Excerpt from The Sea Gate by Jane Johnson, plus links to reviews, author biography & more

'What's that?'

James appears, burdened by a large cardboard box. I fold the letter away. 'Oh, nothing, a note from some old biddy.' Daddy's word.

I watch him put the box down and his shirt rides up out of his trousers. Red chinos: who wears red canvas trousers in their thirties? Husbands of Tory councillors, I suppose.

'What have you found?' I ask.

'Usual rubbish. Did you know she even kept those hideous old dining room curtains from the old house, the ones with the giant poppies on them?'

I do know. Mum was constantly promising them to me, when you and Eddie buy a place of your own. Another lump forms in my throat. 'Nothing else?'

'Some personal papers. I suppose we ought to go through them to make sure there's nothing important before the house clearance people come in.'

'House clearance? But we haven't even discussed…'

My brother shrugs. 'It's the only practical solution, Becks. I mean, we have our lives elsewhere: us down in Surrey and you in London. We can't keep running up and down to Warwick, and life moves on, you know. There will be a ton of admin to do, and you know that's not your forte… That's exactly why Mum asked me and Evie to deal with everything.'

So Mum had specifically invited Evie to come here, into her inner sanctum. My sinuses burn and I blink and blink. Tears slide out of the corners of my eyes and spill, scalding.

'Oh God, you see? Mum knew you wouldn't cope with it. "Let Rebecca choose any of the jewellery or paintings she wants to keep," she said. "And then get rid of the rest. I know there's nothing worth keeping."?'

Nothing worth keeping. So Mum knew all along she was living a half-life among the decaying fragments of our broken family life. All that pain and betrayal, cruelty and sadness. I feel my heart may crack open.

James is still talking, individual words leaping out of a blur of sound.

'… counterpart lease… grant of representation… insurance documents…'

I brush my hand across my cheeks, wiping the tears away, and make an effort to concentrate.

'… make a stab at the probate value of the estate and get all the forms filled in. Just check through this lot and see if there's anything we need to keep.'

And he's off again, to check on Evie and her progress through the bedrooms.

I go back to Olivia Kitto's letter. Such a lovely name. I didn't know we had Kittos in the family: a proper Cornish cousin. Poor old woman, beset by officious nitpickers in her hour of need, reaching out to my mother – too late. I scan the first page but there's no date on it, and the postmark on the envelope is smudged. I wonder how long it's been sitting here. Weeks, maybe? Perhaps she's already in a home, or worse, passed away. But what if she's not? What if she's trapped in hospital waiting for her last living relative to rescue her?

A mad thought strikes me. Perhaps I could step into Mum's shoes and prove I am not completely useless. I could nip down to Cornwall to find out what needs to be done, see if I can help in any way. And let Olivia know that Mum is dead, poor old dear. I need something positive to focus on, and the universe has provided. It's a gift, isn't it? A gift to both Olivia and to me, both of us beset and bereaved.

Filled with new energy, I burn through the rest of the mountain of post, filling a bag with rubbish, and placing the remaining official letters into a neat pile. In a heap of correspondence beside Mum's armchair I find more letters from our Cornish cousin. I am just sifting through these when James and Evie reappear, James with more full bin bags, Evie with a cardboard box. James deposits the bags in the hall, then comes back in, rubbing his hands on his trousers. 'We'd better get cracking,' he says.

'The town planner and her husband are coming for dinner tonight,' Evie says brightly over the top of the box. 'I was going to put them off, but sometimes it's good to have practical things to focus on, don't you think?'

Excerpted from The Sea Gate by Steven Johnson. Copyright © 2021 by Steven Johnson. Excerpted by permission of Simon & Schuster. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.