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

by Helena Fairfax

  ‘So why did it end?’ So much for not interrogating Nancy. Clare had to know more.

  ‘Because his wife found out.’

  ‘His wife?’ Ben repeated, sounding as surprised as Clare felt. ‘I haven’t seen anything about his wife on the internet.’

  ‘They married long before he was famous, when they were mere teenagers,’ Nancy said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘The studio felt it was better for his image to be single. His wife never accompanied him on set. But somehow she found out about us and came up here to confront him.’

  ‘What happened?’ Clare asked, fearing the worst.

  ‘She didn’t make it. There was a terrible accident on the way, and her car collided with a tree. She survived, barely. She suffered a head injury and was left needing constant care.’

  ‘And that’s why he couldn’t leave her,’ Clare said, recalling the words of the note.

  ‘He did the right thing,’ Nancy replied. ‘He gave up acting, withdrew from the limelight and devoted all his time to looking after his wife. I would never have expected him to do anything else. I always knew it was a gamble to become involved with a married man, and it was a gamble I didn’t win.’

  ‘You must have been heartbroken. How do you get over losing a love like that?’ It was a rhetorical question. You didn’t get over it, Clare knew that. But to her surprise, Nancy smiled.

  ‘Why would you focus on the loss? We had four wonderful months, and I learnt what love was all about, and how marvellous it could be. Two years after Randall left, I met another lovely man. We were married for over fifty years before he died. We have four children, ten grandchildren, and two great-grandchildren. I thank my lucky stars for every day I had with him. What a wonderful life I would have missed if I hadn’t moved on from Randall.’

  ‘But wasn’t your husband second-best?’ Clare asked, edging forward in her seat.

  ‘Certainly not. And my current beau isn’t third-best either. Is there a better tribute to the dead than to want to recreate the happiness they taught you was possible?’

  Was that true? Clare’s head reeled. Perhaps she could have hope for the future; perhaps she could contemplate starting over…

  Nancy stood up, distracting her from her thoughts. Clare watched as the elderly lady walked over to the fire, the note and photograph in her hand. She hesitated for only a moment, and with one final look at the picture, she threw them both into the fire. In seconds, they were gone.

  ‘There. I promised Randall that I would protect his privacy. The secret is safe now, isn’t it?’

  Clare nodded and turned towards Ben. His hand was in his pocket and it looked as if he was quickly pushing something out of sight… a small metal device… Her stomach churned. Had he recorded the conversation? She’d trusted him, thought he had accompanied her today as a friend, not as a journalist. How could she have been so stupid?

  She stood up quickly, though it felt as if her heart was filled with lead, weighing her down.

  ‘I think we should go now,’ she said, unable to look at Ben. ‘Thanks so much for telling us.’

  She held out her hand to shake Nancy’s, and the charm bracelet slid down her wrist.

  ‘Randall’s bracelet,’ Nancy said, reaching out to touch it.

  ‘This was his?’ Clare asked.

  ‘Mine. He gave it to me. An inexpensive gift – anything more might have aroused questions.’ Nancy smiled and fingered the clover charm. ‘He added this to reflect how lucky we were to have found each other. We thought we would have a lifetime to collect more charms…’

  Clare began to unfasten the bracelet.

  ‘Here, you should have it back.’

  ‘No.’ Nancy reached out and clasped her hands over Clare’s. ‘I’ve had more than my share of happiness. I’ve no use for it now. You keep it, with my blessing. I hope it brings you luck.’

  They had taken barely a dozen steps away from the house when Clare rounded on Ben, her heart thumping with feeling in a way it hadn’t done for months.

  ‘Did you record that conversation with Nancy?’

  She had expected a denial – what else would a slippery journalist do? – so she was surprised when he nodded.

  ‘How could you? You knew I only wanted to return her things. You knew that this secret has been protected for years. How could you even think of betraying her? What has happened to you?’

  ‘Failure happened, that’s what. I told you. I need to make the journalism work. I don’t have qualifications or a degree like you. This is it, my second chance, and if I blow it there’s nothing else. At least I’m willing to risk starting over.’

