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, breathein 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 ofwhat 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 stayedfive 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 thecentre 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 barn, 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.’
