The solicitors waiting room felt sweltering, though a June breeze still whispered outside the town of Whitby. Olivia brushed a hand over the pleats of her skirt, avoiding the eyes of both Isabelle and Charlotte. The sisters arrived on time, each in her own fashion: Isabelle in a crisp blazer, phone glued to her hand; Charlotte in a light cardigan, her face warm as if shed just drifted in for tea. Olivia noted how they chose their seats Isabelle perched opposite the door, back straight, stare fixed on the window; Charlotte settled near the low coffee table littered with wellworn magazines.
Outside the streets throbbed with traffic, horns blaring in a perpetual jam, while inside time seemed to crawl. A heavy, taut silence settled between the sisters; everyone knew why they were there, yet no one dared to break the quiet.
Olivia glanced at the solicitors door. Behind it lay a slice of their past the family cottage where every summer had been spent together. After their mothers death the house had stood empty for years. The three had grown up, married, taken on responsibilities. Now the decision made in that room would decide whether the cottage remained a shared haven or vanished forever.
When the clerk gestured them in, Isabelle rose first and exhaled a barely audible sigh. Light poured through tall windows that looked onto a leafy square. On the desk lay neat folders and a long wooden pen.
The solicitor greeted each by name, her tone calm and matteroffact, outlining the procedure and reminding them of the need for documented consent. The paperwork had been prepared in advance; she doublechecked surnames and asked for passports. Everything proceeded in a formal, rapid rhythm almost like sitting an exam.
Olivia remembered the phrase clearly: The cottage at Oakwood Farm passes into joint ownership of the three daughters, equal shares. Isabelle frowned ever so slightly, Charlotte lowered her gaze. No one objected aloud.
After the signatures, the solicitor explained the rights: each sister could now deal with her share under the law. Any change would require the agreement of all coowners or a court order. A sixmonth window for formal inheritance was mentioned, though in practice everything hinged on their mutual consent.
Back in the corridor, evening light fell in strips through the grimy glass. Olivia felt a weariness settle, as if something important lingered behind them and the future ahead was a mist.
On the pavement Charlotte broke the silence first:
Maybe we should meet at the cottage? See whats there
Isabelle shrugged:
I can only make it this weekend. After that the kids holidays end.
Olivia thought of her looming week of endless meetings at the office. To say no now would mean conceding defeat before the battle even began.
Lets try to go together, she said slowly. We need at least a sense of the work involved.
Isabelle lowered her head:
Id just sell it all outright, she whispered. Well never agree on who uses it and the taxes?
Charlottes eyes flickered:
Sell? Thats the only place left Mums strawberries are still growing there!
Exactly, Isabelle cut in. Wholl look after it? Wholl foot the repair bills?
Olivia sensed the familiar tugofwar between them, each pulling toward her own reason. She recalled summer evenings on the verandah, when arguments were only about who washed the dishes or where to hide apricot jam from the autumn mice. Now the disputes were grownup: taxes and shares replacing compote and sandboxes.
Perhaps, Olivia finally suggested, if we tidy things up and each put a little in, we could rent it out in summer? Split the money fairly?
Isabelle stared at her:
What if someone wants to live there themselves?
Charlotte interjected:
Id come now and then with my son maybe a week each summer. I dont need rental income.
The conversation spun in circles: one idea after another taking turns, living together, renting to strangers or neighbours, doing a full renovation or just patching the roof before the season, selling to an outsider or listing the whole property.
Old grievances rose unbidden: who had invested more before, who had tended Mum, who once painted the shutters without asking.
The talk grew sharp and brief. No compromise emerged, only a promise to reconvene at the cottage in two days, each interpreting it as a chance to persuade or at least stake a serious claim.
The cottage greeted them with the scent of damp earth after a night rain and the harsh whirr of a neighbours mower. The house looked much as it had years ago: flaking paint on the porch, apple trees shedding blossoms by the windows, an old bench by the shed with a crack down its leg.
Inside it felt stifling despite the windows flung open. Mosquitoes lazily circled a thickglass vase that Mum had once bought at the local hardware shop. The sisters moved through rooms in silence: Isabelle checked meters and windows, Charlotte immediately began sorting a stack of books in the bedroom corner, Olivia peeked into the kitchen to inspect the gas hob and fridge both flickering on and off.
A dispute erupted almost as soon as the house tour ended:
This place is falling apart, Isabelle snapped. We need a fullscale repair! And that costs money
Charlotte shook her head:
If we sell now well get the least. The cottage lives while we visit together!
Olivia tried to mediate:
We could fix what we can now, and discuss the rest later, she offered. Take it step by step.
But the imagined middle ground dissolved; each held fast to her stance until night fell. By dinner time they barely spoke. Charlotte attempted a simple supper of boiled rice and tins, Olivia stared at news on her phone signal only catching near the kitchen window, Isabelle skimmed work documents by the kettle.
At eight the lights dimmed; the porch bulb flickered out with a loud click. Heavy grey clouds gathered over the garden.
A storm burst in with sudden ferocity; the first thunderclap rolled as they prepared to retire to their rooms. Lightning flashed through the windows, rain hammered the roof so loudly they had to raise their voices just to be heard inside.
Midnight, a strange sound echoed down the hallway a splash mixed with the creak of floorboards. A thin stream of water traced the wall beside the bookcase. Charlotte was the first to shout:
Waters coming through! Look!
Olivia darted for a bucket in the shed, stumbling among jars of jam. She finally uncovered a plastic pail with a handle, rushed back as the rain intensified and droplets began to patter faster.
Isabelle grabbed a mop, steering the spray away from sockets. Short bursts of light illuminated the rooms, shadows leapt across the ceiling. The air filled with ozone, wet timber, and a sharp, metallic tang.
