She got up, slipped on a silky robe, and wandered across to the window. The house seemed awfully quiet. Even Bess seemed to have disappeared for the moment. The dog would often sneak upstairs from her kitchen bed for an affectionate pat if she realized Claire was there. She stood at the window of Ed’s bedroom overlooking the beach and the sea. There was no need to hire the cottage next door now. Claire still had her Newcastle flat, and Ed his place in Edinburgh, a beautiful old terrace in the Leith district. But this was the place that felt so much like home to Claire now.
She scanned the beach, spotted a dark clump on the sands not too far from the house, possibly his pile of clothes. But no, something was swishing behind it. Ah, Bess was out there, her tail wagging, sitting patiently watching for something. Oh Jeez no. A flutter of panic hit Claire’s stomach. She felt instantly queasy.
But then something else caught her eye. Ed was on the beach, to-ing and fro-ing. He wasn’t out swimming at all. He had something in his hand. She focused more carefully … a child’s plastic spade. What the heck was he doing making sandcastles out there? They didn’t even have her nephews staying with them. Curious now, she slipped on her flip-flops from beside the bed. This was going to need some investigating.
It was a beautiful morning. The pale-gold sun shimmered over a pewter-blue sea. The sky was now clearing to azure, yet there were still lingering brushstrokes of dawn peaches and pinks. Outside now, she remembered the wonderful night all those months ago when he’d set the garden up with those magical tea lights and cooked for her. Despite the confusion and heartache, there had been many beautiful days and nights together since. She still felt like pinching herself. And she was just so happy that Ed seemed to have relaxed, made a kind of peace with himself, found a place where he could smile and be himself once more. It would never be easy for him, she understood that. But she would be there to support him.
She looked over to the spot where they’d shared their first ever dance, barefoot on the sands, and there he was working away. She stood and watched him. Since she had made her way downstairs and outside, he had swapped his spade for what seemed to be a stick; yes, he was holding a piece of driftwood. The sandcastle shape was becoming clearer to her – a love heart or so it seemed, with lots of pebbles or something round the edge. Ed finished writing inside the heart with the stick, spotted her coming down to the gate that led to the beach, and stood back from his workmanship, giving her a huge grin.
What was he up to?
Bess came bounding up to her as she walked down onto the sands.
‘Hey, Bess. What’s up girl? And what is he doing building sandcastles at this time of the morning, hey?’
And then she paused, seeing what he had made … and what he’d written in the sand.
He was beaming across at her from the opposite side of his creation.
She saw a huge love heart – it must have been about seven feet across – built with a raised-sand border, and every few inches it was marked with a pebble, beneath which was placed a deep-red rose petal. There must have been at least forty pebble-roses.
Inside the heart he had written, ‘Will You Marry Me?’
And there he was, with a big goofy grin on his face. How lovely it was to see that smile.
She ran up to him, shouting, ‘Yes, yes and yes!’ Whooping as he picked her up and twirled her gently round him. He placed her down, and they kissed tenderly, so very meaningfully, silently promising the future to each other. For tomorrow and for ever love.
He finally pulled back, waving an arm out in a grand gesture towards the dunes, where she spotted a picnic blanket, two crystal flutes and an ice bucket, with what looked very like a bottle of bubbly all ready to go.
He put his arm protectively around her as they walked towards the champagne picnic.
‘Now, just one glass for you, okay? Then I’ve got you some pink lemonade.’
‘Okay, of course.’
And as Claire turned to him once more, leaning in for a hug and one more delicious kiss, the sunlight caught her profile, the mound of her tummy clear to see, raised and protective of its new life.
The most magic moment of them all.
Acknowledgements
Thank you to the lovely and inspirational Heidi Rehman for being so honest and open about her cancer journey. This book would not have been as special or insightful without her input.
For my family, Richard, Harry, Amie – thanks and love, always. Work hard, go for your dreams, and have lots of magic moments on the way.
My sister, Debbie, keep going, very best of luck and I’m looking forward to reading your books very soon. Mum and Dad, for the happiest childhood full of sandy beaches and books, and to all the wider family – thanks.
