undeniably handsome twentysomething carried himself with the easy confidence of someone twice his size. He had the kind of sun-kissed skin and sculpted cheekbones that you could only wish to be born with. He wore a pair of beige tailored shorts, effortlessly chic in that way only European men seem to manage, and a black fitted vest that clung to his impeccably toned physique. What did look slightly out of place, though, was one of those geeky transparent plastic map cases designed to be worn over the head, hanging flat against his chest on an adjustable strap.

  With a raised eyelid from Henry, who was asleep on his bed in the kitchen, Rita opened the front door before the young man got to it.

  ‘Hey, you OK?’

  The man jumped. ‘Hola,’ he called out, slightly out of breath but beaming. ‘Perdona, I mean, sorry, can you help me, please? I think I am… how you say, completely lost.’

  Rita raised an eyebrow, slightly amused. ‘Where are you looking for?’

  ‘I am on tour of Europe. I was hiking.’ He gestured vaguely behind him. ‘So beautiful, here.’ He looked to his map again. ‘So, this is Seahaven Farm, yes?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘OK, bueno. But now I look for the harbour and for some fish and chips. And it has disappeared, I think.’

  Rita laughed and pointed to the left. ‘It’s about a mile down the hill that way. So, you’re not far. Is it your first time here?’

  He nodded eagerly. ‘Sí. First time here, and I love it already. The sea, the air, the English boys.’ He cocked his head to gauge Rita’s reaction. It came in the form of a smile. ‘I want to stay. Maybe find work if I am lucky.’

  Rita’s ears then pricked. ‘What kind of work are you looking for?’

  ‘I am fitness trainer now.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘Before, I was jockey. Horses, racing… since I was sixteen. But I fell and my shoulder is how you say, fucked. But now I train people instead. No saddles,’ he added with a wink and held out his hand. ‘Mateo Serrano, but everyone can call me Teo.’

  Thinking that her upcoming guests, female and possibly even a few of the men, would absolutely adore him, Rita shook his hand.

  ‘Rita. Rita Jory.’

  ‘Ree-tah,’ he repeated slowly, letting the syllables roll off his tongue. ‘Now that’s a pretty name. And also, the name of my abuela.’

  ‘Your granny?’

  ‘Sí, sí. You speak español, ah Rita.’

  Rita laughed. ‘Hardly. GCSE was my limit.’

  ‘You are not just the pretty name or the pretty face.’ Teo grinned.

  Rita felt herself blushing, again! What was happening to her today? He’d already insinuated he was gay and was a similar age to her son, and she was acting like Camilla.

  ‘Could you teach yoga or Pilates do you think?’

  Teo cocked his head. ‘Why you ask?’

  ‘I’ve got a retreat opening soon. Meditation, yoga, all that healthy stuff. Here at the farm. Could be right up your street.’

  His molten brown eyes lit up. ‘This is… how you say, fate?’ He brought his hands together in a prayer pose and added with a grin, ‘I teach yoga. Vinyasa and Hatha.’

  Rita, having no clue what either style involved, nonetheless grinned broadly. ‘Amazing!’ she replied, with the kind of enthusiasm normally reserved for fireworks or winning raffle tickets. Just then, Hilda, dressed in black from head to toe, arrived, her sharp eyes giving Teo the complete once-over. Rita cringed at what might come out of her mother-in-law’s mouth. ‘Morning, Hilda. This is Teo Serrano, hopefully soon to be our new yoga instructor.’

  Hilda, a shade under five foot, peered up at him with mischievous eyes. ‘Serrano, eh? Tasty, just like the ham.’