Isabelle turned sharply to her sisters:
This is our family nest! We cant live here, we cant rent it, not like this!
No one argued now; everyone was busy shoving books from the shelf, moving a chair, laying an old rug across the puddle. Within minutes it became clear: if the leak wasnt sealed now, half the furniture would need replacing in the morning.
The old grievances shrank to nothing against the urgent need for a temporary fix. Without a word they fetched whatever materials lay around a roll of roofing felt, a box of nails, an old hammer.
When the water finally ceased dripping from the ceiling, the house seemed to exhale, as if releasing a held breath along with Olivia, Isabelle and Charlotte. A bucket sat halffilled with murky water by the bookcase, the rug was sodden at the edges, books piled against the wall, the corridor reeked of damp wood. Outside the rain eased, occasional drops pattering on the sill.
Olivia wiped her forehead with her sleeve and looked at her sisters: Isabelle crouched by an outlet, checking for moisture; Charlotte perched on the stairs, clutching a threadbare towel used as a rag. Silence held, broken only by the shed door thudding in the wind.
We need to do something about the roof now, Isabelle said, weary. Otherwise the next storm will repeat this.
Olivia nodded:
Theres a roll of felt and nails in the shed I saw it on the shelf.
Charlotte stood:
Ill help, but we need a torch its dark down there.
The shed was cool, smelling of earth. Olivia fumbled for an old headlamp; the batteries were low, the beam flickered across the walls. The felt was heavier than expected. Charlotte cradled the nails, Isabelle lifted the hammer the same one their father had once used to fix the garden gate.
Time was short; the rain could return at any moment. The three climbed to the loft through a narrow crawlspace behind the kitchen. The air was stale, dust and memories of past summers hanging heavy.
They worked in silence. Olivia held the felt while Isabelle hammered it to the beams each thud echoing in the cramped space. Charlotte passed the nails, muttering numbers under her breath, perhaps counting blows, perhaps keeping fatigue at bay.
Through the gaps the night sky stared back, clouds drifting over the garden, the moon casting pale light on wet apple trees.
Hold tighter, Isabelle urged. If we dont secure it, the first gust will rip it away.
Olivia pressed the edge of the sheet harder.
Charlotte suddenly laughed, a warm sound that rose oddly in the cramped loft.
Well, at least weve done something together
The laugh felt genuine, the first in hours.
Olivia felt the tension melt inward, her back loosening now that she could finally relax a little.
Maybe this is how it should be, she whispered. Fixing what breaks, together.
Isabelle looked at her, eyes not angry but tired.
It wont work any other way
They finished quickly, securing the last strip of felt and descending.
The kitchen was cool; the window left ajar after the storm. The sisters gathered at the table: someone set a kettle on the hob, another found a packet of biscuits in the cupboard.
Olivia brushed hair from her forehead and surveyed her sisters now without the sharp edge of irritation.
Well still have to keep negotiating, she said. This repair is just the beginning.
Charlotte smiled:
I dont want to lose the cottage, she said, shrugging lightly. And I dont want us to keep fighting over it.
Isabelle sighed:
Im scared of being left alone with all the upkeep, she admitted, eyes on the table. But if we do it together maybe itll work.
A pause settled, punctuated only by the soft patter of rain on leaves outside and a distant dog barking.
Olivia gathered resolve:
Lets not put it off any longer. She pulled a sheet of paper and a pen from her bag. Well draw a calendar: who can come each summer. Thatll be fair for everyone.
Charlotte brightened:
I can take the first week of July.
Isabelle thought:
August works better for me the kids are free then.
Olivia sketched dates, drawing lines between weeks; a grid of possible visits and duties emerged on the page.
They argued over minutiae who would come for the May holidays next year, how to split the cost of the mower and electricity, what to do with the apples in autumn. Yet now there was no bitterness, only a shared desire to sort things out without losing each other.
The night passed quietly; no one woke to the sound of water or wind. Morning sunlight streamed through the open windows; the garden glittered with dew on apple leaves and grass along the path to the gate.
Olivia rose before her sisters and stepped onto the porch, bare feet feeling the cool boards. A neighbours voice drifted over the fence, chatting about weather and the harvest.
In the kitchen the smell of coffee floated out; Charlotte had brewed a pot and laid out a packet of sliced bread.
Isabelle entered last, hair tied back, eyes a little sleepy but calm.
They ate together, sharing toast and plans for the day without rush.
Well need more felt, Isabelle noted. What we used barely covered the leak.
And a new bulb for the porch, Charlotte added. I almost fell in the garden yesterday.
Olivia smiled:
Ill add everything to our repair calendar
The sisters exchanged a look; all old grievances seemed to have dissolved.
The cottage stood quieter than usual; through open doors came the murmur of neighbours and the clatter of dishes. The house felt alive again not just because the roof no longer dripped, but because the three of them were there, each with her quirks, now no longer apart.
Before they left, they walked through every room one more time: closing windows, checking sockets, stashing leftover building supplies in the loft. On the kitchen table lay the paper with coloured squares marking future visits and notes of needed purchases.
Isabelle placed the keys neatly on the shelf by the door:
Shall we set a reminder for next week? Ill confirm the roofers quote
Charlotte nodded:
Ill pop by next week to check the strawberries. Ill give you a ring.
Olivia lingered in the hallway a moment longer, looked at her sisters and said softly:
Thank you for last night and for today.
The sisters exchanged another quiet glance, eyes calm and open, the old prickly shadows of distrust gone.
When the gate swung shut behind them, the garden was dry after the nights deluge; the path glistened in the sun. The calendar sheet rested on the table, names beside dates like tiny promises that they would not disappear from each others lives even after the toughest summer.