  ‘Unlike me?’ Clare stepped away, stung by his words, ready to be furious… but the fury wouldn’t come. Instead, there was a precious memory, of one of the last conversations with Ed, when they had lain together on his hospice bed, hip to hip and hand in hand. ‘Don’t you dare sit around feeling sorry for yourself,’ he had told her. ‘Live. Remember me by living as fully as you damn well can.’ Tears sprang to her eyes. What would he say if he could see her now, too afraid to live at all?

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Ben began, but she shook her head.

  ‘So am I,’ she said. ‘I thought I could trust you. I thought –’ She stopped. Never mind what she had thought. She’d clearly been wrong. She walked away.

  ‘Clare, wait.’ Ben ran in front of her, forcing her to a halt. He held out the dictation machine. ‘Here. Listen to it.’

  ‘Why? I’ve already heard it. And no doubt I’ll be able to read all about it in the tabloids soon enough.’

  ‘You won’t. Listen to it.’

  He pushed the machine into her hand and she pressed what she thought was the play button. Nothing happened.

  ‘It’s not working.’

  ‘Yes, it is,’ Ben said. ‘There’s nothing on it. I started recording but then I wiped it. You’re right. I couldn’t do it to Nancy. The mystery of what happened to Randall Hunt is probably the greatest story I’ll ever uncover, but it’s not mine to tell. It’s hers, and Randall’s, and it will stay theirs, as they wanted. Some things are worth more than money.’

  Clare’s relief was immense: relief that Nancy’s secret was safe, but more fundamental relief too, that Ben was who she had begun to hope he might be. She managed a tentative smile.

  ‘I have to believe that, don’t I, as the girl who didn’t win?’ she said.

  Ben laughed.

  ‘But if you’d won on the scratch card, we’d never have met. I wasn’t important enough to interview the winner. Only you.’ He stepped closer, and his smile washed over her. ‘I actually think it was lucky you didn’t win…’

  Clare’s phone rang, breaking the intensity of the moment. She moved away to take the call, and then wandered back, feeling dazed.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ Ben met her halfway.

  ‘Nothing. I mean, it’s good news.’ Clare shook her head, still finding it hard to take in. ‘Amazing news. A cash buyer has made an offer on the bookshop, for the full asking price. I can’t believe it. This means I can clear all the debts, maybe have some money left over…’

  ‘To start again?’ Ben looked at Clare, but she didn’t know how to reply. Was that what she wanted? While she’d thought the shop would never sell, she’d been able to carry on drifting, avoiding decisions about the future. But now… was it time to live again, and to live fully?

  ‘Sorry,’ Ben continued. ‘I didn’t mean to push you. I know you’ve had a rough time – the worst. But I just want you to know that if you do feel ready to try again – with a bookshop, or anything else – I’m here. As a friend, or a shoulder to lean on, or anything else you want me to be…’

  He broke off, rubbed the side of his face, and looked away. A faint breeze ruffled his dark hair, and Clare felt something loosen inside her, as if the bandages around her heart were finally coming off.

  ‘I’m ready to try,’ Clare said, and Ben’s gaze landed on her again.

  ‘A new
business… or…?’

  ‘Everything.’

  Ben took a step nearer, a cautious smile lighting his face.

  ‘Second-best?’ he asked. ‘Or second chance?’

  ‘Definitely a second chance,’ she said, and she smiled and held out her hand.

  The End

  Author Bio Kate Field writes contemporary women’s fiction, mainly set in her favourite county of Lancashire, where she lives with her husband, daughter, and hyperactive cat.

  Kate’s debut novel, The Magic of Ramblings, won the Romantic Novelists’ Association Joan Hessayon Award for new writers. Find out more about Kate

  The Last Chapter

  by

  Mary Jayne Baker

  Chapter One

  Callie prodded the rusty beer can with the tip of her trainer, lip curling with distaste. It always amazed her that people could come for a day trip to a place like Haven Bridge, presumably because of its reputation for tranquil, unspoiled beauty, only to do their best to ruin it for everyone else. Honestly, what was the point?

  At least that was one good thing about her hobby, she thought, reaching for the can with one Marigold-clad hand and chucking it into the bin bag she was carrying. She could do her bit keeping the town tidy at the same time.

