Miss Moonshine's Emporium of Happy Endings: A feel-good collection of heartwarming stories

by Helena Fairfax

  Jane nodded. ‘And there’s this Cassandra Lloyd who keeps phoning and texting him all the time. I googled her. She’s beautiful, Grandma, a real star.’

  Joyce gave her back a comforting pat. ‘Star or not, it seems to me that if he really wanted to see her, he’d have gone back to Paris days ago instead of making himself at home here.’

  Jane heaved another shaky sigh. ‘Do you really think so?’

  ‘Of course I do. He’s already out in the fields with Arthur this morning. He’s taken a shine to that donkey. And an even bigger shine to you.’

  The phone ringing downstairs interrupted her.

  Jane glanced at the alarm clock. ‘I wonder who it can be? I’ll get it.’ She wiped her eyes, jumped to her feet and ran down the stairs.

  ‘Hi sweetie,’ Derek’s voice boomed. Sandra’s brother-in-law was the editor of the West Yorkshire Times. ‘I know it’s early but I’d like to speak to your famous French guest and get an exclusive before somebody turns up on your doorstep and steals my scoop.’

  Her heart felt like it had stopped. ‘What famous French guest? What scoop?’

  Derek laughed. ‘We had a tip that Beaufort was staying at the farm, and for once our Sandra is speechless. She can’t believe the French guy she’s been lusting after is a world-famous pianist in hiding.’

  Feeling dizzy, Jane swayed against the dresser. ‘Grégoire isn’t hiding.’

  ‘Really? The world media, the paparazzi and his famous American girlfriend have been after him for weeks. Now, be a good girl and get him for me. You owe me for that article I did on your dog cakes last year.’

  In a panic, she slammed the phone down. It immediately started ringing again. She had to tell Grégoire he was no longer safe at the farm.

  She opened the door and ran across the courtyard towards the field where Grégoire was feeding Arthur carrots.

  Too late! Half-a-dozen vans bearing logos of television channels and radio stations were driving into the courtyard. Tyres screeched. Doors slammed. Voices called,‘He’s over there!’

  Grégoire turned. The smile froze on his face as he spotted the vans, and he let the bag of carrots slide to the ground.

  Jane tried to catch her breath. ‘They know you’re here.’

  ‘BBC Television? ITV? Sky News? What’s going on, Jane? You told the media I was here?’ Grégoire stared at her, incredulous.

  Jane shook her head, the words sticking in her throat. How could he think she would betray him?

  ‘Mr Beaufort!’ a journalist called. ‘Feeding donkeys at dawn and running an amateur choir, is that your new career path?’

  Grégoire hissed a breath then narrowed his eyes to look at her. ‘I didn’t think you wanted publicity for the choir that badly.’ He shrugged. ‘Never mind. I guess it was time I faced the music anyway.’

  Forcing a smile, he picked up the bag of carrots and added, ‘I will leave after I’ve spoken to the reporters.’

  Chapter Ten

  The evening of the summer fete

  ‘So now we’re in a mess because Mr Gorgeous had a tantrum and left in a strop?’ Sandra took a swig of alcopop.

  Jane sighed. ‘We’re not in a mess. We’re ready. And Grégoire didn’t have a tantrum. He had a good reason to be angry.’

  ‘I still can’t believe you knew about him all along and never breathed a word. We’re supposed to be friends. Derek wasn’t impressed when you put the phone down on him.’

  ‘I panicked. Did he say how he found out about Grégoire?’

  ‘Does it matter?’

  Jane’s shoulders sagged. ‘No, I suppose it doesn’t.’

  Grégoire had left, looking dark and angry, barely giving her a backwards look before getting into his rental car and driving off. And now her heart ached so much she couldn’t breathe.

  Her grandmother walked into the marquee with Miss Moonshine, who was carrying Napoleon in the crook of her arm. Both women were dressed in shiny silver dresses, and the chihuahua sported a matching bow around his collar.

  It should have been a happy occasion, especially since the publicity generated by Grégoire meant they had already collected their target money for the hospice. All Jane felt was emptiness and desolation, and she couldn’t wait for the evening to be over so she could hurry back home.

