Chapter 11
Chapter eleven
Ben
As usual, my inbox is bursting with unanswered emails from the night before. It’s Friday. I try to finish each week as up to date with all the correspondence as I can be. But it’s only nine in the morning, and that’s already looking unlikely.
I scan the bold blue senders, looking for the easiest win. My old friend and mentor, Eamon Riley’s name, flashes on screen. Perfect. This email is one I will enjoy replying to. His message is simple and personal. How are you? How are the kids? Any updates on the retreat?
I reply with a general overview of my wandering children's lives. I ignore his question about me. It’s safer not to give anything away that may lead to awkward inquiries. Then I mention the potential retreat funding from Opengate.
Eamon would tell me I’m not aiming high enough. That the six family suites I plan to have should be ten—minimum. But I know what my limits are, and if I do this, I need to do it well.
For Bex. And for myself.
The next name freezes me.
Pinnacle Research. Antonia did say to expect a decision within forty-eight hours, but it’s barely thirty-six. It opens on my screen. And I exhale. Relief immediate.
Dear Dr. Jones,
After further analysis of your patient Anna Collins’ blood markers, it has been identified that the initial rejection to the Lunavax trial was in error. Mrs. Collins meets the necessary criteria. The drug has been released and will be delivered within twenty-four hours.
Please read all documentation carefully and ensure results are submitted as requested.
We can only apologize for the error.
Kind Regards
Dr. M. Gordon
I blink. Then reread the email. Antonia is a miracle worker. I have a thread of emails between myself and Pinnacle Research to prove it. Every request for reevaluation fell on deaf ears. Antonia Cole makes one contact, and she succeeds where I failed. That’s influence.
As pleased as I am that I’ve found a way in, it grates that it was necessary. It shouldn’t take a CEO to correct a dying woman’s file.
I’m the doctor after all. I know criteria when I see them, and I knew Anna met all their demands, but it wasn’t enough.
Now, seeing Antonia’s power for myself, I know she will be an exceptional partner in the retreat. She could open doors that are welded closed. From what I’ve read, she built Opengate without legacy, without family backing, and without a safety net.
She built it by refusing to accept no.
I lift my phone to call her, then set it back down. I’ll be seeing her in a matter of hours on the ground that I hope will become the retreat. I’ll tell her then. Some conversations deserve eye contact.
And I hope my news may gift her a small smile. I’d love to see that.
***
My tire crashes into yet another pothole as the underside of my car scrapes through the mud, causing a low protest from metal not designed to be here. I can picture the flood of muck between my alloys now, oozing disgustingly.
I was never made to be a country boy. And nearing fifty, that hasn’t changed.
The dilapidated farm looks no better than it did when I placed a deposit on it a month ago. The sale is due to be completed in August. I need the land grant secured before then.
Amy said she admired my newfound enthusiasm, but maybe I should slow things down. I disagree. If I’m going to do this, it needs to be now. Setting myself a deadline felt like discipline.
Perhaps twelve weeks was ambitious.
Antonia is already here when I arrive. Of course she is.
And of course, she’s complete with a jeep to suit the terrain.
As I pull to a stop next to her car, her professional mask slips for a second.
I swear she laughs at my sports car struggling in the mud.
I stop on the driest patch possible, hoping to evade the disaster on the ground for a few minutes at least.
She steps out as I do, wearing bright pink Wellington boots, and a knee-length tweed coat thrown over a tailored suit. July has gifted us nothing but rain this year. She came prepared.
I, on the other hand, pick my way across the rocky farmyard in leather shoes before retreating to my trunk for the rubber ones I should have worn from the start. She appears at my shoulder as I’m tugging them on.
“Good afternoon, Ben,” she says, crisp and composed. “This is quite a project you’ve taken on.”
“Potentially.”
There’s no retreat without external funding. I need it to continue this journey. Antonia is my only real hope just now. And she knows that. I have no doubt she’s done her homework.
“But I’m excited by it,” I add, straightening. “This place is exactly as I envisioned it would be.”
Her gaze sweeps over the land.
Hillsnek Farm is located an hour from London city center. The retreat needed to be close enough that people could take advantage of it without hours of traveling, but far enough away that it felt like an escape.
The red-brick farmhouse and outbuildings date back to 1882.
They’ve survived two world wars, housed multiple generations of one family, and weathered disease outbreaks.
