It was tragic, Rita thought, in this now-frantic world, how little people knew about each other. Everyone so busy with their own their lives, rarely stopping to ask what might be going on underneath. She made a vow to do more asking.
She looked to the view out over Seahaven Point. Gulls’ cries carrying on the salt-tinged breeze. Below, the sea murmured against the base of the cliffs, its surface glittering with kisses of sunlight. Kitesurfers danced on the waves in the far-off bay, and a fishing boat bobbed lazily near the horizon.
‘This really is a spectacular spot.’ Michael stared out at the ocean vista in front of him, too.
‘I know. I’m incredibly lucky, and Michael…’ Rita smiled warmly. ‘I’m sure you won’t be the last person to arrive here in bits.’
He stuck out his bottom lip. ‘Your observation is oddly comforting. Like a TripAdvisor review for the emotionally rock bottom.’
‘Sorry, too much?’ Rita asked, worried that she might have upset him.
‘You’re askingmethat question?’ Michael grinned, causing them both to laugh.
Rita was just about to get in the Jimny and head down to feed the goats and hens when Emily appeared from under the Singing Tree, book in hand.
‘I’ve left your breakfast hamper outside,’ Rita offered quietly.
Emily smiled shyly. ‘Thank you… and for this.’ She held the book up. ‘I loveRebecca. Second time for me. Have you read it?’ Rita nodded. Emily’s eyes were bright. ‘It’s so haunting, isn’t it? It made me think about how sometimes we’re trapped by the shadows of what came before us, even when we’re trying to start over.’
‘I guess sometimes we just have to find the courage to let the light in and move forward.’ Rita surprised herself with her own insight.
‘Thank you,’ Emily whispered.
‘Right, these animals won’t feed themselves.Bon appétit,’ Rita shouted as she sprang into the jeep.
TWENTY-FIVE
Rita sat near the back of the bus, her bag on her lap, fingers absently tapping a rhythm against the strap. She was on her way down to the bay to pay Betty for this week’s hampers and also to pop into Sail Away to see Jude about the future retreat reads.
As the number seven trundled past the drive that led up to Hawthorn Acre, something caught her eye. She turned instinctively toward the window. There, at the farm gate, stood Jago. Tall, dark and as handsome as ever with Meg, his trusty sheepdog, at his feet. And beside him, laughing, head thrown back, was a young man leaning against a gleaming silver Porsche. Rita’s stomach lurched. It looked just like her Thom, who was beginning to look more like her Archie each day. A double whammy of confusion.
She blinked hard and looked again. The bus was already turning the corner, trees swallowing the view. Her forehead furrowed in confusion. No, it couldn’t have been. Thom hadn’t had anything to do with the Jenkens,ever. And surely he would have said if he was coming to Seahaven. But the confident way he was standing… The way he threw his head back when he laughed, just like his father had done before him. It seemed so familiar it made her throat tighten.
You’re tired, she told herself, shaking her head gently.Too much going on. You’re seeing things.
But as the bus approached the harbour, a quiet unease settled in her gut.
Jude was busy serving a customer when Rita pushed open the door to her favourite bookshop. Needing a second to quieten her restless mind, she went to the back of the shop, got herself an espresso from the fancy coffee machine, sat on one of the Lloyd Loom chairs and took in the busy Tuesday morning view of the harbour. A fishing boat chugged steadily out towards the open ocean, its engine humming low and purposeful. Nearby, a Seahaven Bay Tours boat was being hosed down by the crew, sunlight catching the spray as they readied it for a day of trips along the coast.
‘You OK, Rita?’ Jude asked politely as if he had noticed the lack of her usual zesty energy. ‘It’s not like you to stop and stare.’
She nodded too fast. ‘Yes. No. Oh, it’s probably nothing. I just thought I saw someone earlier, but it couldn’t have been him.’
Jude didn’t ask. Instead, with folded arms, he leaned against the bookshelves and began to recite to her.
‘Why do you make me leave the house
And think for a breath it is you I see
At the end of the alley of bending boughs
Where so often at dusk you used to be;
Till in darkening dankness
The yawning blankness
Of the perspective sickens me!’