  Miss Moonshine gestured for her to come over. ‘Jane dear, can I have a word? Grégoire bought this for you earlier this week. I had to take it to a jeweller friend to get it fixed. I’m sure he would want you to have it tonight, for good luck.’ She handed Jane a small box with a shiny blue bow.

  ‘What is it?’

  Miss Moonshine patted her hand. ‘Open it. And please allow a very old lady to give you a bit of advice. I’m sure your Grandma would agree if I told you daylight always follows even the darkest night, and that everything will sort itself out.’

  Perhaps it was Miss Moonshine’s kind words, or the expression in Napoleon’s big brown eyes, but Jane clutched the box and turned away with tears blurring her vision. Sitting at the piano, she pulled on the ribbon, lifted the lid of the box and gasped in wonder. Inside was the most exquisite gold brooch of a kingfisher encrusted with shimmering blue crystals.

  Images of golden sunlight reflecting on the canal and of a kingfisher diving into the water flashed in front of her eyes. That was the day Grégoire had had his first rehearsal with the choir; the day they’d held hands as they walked in the late afternoon sunshine. After that, she had dared to hope that they were friends– perhaps even more than friends. What hurt the most was that he believed she had betrayed him, and their friendship.

  She wiped her tears and pinned the brooch onto her tunic. People were coming in and sitting down in the marquee. Soon all the chairs were taken and it was standing room only at the back. She’d better pull herself together and focus on the music and the singing.

  Her grandmother gathered the choir and the dogs at the centre of the stage and turned to the audience. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we are delighted to perform in aid of our local hospice, so please give generously.’ She turned to Jane. ‘This choir was an idea of my darling granddaughter’s and if some of you think that it’s barking mad –’ People in the audience laughed and Joyce carried on, ‘Then you would probably be right. We hope you enjoy tonight.’

  She nodded to Jane, who played the first bars of “Thank You for the Music”. The lights dimmed, leaving only a spotlight on the singers.

  The singing went remarkably well, the only incident being when Napoleon started howling during “Waterloo”. Miss Moonshine gave him a bacon biscuit to keep him quiet.

  At last it was the final song, and Jane was about to start “Take a Chance onMe” when a disturbance at the back of the marquee made her look up. A tall, dark-haired man dressed in a black dinner suit strode down the main aisle. Her heart skipped a beat and her fingers missed a couple of keys. Grégoire was there. He had come back!

  He nodded to Joyce as he climbed onto the stage, walked straight to the piano and bent down towards her.

  ‘Ever played a duet?’ he whispered.

  She looked at him, too stunned to reply.

  ‘Move over,’ he added.

  Obediently, she shuffled her bottom along the padded piano stool, and he sat down beside her. There wasn’t much space for two at the piano, so his left shoulder and leg touched hers, and their fingers brushed as they played. He left the main accompaniment to her whilst he improvised. How could he have wished never to play again, she wondered, as his fingers flew over the keys? He was the most gifted musician she’d ever heard.

  When the song ended she hardly heard the cheering from the audience, and the barking from the dogs. She only heard the beating of her heart.

  Joyce marshalled the choir, the dogs and the audience out and soon the marquee was empty.

  Grégoire rose to his feet. ‘It looks like the concert went well.’

  She nodded. ‘It was fine. The dogs behaved, apart from Napoleon who had a bit of a wobble during �
�Waterloo”. He hates that song.’

  ‘Not surprisingly, I should say.’ He smiled. ‘I’m so glad I caught the last song. I wasn’t sure I would make it. The plane was delayed.’

  She turned to look at him. ‘Why did you come back?’

  ‘Because this is where I want to be. That’s if you can forgive me for being an idiot and leaving in a churlish manner. I know you didn’t phone the press. I knew it straightaway, but seeing all those journalists and television crews at the farmhouse made me feel…’ He sighed.

  She tilted her chin. ‘You were embarrassed to be seen with us at the farm.’

  ‘Not at all – or if I was, it was because I knew I should have given a press conference long ago instead of hiding like a coward. Will you forgive me?’ He looked at her, his dark brown eyes serious, almost anxious.

  Hope blossomed inside her. He said he wanted to stay in Haven Bridge. He was asking for forgiveness. And he looked at her as if he really cared.

  There was one thing she wanted to know.

  ‘Who alerted the media?’

