‘Morning, how’s it going?’ She grabbed herself an apple from the fruit bowl and took a huge bite.
Without a word, Rita turned around, wiped her hands on a tea towel, and pointed to the table.
Zenya put her apple down on the envelope, then picked up a letter, typed on stiff white paper, headed in bold with CRIPPS & HAVERING SOLICITORS.
‘He’s trying to force me out, Zen. Out of my home. Archie’s not been gone a year, and my own son is circling like a greedy vulture waiting for pickings.’
‘Shit, Rita. I’m so sorry.’
Rita sat down, eyes brimming.
Zenya lifted the letter, reading aloud with a frown.
‘Re: Estate of the late Mr Archibald Jory (Deceased)
‘Dear Mrs Jory,
‘We write on behalf of our client, Mr Thomas Jory, a beneficiary under the rules of intestacy in the estate of the late Mr Archibald Jory.
‘It has come to our attention that the primary asset of the deceased’s estate, namely Seahaven Farm, has not been valued or listed for sale. We are instructed to request that you undertake an independent valuation within fourteen days of this letter, with a view to initiating a sale, so that all legal beneficiaries may receive their rightful share.
‘We must remind you of your duty as a representative of the estate to act in the best interests of all beneficiaries and to avoid any appearance of self-dealing or undue delay.
‘Should no satisfactory action be taken, our client reserves the right to pursue legal remedies to ensure a fair distribution of the estate.’
She set it down gently, then looked Rita dead in the eye.
‘I’m no expert here, but I think it’s a scare tactic, Rita. Nothing more. You owned this jointly with Archie, right?’
Rita nodded.
‘I’ve got an idea. How about you talk to Michael. He’ll know the score and it’ll be free and a quick response, at least.’
‘Oh, Zenya, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘I’m like a walking emergency kit, me,’ Zenya quipped as she headed to the door.
Once alone, Rita sat at the kitchen table, the solicitor’s letter trembling in her hands like a living thing, sharp, cold and accusing. This wasn’t just paper and ink. It was Thom’s voice turned to ice, a final verdict that slammed down between them, driving a cruel wedge where love once lived.
Her chest felt like it was being crushed, the weight far heavier than anger or frustration. It was grief. Confusion.Betrayal. A knot twisting deep inside, squeezing tighter with every heartbeat.
Why? Why would Thom do this? Her boy, her baby, whose dreams she’d cradled like fragile glass. And now, instead of a call, a conversation, he’d sent the lawyers. Like she was a stranger.
Her heart was broken, not just because he’d taken this step, but because it felt like a signal she’d missed. Had she failed to hear him? To reach him as a mother? Was this letter a desperate plea for years of feeling unloved?
She couldn’t bear the thought. Thom had never been as open with his feelings as Sennen, but she’d always held them both close, equally, fiercely.
And yet, beneath the wreckage of hurt and confusion, a stubborn pulse of love still beat strongly. He was her only son and she couldn’t find it in her heart to shut the door on him. Not yet. She needed to understand what storm had driven him to this bitter shore.
Slowly, trembling, she folded the letter, a quiet defiance blooming inside her. Because love, she finally knew, wasn’t just about holding tight when everything was calm. Sometimes, it was about holding on when the very ground beneath you threatened to crumble.
Michael sat under the Singing Tree, on the bench that bore Archie’s name, collar turned up against the sea breeze, the Hardy poetry book resting on his knee. He was looking out aimlessly to where the sky met the sea.
Rita approached quietly, clutching the solicitor’s letter in her hand. She had debated interrupting one of her guest’s moments of peace, but the weight in her chest had grown heavier by the hour. She needed answers.
‘Mind if I join you?’
‘Of course not.’ He tapped the bench besidehim.