For my friends. What can I say … ‘cheers’ just about sums it up!
Thank you to Zoe Chamberlain and Ben O’Connell for their help with my journalism queries, and to my local doctor for allowing me to quiz him on his precious time off. If I have got anything slightly wrong, please remember this is a work of fiction and the mistakes are all my own.
An ongoing thank you to my friends in the Romantic Novelists’ Association, for all their support and advice, with special thanks to Lorna Windham and Janet MacLeod Trotter.
Hannah Ferguson, my agent, thank you for believing in My Summer of Magic Moments from the start when I’d only written seven chapters. Your support has been wonderful.
My editors, the lovely Charlotte Brabbin, Charlotte Ledger, and Kimberley Young at HarperCollins. My magic moment was holding my first paperback copy of my debut novel The Torn Up Marriage after so many years of writing and trying to get published. What an amazing and very special feeling that was! Thanks to you and the whole HC team.
For my readers. A story is no good without someone to share it with. I hope you have enjoyed this book. Thanks for all the positive comments and feedback I have had for my novels so far – it makes being shut away with my laptop for months all worthwhile!
Finally, make the most of every single magic moment. Life is precious and beautiful, not always easy, but never to be wasted.
Caroline x
If you enjoyed this book, don’t miss Caroline’s other heartwarming novels.
Turn the page to read an extract from
The Cosy Teashop in the Castle
1
Ellie
Talk about flying by the seat of her pants. She hadn’t really expected an interview. The ad had caught her eye in the Journal, and well, she’d been fed up, felt messed about by her twat of an ex, her bore of a job and fancied a change – of life, scenery, postcode, you name it.
So here she was, driving her little silver Corsa up the estate driveway that was lined by an avenue of gnarled-trunked, centuries-old trees. Her stomach did a backward flip as the castle came into view: blonde and grey sandstone walls with four layers of windows looking down on her – Claverham Castle. Did people really live in places like this? Did people really work in places like this? She felt like she’d driven onto the set of Downton Abbey or arrived in some fairytale.
The woman at the huge arch of an entrance did not look like someone from a fairytale, however; huddled in a huge fleece, dark jeans and wellington boots, and having a sneaky fag. She popped the offending item behind her back when she spotted Ellie pulling up on the gravel, but the wispy trail of smoke in the cool March air gave her away.
Okay, breathe, Ellie, breathe.
A quick check in the rear-view mirror. She hoped she still looked half-decent. She found her lippie and interview notes in her handbag, and tried to convince herself exactly why she was the right person to take on these tearooms as she popped on a slash of pale-pink gloss. It had all seemed such a good idea two weeks ago when she’d spotted the ad in the local press: ‘Leasehold available for Claverham Castle Tea Rooms for the Summer Season.’ A place to escape, and the chance to achieve the dream she’d harboured for years, running her own café, baking to her heart’s content, and watching people
grin as they tucked into fat slices of her chocolate fudge cake or strawberry-packed scones. A chance for change. So this was it! She sooo did not want to mess this up.
Her heart was banging away in her chest as she opened the car door. She stepped out with a pretence of confidence, aware of the woman still standing at the top of the steps. Sploosh! She felt a gloopiness beneath her feet, looked down. Shite! Her black suede stilettos were an inch-deep in mud and an attractive poo-like blob had landed on the right toe area. So much for first impressions.
She tried a subtle shoe-scrape on the grass verge, plastered a smile on her face and made her way to the castle entrance. A biting wind whipped at her honey-blonde hair, which she’d carefully put up in a topknot back at home in Newcastle-upon-Tyne this morning. Her black trouser-suit teamed with silky lime-green blouse was no match for the freezing cold. She hugged her arms around herself and headed for the door: a vast wood and iron creation – no doubt designed to keep out hairy, aggressive Border Reivers centuries ago.
The lady raised a cheery smile as Ellie approached, ‘Hello, you must be here for the interview with Lord Henry.’
‘Yes.’ She reached out a trembling hand in greeting. ‘Yes, it’s Ellie Hall.’