  ‘Cassandra. She wanted me to come back to Paris and do a series of recitals with her.’

  He looked at the brooch she had pinned to her top and his face lit up. ‘It reminded me of your eyes and the day we walked along the canal.’

  She touched her fingers to the brooch. ‘I love it. It’s beautiful. Thank you.’

  He held out his hand. ‘It’s still daylight. Shall we go to the canal to see if we can spot the kingfisher?’

  She beamed a smile and slipped her hand inside his. ‘Good idea.’

  The End

  Author Bio Originally from Lyon, Marie Laval now lives in the beautiful Rossendale Valley in Lancashire, and writes contemporary and historical romance with a French twist. Her latest romantic comedy, bestseller Little Pink Taxi, is published by Choc Lit. Find out more about Marie

  The House on the Hill

  by

  Helen Pollard

  Hettie Brown sat in the oak-panelled solicitor’s office in Haven Bridge on a drizzly Monday afternoon, still in her black dress from the morning’s funeral. Glancing around at the old-fashioned furniture and the rain spattering the narrow windows, Hettie felt like she’d been dropped into the set of an old black-and-white movie. She half expected an Alastair Sim lookalike to be in charge of her great-uncle’s affairs – someone starched, stuffy and grey.

  But the real-life solicitor who breezed in and introduced himself as Steve Cooperman was hardly that.

  If he’d sounded nice over the phone, Hettie had to admit he looked rather nice in person, too. Somewhere in his thirties, with short brown hair and a light tan (where did he get that up here in the chilly north?), he wore no suit, instead opting for a creased linen jacket without a tie. Hettie wasn’t sure whether to appreciate the informal wear that put her at her ease or to find it disrespectful when discussing a deceased person’s affairs, but the friendly light in his blue-grey eyes swayed her towards the former.

  He reached out to shake her hand, and as she took it, Hettie felt a jolt of … something. Must be nerves.

  ‘How did the funeral go?’ he asked, glancing at her sombre dress and boots.

  ‘Very well, thank you, Mr Cooperman.’

  ‘Please. Call me Steve.’

  ‘Steve.’ Hettie smiled at him. ‘Uncle Alex had a good innings, as they say. Ninety-five, after all!’

  Hettie’s great-uncle had been a stubborn man and an acquired taste – someone you either loved or hated. The feeling was usually mutual. But Hettie’s own memories of Alex were purely fond ones. She’d spent many a school holiday at his huge old stone house here in Yorkshire, high on the hill climbing out of Haven Bridge towards the moors – holidays shared with Charles, her second cousin once removed. Or was it third cousin twice removed? Hettie had no idea how that stuff worked.

  Hettie hadn’t been able to take time off work to organise the funeral, so Charles had jumped in. Now he had gone back to his job in Glasgow, leaving Hettie to tackle the next stage of proceedings.

  ‘Mr Harris isn’t joining us today?’ It was as though the solicitor had read Hettie’s wandering thoughts.

  ‘No. Sorry. He had to drive straight back. I’m sorry I couldn’t meet with you sooner. Busy patch at work. But I have the rest of this week off, so I’m all yours now.’

  Steve raised an eyebrow. ‘Better make the most of it, then.’ He cleared his throat. ‘So, as executor, you’ll –’

  Hettie sighed. ‘I still don’t understand how you can make someone an executor of a will without their permission. It’s ridiculous! Didn’t it occur to Uncle Alex that I might not want the responsibility?’

  Steve gave her a sympathetic look. He had been kind on the phone after Alex had died, coping calmly with her shock at finding herself co-executor, along with Charles, of Alex’s will. But the list of executors’ responsibilities he had explained to her could have made Hettie’s hair stand on end if it wasn’t already a frizzy halo of strawberry blonde around her head.

  ‘Alex knew you might refuse if he asked you, Miss Brown,’ he said now.

  ‘Hettie. Please.’

  ‘Hettie, then. He also knew you probably wouldn’t or couldn’t refuse once he was gone. Would you rather some stranger went through Alex’s papers? His house and possessions? A house clearance without a by-your-leave?’

  ‘I could still do that – get someone in to clear the lot.’

  ‘Indeed, you could,’ Steve agreed. ‘But your great-uncle entrusted your cousin and you with this.’