  Her face lit up when she spied something poking out from the long, wildflower-starred grass that furnished the river bank. Bending, she picked it up and examined it.

  It was a glass pebble, broad and round. Callie could tell it must’ve done its time on the riverbed from the perfectly smooth edges. And now, glinting envy-green in the sunshine, it had made its way to her.

  What had it been in a previous life? Beer bottle? Ornamental bowl or vase? She liked to think about such things, to make stories for the items she found. In the past, the emerald pebble had been something functional, part of the unnoticed furniture of day-to-day life. In the present, it was litter. But in the future, next week perhaps, it would be something beautiful.

  *

  ‘Callie Fox.’ Miss Moonshine, enveloped in a huge tartan kilt-dress paired with her favourite bovver-boy Doc Martens, didn’t crack a smile. The flat northern vowels didn’t lift a notch. But from the sparkle in her hazel eyes, Callie could tell she was pleased to see her.

  The old lady came out from behind the shop counter and gave Callie’s cheek a pinch. ‘Show me something beautiful.’

  ‘Ow,’ Callie said, rubbing her cheek.

  Miss Moonshine eyed her expectantly, head tilted, birdlike. ‘Well? What do you have for me?’

  ‘Nothing now.’ Callie tilted her nose in mock offence. ‘You don’t deserve it, Nippy the Crab Lady.’

  Miss Moonshine clicked her tongue, but her eyes twinkled. ‘Don’t listen to the bad girl, Napoleon,’ she crooned to the elderly chihuahua wheezing in his bed. ‘Mummy knows she doesn’t mean it.’

  Callie smiled. ‘Go on then, I’ll show you. But only because these’re too good to keep to myself.’

  She made her way past the assorted bric-a-brac lurking in the hollows and shadows of the fusty little shop. A plastic Transformer, not unlike one she’d played with herself as a child, nestled incongruously against an ancient-looking, feverishly ruddy china doll. A dressmaker’s dummy in a white lace corset cast its long shadow over the piles of shabby paperbacks teetering precariously in every unfilled inch of space. Tat and treasure, mingling like a mismatched couple’s wedding list. The only thing they had in common was that each item there was chosen. Everything on sale had been personally selected by Miss Moonshine.

  When Callie arrived at the old mahogany table that served as a counter, she reached into her pocket and drew out four small objects wrapped in tissue paper. She placed each one gently on the table.

  ‘Ah!’ Miss Moonshine let out a sigh of satisfaction. ‘I had a feeling you’d bring me something special today. Let me see.’

  Callie carefully unwrapped one of the little parcels and handed it to Miss Moonshine to examine. The old lady held it up before her, squinting at it with a critical eye.

  It was a small pebble, emerald green river glass, painted with a tiny yet intricate buttercup motif.

  ‘Beautiful things,’ Miss Moonshine whispered to herself.

  ‘I did four in the same style,’ Callie said with a modest blush. ‘A wildflower theme for the summer. Cornflower, lavender, primrose and buttercup.’

  ‘Where did you find them? Did anyone see you take them?’

  Callie had been selling her rivercombed craft pieces to Miss Moonshine for two years now, ever since she’d first moved to Haven Bridge, and she’d become accustomed to the shopkeeper’s eccentricities. At first, she’d wondered why Miss Moonshine always wanted to know where she’d found the materials used for each item, and who had been around at the time. Now, she just answered the questions. When you’d known Miss Moonshine a while, you started to realise this was someone who didn’t need to make sense.

  Still, it was odd. She always asked Callie to bring her beautiful things, yet it was often the items Callie was proudest of, that she’d put the most work into, which Miss Moonshine showed the least interest in. A beautifully carved and painted driftwood peacock Callie had spent months on, vibrant in jewelled blues and greens, got barely a second look. Miss Moonshine had offered a tiny fee that Callie had refused, taking the peacock back home to occupy pride of place on the mantelpiece. Whereas one of her earliest efforts, a laughably crude bottlecap collage unworthy of a playschool kid, had rendered the shopkeeper practically giddy. She’d handed over a £50 note for that piece without question. Too frightened to spend it in case Miss Moonshine realised what a massive mistake she’d made and asked for it back, Callie still had it, tucked away at the bottom of an old money box. It was that note which had given her the confidence to keep going.