‘Nice to meet you, Ellie. I’m Deana.’ The woman shook her hand warmly. She had a kind face, looked in her early fifties, with grey hair that hung in a grown-out bob. ‘I’m Lord Henry’s PA, well dogsbody really. S’cuse the attire, casual at the moment till the open season starts again. It gets bloody freezing here. Come on through, pet.’
Ellie relaxed a little; she seemed friendly. She followed Deana through the massive door to a stone inner courtyard, the sky a square of azure above. Wow – it was like some Disney set. And then into a circular stairwell that wound its way upwards – Sleeping Beauty or Rapunzel could well be at the top of that.
‘There’s no guests here at the moment,’ Deana spoke with a gentle Northumbrian lilt. ‘We close until Easter. So it’s quiet. Come the spring, it’ll be buzzing again. Well, kind of crawling,’ she added with a wry grin, as though visitors were a necessity to be put up with rather than welcomed.
Ellie was offered a seat on a chair with a frayed red-velvet pad, positioned outside a closed door, which she imagined must be for Lord Henry’s office. She could hear muffled voices from inside, formal tones.
Deana asked if she’d like a cup of coffee while she waited, said she wouldn’t be long, and then disappeared back down the stairs. Ellie gathered her jacket and her nerve; it was bloody draughty there in the corridor.
Various artefacts stared down at her from the stone walls: black-and-white photos of the castle, the stuffed head of a weasel, or so she thought – ginger, hairy, teeth-bared, it looked pretty mean – a pistol in a glass case like something Dick Turpin might whip out: ‘Stand and deliver’. This was so unlike her white-walled, MDF-desked insurance office, she felt she’d been shuttled back through time.
A scraping of chairs brought her out of her reverie. Footsteps, the door opening, and out came a plump middle-aged lady, dressed smartly in a Christmas party jewelled jumper kind of way, thanking the gentleman for his time, adding she hoped she would be back soon. She smiled confidently (almost smugly) as she spotted Ellie sitting there. Lord Henry, for that’s who she thought the man must be, was smiling too. ‘Yes, lovely to meet with you again, Cynthia. I’ve been impressed with your work for us in the past, and we’ll be in touch very shortly.’ His tones were posh and plummy, the vowels clearly enunciated. It all seemed very amicable, and very settled. Ellie felt her heart sink. Was she just being thrown in the applicant mix as a token gesture?
Deana appeared at her side with a tray and coffee set out for three – perhaps she was staying for the interview. She ushered Ellie into the wood-panelled office.
Well, this was it. Ellie took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Now that she sensed she hadn’t a cat in hell’s chance of getting the tearoom lease, she suddenly realized how very much she wanted it. It was what she’d been dreaming of for years whilst stuck answering call-centre queries for insurance claims in a vast, impersonal office. She absolutely loved baking cakes for friends and for family birthdays. Her football party cake for her Cousin Jack had gone down a treat, and a champagne-bottle-shaped chocolate cake that she did for Gemma, her close friend at work, had led to a flurry of special requests. Oh yes, she’d offer to fetch the doughnuts and pastries for the office at morning break, standing in the queue at the baker’s savouring the smells of fresh bread and cakes, wishing she could be the one working in the bakery instead.
Deana set the coffee tray down on a huge mahogany desk, which had a green-leather top. It looked big enough to play a game of snooker on. She smiled encouragingly across at Ellie, then left the room.
Lord Henry had a slightly worn, aristocratic appearance. He looked in his sixties and was dressed in beige corduroy trousers, a checked shirt and tweed waistcoat. He stood to greet her from the other side of the desk, offering a slim hand, shaking hers surprisingly firmly, ‘Lord Henry Hogarth. Please, have a seat, Miss …’ he paused, the words drifting uncomfortably.
Great, he didn’t even know her name. ‘Hall, Ellie Hall.’
‘Well, Ellen, do make yourself comfortable.’
She was too nervous to correct him.