It’s only being sold as the last remaining member of the Ashcombe family died this spring.
With no living heirs, the property passed to a cancer charity they supported quietly for years.
A colleague tipped me off before it reached the open market. If it had gone public, I wouldn’t have stood a chance. I offered what I could afford. Every saving I’d set aside for a safer future. A deposit placed before I had the full funding guaranteed.
A risk. But it felt right.
“So,” Antonia says, surveying the buildings. “Tell me what you see here.”
I move immediately to the backseat of my car, pulling out the rolled-up architect drawings. I spread them across the hood, dropping my keys on one corner and my phone on the other to lay it flat.
“This,” I point to the main structure drawn in blue lines on white paper, “would be the communal dining room. Families can meet each other if they wish or not.”
Bright-red nails press against the drawing. She steps into my space. I shift back instinctively, and my hand brushes hers. The contact is brief; her skin warm and unexpected.
I still. My heart rattles in my chest. She doesn’t flinch.
“No,” she says quietly. “Show me what you see here.”
She gestures beyond the plans. The roofline sags low, the windows are broken, weeds smother the yard. A home that was once majestic, now cracked and derelict.
“I don’t need to see drawings,” she continues. “I have every confidence that the documents will be in order. I want to know what you want this place to become.”
The paper rolls easily in my hands, and I place the drawings back in the car. Everything lifts, Antonia’s interest in my ideas, not just technical specifications, a welcome surprise.
“This way,” I say, moving toward the main house. My gaze lingers on her a fraction too long.
We navigate around the surveyor’s lines, muddy puddles, and broken brick. I pass her a hard hat at the door to the old farmhouse. She puts it on without comment, squashing her high ponytail.
“I want this to be a place families can breathe,” I say. “Somewhere that the word terminal disappears at the threshold.”
She nods, then follows me through each room as I explain the layout and purpose. Communal spaces mixed with private rooms. Medical equipment within reach but hidden from view. “The retreat needs to have the facilities of a hospital, but the face of a holiday home.”
“Time is one thing you have in abundance and none of at the end,” she whispers, her eyes moving over every broken surface. “You have so much of it, but can do so little.”
I don’t pry for more information. Part of me thinks she’s telling me something private without meaning to. I curb my urge to reach out and squeeze her arm in comfort.
“At the end,” I say. “Bex barely left her bed. We would sit for hours. I’d talk; she’d listen. But most of the time she slept. I’d read her books aloud, but she rarely remembered them.”
“That must have been difficult.” She steps toward the staircase leading to the upper floors, blocked off with red tape. “What’s on the second floor?”
“Bedrooms with attic space above. The floor isn’t safe, but it will be usable space.”
After our tour of the grounds and outbuildings, we return to the cars.
She hasn’t spoken since I finished telling her about the communal garden I envisioned, or the separate counseling building to be located in the old barn, so the accommodation spaces are kept for families to enjoy the holiday vibe.
“I like it,” she says, taking off her Wellington boots and slipping on black heels. one hand on her car door to balance. “I’ll move forward with the conditional funding. You’ll receive the draft terms on Monday. I’ll tell the board.”
“Thank you,” I stammer, taken aback by her certainty. Never did I expect a decision here and now, without more meetings and paperwork. She’s power in a tweed coat.
Her eyes move across the land again. “This is exactly the type of project I want Opengate to be involved in… it matters.”
As she moves to the driver’s side, she’s opening her door when I remember what I wanted to tell her. “There’s one more thing,” I say.
“Yes.”
“Anna Collins was approved.”
She pauses, then smiles. It lightens her instantly. Her eyes shine. “Good.”
“The meds should arrive within twenty-four hours.” She nods once. “You bought her time.”
Her fingers run along the top of her car door as she clears her throat.
“We bought her time,” she says, then gets into her car and drives off.
***
Later that night, I’m sitting in my bedroom, the contents of the Jimmy Choo box scattered over the sheets. There’s more now—old photos, more coherent notes. Less of a pile of scraps, more order.
I open the architect’s drawing of the retreat again.
Exact and professional. Then look at my doodle on the back of one of Ollie’s soccer match fixture lists from a few months after Bex’s death.
They’re not the same, but there are similarities.
And for the first time, it feels like my goals may actually be brought to life.
For the first time, in what feels like forever, this is a step into the future.