She dumped the rest of the washing into the basket and left it on the grass. ‘Thanks for the help, Hilda, but I’ve got something to sort out.’
‘Rita, act in haste, repent at leisure!’ the old lady called out.
But Hilda’s words were lost on the breeze, and Rita was already marching across the courtyard, reaching in her pocket for her keys and flinging open the door to the Suzuki with enough force to rattle the window. Her short drive to Hawthorn Acre was a blur of red mist and furious thoughts.
When she pulled up in a cloud of dust, Jago was in the yard, shirtsleeves rolled up, bent over a tractor engine.
‘Jago Jenken,’ she shouted, slamming the door and marching towards him. ‘We need to talk.’
Oblivious of the fury afoot, Stan raised his hand at her from the hay barn.
Jago straightened slowly, his emerald-green eyes showing a smattering of amusement. ‘Well, this is an unexpected pleasure. Shall we take it inside?’
‘No, I’m fine just here.’ Rita felt like she could barely breathe. ‘Did you really think that I would sit and stare whilst you and my son stitch me up over selling the farm?’
He flinched. ‘That’s not fair.’
‘No, what’s not fair is you playing me like a fool. The yurts, the flowers, the kiss. Was any of it genuine or was it merely a strategy to blur my judgement?’
He stepped forward, calm but assertive. ‘Rita, I haven’t planned anything. I’ve neverconspired with Thom. In fact, I like you…’
‘But he was here yesterday.’
‘He was at the gate, yes. For ten minutes. A couple of sheep wandered; he had to stop.’ Jago paused. ‘Shocked me how much he looked like Archie, actually…’ His voice trailed off. ‘I barely know the lad.’
‘That’s exactly what he said to me, to the word,’ Rita huffed. ‘Almost like you practised it together.’ Then without thought she said, ‘No wonder you’re single if you’re this bloody devious.’
She took a breath, realising she had maybe overstepped the mark, and more.
Jago’s expression darkened in an instant. When he finally spoke, his tone was icy. ‘Don’t speak of things you know nothing about.’ The handsome farmer held her gaze. ‘I’ve been nothing but kind to you. And here you are allowing your cloak of grief to cover you in misery and think everyone is out to get you.’ He dropped the tractor bonnet with a sharp clunk.
As he looked down at her with a sadness that said more than words, Rita stared right at him. Everything she’d been feeling, anger, attraction, confusion, had fused into something unmanageable. They were close now. Too close. Her heart pounded with the same fury that had driven her here.
Jago broke the tension. ‘You’ve got that handsome Spanish chap now who seems really handy, so I’m happy for you to have use of Stan for the rest of the month. Then, I think for both our sakes, it’s better if we keep away from each other, just like we used to.’
‘Fine!’ Rita said far too loudly, flouncing towards the Jimny.
Jago, visibly upset, started walking back to the farmhouse. Then he turned and shouted, ‘I’m not a liar.’
Rita turned the radio on full blast and droveher little Jimny as fast as it would go. She drove away from Hawthorn Acre and Jago Jenken, away from Seahaven Bay and all the muddle it had come to represent. With the windows down and the wind in her hair, she followed the scenic coastal road towards the headland of Seahaven Point.
When she reached the bend in the road where Archie had met his tragic end, she instinctively slowed down. Her chest tightened. The sobs came suddenly, deep, gasping sobs for Archie, for the mess with Thomas, for herself and the endless, wearying failure to trust anyone completely. She was angry, grieving, lost, all the painful emotions she’d tried to outrun now rushing in to catch her. Realising she couldn’t see properly through the tears, she continued slowly to the tourist car park at the top of the point and parked up close to the bench with its enviable position of facing straight out to sea.
She was surprised, and quietly relieved, to find the car park almost empty for a July day. Granted, the kids hadn’t broken up for the summer holidays yet, but even so it was glorious out. Sliding on her sunglasses to hide her now-puffy eyes, she wandered over to the little kiosk and bought a coffee from the handsome, tanned bloke manning the counter. Then she made her way to the bench and sat down, grateful for the quiet she could no longer find at the top of the High Meadow. The view was perfect: a hard, clean horizon cutting the cloudless sky and blue-green sea in two. Slowly, she began to melt into herself. The rage, the chaos, the full-body emotional storm of the past hour started to ease off. She tipped her head back to catch the warmth of the sun and for a while she just sat there, breathing shallow and ragged, Jago’s words ringing in her ears.
… for both our sakes, it’s better if we keep away from each other.
The words echoed, sharp and certain, yet somehow still refused to land fully. They hovered in the air, not quite believable, not quite dismissible. The tears came again, and this time she let them fall freely. She hated this feeling. Hated being so exposed, so peeled-back. But most of all, she hated the confusion. Theimpossible tangle of anger, affection, sadness, and something far more complicated that she hadn’t dared name.
And goodness knows how she would have reacted if she’d seen Jago, who had pulled quietly into the car park just moments after her, watching from a distance as she sat down, safe, coffee in hand. And then, with a clenched jaw, he drove away without her noticing.
TWENTY-NINE
Rita had always thought that the waves crashing onto the beach sounded different at night. Softer, somehow. As if the ocean was letting its shoulders drop after a long day, too.
A full moon hung above the dark ocean at Seahaven Bay’s surf beach. Its silvery light spilled onto the sea, casting a shimmery path that stretched all the way to the shore, as if inviting you to step out and walk across the waves. Stars were dotted above like tiny pinpricks in black velvet, each one flickering as if delivering a secret message from the cosmos. The tide whispered close to the fire pit Zenya had dug earlier that evening, and the soft crunch of bare feet on sand signalled the arrival of her small moonlit crew wearing the head torches that Rita had asked Teo to put in each yurt that afternoon.
‘All right, soul seekers,’ Zenya said warmly, spreading out the last of the battered beach blankets and flicking her torch off. ‘Welcome to the first ever midnight moonlight mantras. No phones, no expectations. Just stars, snacks, a slurp of Sauvignon and possibly profound revelations.’
