Chapter 11
ELEVEN
With a spring in her step from Hilda’s generosity the day before, Rita headed out to feed the animals.
April had been typically wet and blustery, full of its usual showers, but somehow wetter than most years.
A positive for Rita as aside from conducting her necessary chores outside, it had allowed her to focus on finalising her business and marketing plan.
Sennen had agreed that putting yurts up on the High Meadow was a brilliant idea.
An opportunity to showcase the ‘Seahaven on Earth’ aspect of the sweeping views over the cliffs and horizon.
It would offer guests a peaceful, scenic retreat, while also keeping them comfortably distanced from the bustle of Rita’s everyday farm life.
Kelly had suggested her getting a business loan, but with owning half of Archie’s debt Rita was doubtful she’d get any credit, not yet. Hilda’s cash injection was a godsend, but yurts weren’t cheap and she wanted to get opening and start the money coming in as soon as she possibly could.
For now, she would provide a couple of compost toilets in the yurt area so that guests wouldn’t have to wander the good half mile down from the High Meadow in the dark. She would also give the outbuilding toilet and shower a good old scrub and daub of white paint.
Not ideal facilities, she realised, but she was selling the place as a rustic retreat – ‘coming back to nature with no mod cons’ – so hoped she wouldn’t get too many complaints.
And, once more financially secure, she planned to convert another of the outhouses into a fancier toilet and shower area and also construct a basic kitchen and dining unit.
With chickens fed and on her way to tend to the goats, Rita conducted her daily ritual of having a look in the barn to try and muster up further ideas.
With all the rain they had had, it had seemed a gloomy outlook all around, but today, the sun was shining and despite not having waxed her shapely legs for at least two months she had even put on shorts with her wellies.
Looking around at the newly cleared barn, and with the help of Hilda’s cash injection, everything somehow seemed less daunting now.
There would be cushions. Lanterns. Maybe some fairy lights strung across the beams. She just needed to work out a timetable of what exactly the programme of classes would look like.
Also, how she would cater for food and beverages.
All of which would need to be high quality but not overly expensive.
As if her daughter was reading her mind, Rita’s thoughts were abruptly interrupted by a message prompting her to check her email.
I love it. You’re good at this, Mum! Sennen had typed. Just made a few minor tweaks to what you sent over. Here it is.
Rita began to read aloud.
‘Escape to Seahaven Bay Retreat – where the sea meets the soul. Nestled in nature, our cosy, back-to-basics yurts offer a front-row seat to a view so breathtaking, it feels like heaven on earth. Step into our sea-view barn for rejuvenating sessions including gong ceremonies and yoga, or gaze at the stars and moon in quiet wonder. Embrace the wild with cold-water sea swims, then nourish your body with fresh, raw, healthy foods – or head to the picturesque harbour to find a charming local hostelry. It’s time to lose your inhibitions and find your soul.
Welcome to the Seahaven Bay Retreat – your rustic hideaway by the sea… ’
‘Lose your inhibitions, eh, Mrs Jory,’ a deep voice enquired.
Rita nearly dropped her phone at the unexpected interruption. And on seeing who was in front of her she wished she’d tended to her hairy legs and sorted her hair, which was now almost two-tone.
Jago Jenken, proprietor of Hawthorn Acre, was the kind of man who turned heads without even trying.
He had thick black hair and vivid green eyes, and one dimple that sat deeper than the other when he smiled, lending an uneven charm that made his grin all the more captivating.
Even in worn work clothes and boots thick with mud, he looked better than most men in a dress suit.
His voice was deep, the kind you felt in your chest, and his eyes held a mischievous twinkle that reminded her, achingly, of a younger version of her Archie.
There was something about the way he carried himself, open and magnetic, that made it impossible not to watch him a moment longer than was proper.
‘Everything OK?’ Rita stuttered.
‘I found one of your goats in my top field. Just brought her back and – hope you don’t mind – just popped her in the pen. I hate to say it, I think she might have met my Cedric halfway. It is spring, mind.’ Jago winked.
Was he flirting with her? He never had before.
Then again, thanks to the long-standing Jenken–Jory feud, she’d barely exchanged two words with him before she sold him Archie’s beloved cows and tractor.
When Archie had been alive and their paths had crossed, she’d found her mind wandering, tinged with guilt, down deliciously forbidden roads, imagining all the things a married woman could only dream about.
When it came to the tractor sale, she had been so consumed by grief that even if Matt Damon had appeared topless on a white charger, she wouldn’t have noticed.
If he was flirting, he clearly believed beauty was only skin deep, because she looked like a pig in a wig today – and her legs were so hairy you could practically plait them.
‘Shit. OK, thank you. I expect it was Camilla; she’s trouble, that one. Has been known to ignore her constraints on occasion.’
‘Naughty girl.’ Jago smirked, his voice low and teasing. Rita’s face reddened as the handsome one continued. ‘You all right? Must be hard coping on your own.’ Jago looked around the now-empty barn. ‘You’ve done a good job getting this ship-shape, though.’
‘Err, thanks.’ Rita’s words came without thought. ‘And are you looking after those cows all right?’
‘Looking after them like my own.’ Jago hesitated for a second. ‘Anyway, I thought you were allergic to…’
Rita was wide eyed. ‘How did you kn—?’
Jago was swift in his reply. ‘So… do you think you’ll stay here? At the farm, I mean?’
Something tightened in Rita’s chest. The question caught her off guard, touched a nerve she didn’t even realise was quite so raw.
‘I’m not selling to you, Jago Jenken.’ Rita was sharper than she intended. ‘Not now, not ever.’
Jago raised his hands in mock surrender, eyebrows lifting. ‘Whoa. An angry Jory, I’ve seen a few of those in my time.’ He softened his tone. ‘That’s not what I meant. I just thought…’
She cut in again, the words tumbling out before she could stop them. ‘I wasn’t born bloody yesterday.’
‘All right, all right.’ Jago sounded contrite now. ‘I really didn’t mean to strike a nerve.’
Rita blew out a breath, already regretting her tone. ‘I’m setting up a wellness retreat, actually. So, if you want to come and release the stresses of farm life by screaming into a pillow, you’ll be very welcome.’
Jago raised an eyebrow, the flirty spark returning. ‘And you need a retreat for that?’ He didn’t look away, the one dimple flashing like a dare.
Her temper fizzled out like a match dropped in water, and she tried not to smile. ‘Anyway, it’s more than just pillow-screaming. There might be goat yoga too.’
‘Ah,’ he replied, mock serious, ‘your Camilla’s just had a bit of practice for that already.’
Rita rolled her eyes, but her heart gave a traitorous flutter. Damn him.
Jago smirked. ‘Anyway. There was a gap she must’ve squeezed through. I roughly mended it. The whole goat pen really could do with a seeing to.’
‘Couldn’t we all,’ Rita stuttered, followed by a rapid and embarrassed, ‘I mean… but thank you, thank you for doing that.’
Another lopsided smile. ‘Well, you know where I am.’
With that, all six foot one of deliciousness strode off towards Hawthorn Acre.
Rita let out a slow breath she hadn’t realised she’d been holding.
The flutter Jago Jenken had just stirred in her wasn’t unwelcome.
If anything, it reminded her she was still alive, but it unsettled her all the same.
Archie’s absence was still so raw, his presence lingering in every corner of the house.
She wasn’t ready to be feeling anything new, not yet.
And yet there it was, a quiet spark, gently nudging at the edges of her grief.