  ‘I found them on the river, by the bridge,’ Callie said. ‘All four pebbles on the same afternoon. They must’ve washed up when it burst its banks last month.’

  ‘Who saw?’

  ‘Plenty of people. It was near The Packhorse pub. Sunny day so the beer garden was packed.’

  ‘Show me the others.’

  Callie unwrapped each little ornament. Miss Moonshine held the tip of one finger briefly against each, her eyes falling closed.

  ‘The primrose, £5. The cornflower and the lavender, £10 each,’ she said at last, opening her eyes. ‘Oh yes, and the buttercup. £20 for the buttercup.’

  Callie frowned. ‘What? But the primrose is the best one.’ She drew a finger along the carefully delineated pink petals, feeling a thrill because it was her own handiwork. ‘I spent a week on that.’

  ‘Primrose, £5,’ Miss Moonshine repeated stubbornly.

  ‘But why so much more for the buttercup? It isn’t even that good, the petals went squiffy. I almost didn’t bring it.’

  ‘That’s my offer. Take it or leave it,’ Miss Moonshine said with a shrug.

  Callie sighed. ‘You know I’ll take it. I need the money, as usual.’ The pittance she earned as joint owner of The Caf on the Canal was certainly never going to make her fortune. Not with business the way it was at the moment anyway.

  Miss Moonshine opened up the till and handed over £45 in notes. It wasn’t much for all the work she put into each piece, Callie reflected as she tucked it away in her jeans pocket, but it helped pay the bills. Plus it sent a shiver of delight through her to think of her pieces out in the world, being beautiful, making happiness.

  ‘Come back when you’ve got more,’ Miss Moonshine said. ‘Oh, and here.’ She grabbed a tatty paperback from the top of one teetering pile. ‘Take this as part of your fee. I think you’ll enjoy it.’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Callie backed away, raising her hands in protest. ‘I’m not taking anything off you.’

  Miss Moonshine smiled. ‘You’ve been listening to stories, Callie Fox.’

  Stories. Yes, she’d been listening to stories. You couldn’t help it, when you’d lived here long enough. There were a lot of stories about Miss
Moonshine.

  Her friend Megan Archer, for example, the other part-owner of the narrowboat that housed The Caf on the Canal. Megan had bought a vintage Matchbox car from the shop for her young son one rainy day. Weeks later, she’d been tracked down by Jackson, a gorgeous lawyer from Nebraska who’d been given the car by his GI grandfather as a little lad. Now they were engaged, Megan was selling her half of the café and the whole family was moving to America.

  Then there’d been long-widowed Charlie Chipchase. He’d come in for a book on how to trace his family tree. Well, no, he’d come in for a new lampshade, but Miss Moonshine had sold him a book on how to trace his family tree all the same. The Chipchase family weren’t too impressive, but the librarian who’d helped Charlie find their records online had been. Now she was Mrs Chipchase.

  They weren’t all love stories though. One man had bought a pair of antique silver candlesticks that had turned out to be stolen goods. When police tracked them down, they’d found evidence he was responsible for stalking dozens of local women. These days, he gave his home address as HMP Manchester.

  There were bagfuls of tales like that, going back, ooh, years – local folk who’d bought things from Miss Moonshine’s shop and whose lives had changed irrevocably. It was coincidence, of course. It had to be. And there were plenty of other customers who bought things and carried on just as humdrum as they had been before, only humdrum with a new tablecloth.

  But for all that Callie liked to consider herself a sensible, healthily sceptical modern woman of thirty, she couldn’t stop the bite of superstition in her gut. Miss Moonshine. Her oddities, her fashions. Her… eyes.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Callie said again, waving the book away. ‘I’m fine as I am.’

  ‘It’s only a book, dear.’

  ‘It might be jinxed.’ Callie shot a suspicious look at the yellowing cover, which bore a lurid illustration of a busty woman with long red hair not unlike Callie’s own (hair, sadly, not bust). The woman was spilling from a torn dress, her fringe falling seductively over one eye. She held a telephone receiver in one hand and a man lay prone at her feet while a sinister-looking yellow bird watched from a cage. ‘It might be a load of old tosh as well. Looks it.’