  ‘Trust or no, I live in London, for heaven’s sake. Over two hundred miles away.’

  ‘You have this week off,’ Steve reminded her. ‘The house and its contents need to be valued before we apply for probate. There’ll be inheritance tax. I can organise that, but it would be helpful if you could get the place in order first. You can do the bulk of it in a week, surely? Take any paperwork down to London with you?’

  Hettie snorted. ‘If that house is in the same state as the last time I was there, it’ll take more than a week. Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘No. By the time I inherited Alex as a client, when my partner Jed retired, he was in the hospice.’

  Frustration got the better of her. ‘Then I suggest you see for yourself before spouting your mouth off about how long it’ll take!’ she snapped, immediately tagging on a heartfelt, ‘I’m so sorry. This is hardly your fault.’

  ‘That’s OK. You’ve had a stressful day. Tell you what. I’ll come and see the house with you now.’

  Feeling sheepish, Hettie said, ‘There’s no need. I shouldn’t have snapped. I’m just stressed with everything there is to do.’

  ‘I understand.’ He looked at his watch. ‘Give me ten minutes, then we’ll go up there together.’

  *

  Half an hour later, Steve stood by Hettie’s side in the weed-invaded driveway of the house, staring at the large edifice of blackened stone.

  ‘I didn’t expect it to be so big,’ he admitted. ‘Jed told me Alex never married or had a family.’

  ‘He inherited it decades ago, but he never downsized. He needed the space.’

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘You’ll see.’ With a smirk, Hettie pushed open the wooden door, cringing as it creaked.

  ‘Wow. It is big.’ Steve gazed around the cavernous entrance hall, his eyes lighting on an umbrella stand full of antique golf clubs covered in cobwebs. ‘And … untouched.’

  Hettie grinned. ‘We haven’t even started.’

  She led him into the large kitchen with its scrubbed pine table, tall dressers cluttered with mismatched china, an old Aga stove, and blackened saucepans hanging from a wooden rack.

  Steve picked up a can from a dusty, crowded shelf. ‘Marrowfat peas.’ Turning it in his hand, he glanced at her in alarm. ‘Best before October 1995.’

  ‘Alex wasn’t stupid. He wouldn’t have eaten them. He just wasn’t one for clearing out clutter.’

>   Passing everything from an old, battered cast-iron mincer fixed to the worktop with a vice, to a state-of-the-art electric yogurt-maker, Hettie led a bewildered Steve through to the utility room.

  He pointed at a mangle. ‘I haven’t seen one of those outside of a museum.’

  ‘Don’t let it fool you. He only kept it because it was his mother’s and he admired the simplicity of its design. Alex loved his mod cons.’ She gestured at the modern washing machine and tumble dryer; the fancy steam iron hanging on the wall. ‘This house is a real juxtaposition of old and new. It always has been.’ She smiled at a memory. ‘I could tell you some tales. Maybe some other time.’

  Over the next hour, she led Steve on a whistle-stop tour of the house. He gaped and commented at sixties-patterned wallpaper clashing with antique Turkish rugs; ancient four-poster beds in guest rooms versus Alex’s own push-button adjustable bed; seventies stereo equipment next to an old gramophone; ugly antique vases dotted amongst remote controls for every viewing or recording gadget ever invented.

  ‘Incredible,’ he said when they were back in the hall. ‘Jed told me it was a fascinating place, but I had no idea.’

  ‘Glad you enjoyed the tour.’ Hettie raised an eyebrow. ‘Do you still think it’ll only take me a week?’

  Steve laughed. ‘OK. I take that back.’ The mahogany grandfather clock at the foot of the stairs chimed six. ‘It’s late. You’ve had a long day. Why don’t you let me take you to dinner?’

  Taken aback by his offer, Hettie found herself smiling and nodding before any sensible thought process could make its way through her brain.

  As Steve drove them back into Haven Bridge, she told herself it was late and it had been a long day. She’d barely eaten anything, so she needed to eat now – and if a kind man wanted to help her with that, she couldn’t find a good enough reason to object.

  Steve chose a pub in the centre of town. ‘I hope this is OK? I presumed you’d be too tired for formality.’

  Hettie smiled. ‘This is perfect.’