He poured out two coffees and passed her one, pouring in milk for her from a small white porcelain jug. She took a sip; it was rich and dark, definitely not instant, then she sat back in the chair, trying to give the air of cool, calm and collected. She was bricking it inside. She hoped her voice would work normally. As Lord Henry took his seat on the other side of the immense desk, she tried out the word ‘Thanks’. Phew, at least she could speak, though she noted that her pitch was a little higher than normal.
‘So, how long have you worked in the catering industry, Miss Hall?’ He leaned towards her, rubbing his chin, his brown eyes scrutinising.
She froze, ‘Ah … Well …’ About never. Seat of the pants didn’t even cover it. What the hell was she doing here? ‘Yes,’ she coughed into her coffee, ‘Well, I’ve had a few years’ experience.’ Baking at home, for friends, birthday cakes, cupcakes, Victoria sponges and the like, not to mention her ‘choffee cake special’. And, yes, she made the tea and coffee regularly at the insurance office. ‘I have worked in a restaurant.’ Saturday-night waitressing as a teenager at the Funky Chicken Express down the road for a bit of extra cash. ‘And I have managed several staff.’ Where was this coming from? She had trained another waitress in the art of wiping down tables. Though, she had filled in that weekend for her friend Kirsty at her sandwich bar, when Kirsty’s boyfriend went AWOL.
Ellie thought that had planted the seed. She’d loved those two days prepping the food, making up tasty panini combinations – her brie, grape and cranberry had been a hit. She’d warmed to the idea of running her own company after that, spent hours daydreaming about it, something that involved food, baking ideally, being her own boss. That, and her nanna’s inspiration, of course, lovely Nanna. Ellie remembered perching on a stool in her galley kitchen beating sponge-mix with a wooden spoon. Nanna had left her over a thousand pounds in her will – it would give Ellie the chance to cover this lease for a couple of months. Give her the time to try and make a go of it. She was sure Nanna would have supported her in this venture. Ellie would have loved to have turned up at her flat for a good chat about the tearooms and her ideas to make the business work, over a cup of strong tea and a slice of homemade lemon drizzle. But someone else was living there now, the world had moved on, and Nanna too. She really missed her.
Ellie managed to smile across at Lord Henry, realising she ought to say more but not quite sure what. How did you capture those dreams in words?
‘And if you did take on the lease for the tearooms, Miss Hall, how would you propose to take the business forward?’
‘Well …’ Think, think, you’ve been practising answers all night, woman. ‘I’ve had a look at the current incom
e and expenditure figures, and I’m certain there’s room for improvements. I’d bake all my own cakes and scones. I’ll look carefully at pricing, staffing levels, costs and the like, offering good-quality food at a fair price for the customer, and keeping an eye on making a profit too. But, most of all, I want to give people a really positive, friendly experience so they’d want to come back … And, I’d like to try and source local produce.’
Lord Henry raised a rather hairy grey eyebrow. It sounded stilted, even to her.
At that, there was a brusque knock on the door. It swung open. ‘So sorry I’m late.’ A man strolled in. Wow, he was rather gorgeous, in a tall, dark-haired and lean kind of way. He offered an outstretched hand to Ellie as he walked past her chair and acknowledged Lord Henry. He looked late twenties, possibly early thirties. ‘There was a problem with the tractor,’ he offered, by way of explanation, ‘She needs a major service, but I’ve got her going again for now.’
He had a firm grip, long fingers and neat nails.
‘Miss Hall, this is Joseph Ward, our estate manager.’
‘Hello.’ Ellie smiled nervously. Another interrogator.
The younger man looked back at her with dark-brown eyes, his gaze intent, as though he were trying to suss her out. Then his features seemed to soften, ‘Joe, I prefer Joe.’ A pointed glance was exchanged between the two men. Ellie sensed a certain tension, which had nothing to do with her. Joe sat down, angling his seat to the side of the desk. There was something about him that reminded her of the guy off Silent Witness, hmm, yes, that Harry chap, from the series before, with his dark-haired English-gentleman look. He must be over six foot, on the slim side, but not without a hint of muscle beneath his blue cotton shirt, which was rolled up to the elbow and open at the neck. He looked smart-scruffy all at once.
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