The Secrets of Sunshine

by Phaedra Patrick

  ‘Yes, but he might listen to you…’

  ‘Perhaps you could write him a letter to explain.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  He felt a hand slip into his, fingers weaving. Liza stood at his side. ‘Hi,’ she said with an apologetic smile. ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, but Poppy is virtually begging me for ice cream. I didn’t know if she’d already had one…’

  ‘No, not yet. And it’s fine. We were just finishing up our conversation, anyway.’

  ‘Great. We’re all waiting for you, and Barry is here, too.’

  Mitchell looked over to where Poppy, Yvette, Sheila and Barry stood. ‘Friends and family,’ he explained to Jasmine. ‘Got to go. Sorry.’

  ‘But about Don…?’ she said after him as he walked away. ‘What about me?’

  He gave a shrug of his shoulders and concentrated on Liza’s hand in his.

  When they joined the others at the mast, Poppy stared intently at Connor. She hooked her fingers around his sling so she could see him better. ‘Look at his tiny fingers,’ she said. ‘His eyelashes are so cute.’

  Yvette rocked him proudly. ‘I’m going to take him home in a few minutes. I don’t want the loud music to scare him when it starts.’

  ‘Auntie Jean called Mum this morning,’ Liza told Mitchell. ‘She had a day off from her tour. When she’s completed it, she’s going to come and stay with me for a few days. It will be such fun. I can’t see her and Mum ever agreeing on anything musical, but they might find a common bond over Connor. I hope they can work out their differences.’

  ‘Let me know if I can help with any chilli making,’ Mitchell said.

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind, though getting takeaway will be less stressful.’

  When Mitchell glanced over towards Barry, he saw his friend was slouched against a railing.

  Liza followed his eyes. ‘Barry doesn’t look happy at all. Do you know what’s wrong with him?’

  Mitchell shook his head.

  ‘Chat to him, if you like? I’ll take Poppy for that ice cream. Is she allowed two scoops?’

  ‘Yes, and sprinkles.’

  When Mitchell joined Barry, his friend’s shoulders slumped. ‘Things haven’t worked out with Trisha,’ he said. ‘Her ex is still on the scene and making moves for her attention.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘Why are things so complicated?’ Barry huffed. ‘It looks like I’ll have to go back into the wild again.’

  Mitchell patted his arm, and he thought about the last few weeks. ‘Why don’t you leave things alone for a while?’ he said. ‘Stop searching so hard and things might come to you.’

  Barry pondered on this. He nodded towards Liza. ‘That worked for you, yeah?’

  ‘I think it did. Maybe the bad times help you to appreciate the good, when they happen.’

  Barry managed a small smile. ‘Whoa, that was deep.’

  ‘I know, right?’

  ‘Maybe Liza might have a nice single friend or two…’

  Mitchell shook his head slowly. ‘Come on, mate. Let’s get an ice cream to cool us down.’

  Barry chose chocolate flavour and Mitchell got adventurous with mint choc chip. Poppy wanted vanilla with cherry chunks, and Liza went for strawberry.

  Barry licked his cone. ‘I’ll look after Poppy for a while, if you guys want to go for a walk together?’ he suggested.

  Poppy squinted against the sun. ‘I could interview Barry for my project, Dad. He’s not a stranger and will have stories about the padlocks on the bridges.’

  ‘Good idea. If he doesn’t mind?’

  ‘Nah, go for it,’ Barry said, but then jokingly pressed a hand against his heart. ‘Nothing too painful, though. Go easy on the questions.’

  Mitchell and Liza ate their ice creams and walked back along the bridge to the main street together.

  ‘I was almost late getting here today,’ she said. ‘My oldest client is taking his music exam tomorrow and I gave him a last-minute lesson this morning. He’s very nervous.’

  ‘Still? At the age of eighty-one?’

  ‘He’s had a birthday and is eighty-two now. And if something’s important to you, then a touch of anxiety can be good. It makes your body feel more alive and receptive.’

  Mitchell felt a drumming in his chest, his own adrenaline pulsing at being with Liza, and he knew this was true. ‘It’s great he’s doing this later in life.’

  ‘It’s never too late to teach an old dog new tricks,’ she said. ‘Well, except maybe Sasha. I’ve been trying to get her not to pull on her leash for ages, and nothing works.’

  He smiled to himself and reached into his pocket. ‘I have something to show you.’ When he uncurled his palm, a small silver heart-shaped padlock glinted in the sunshine.

  Liza pursed her lips. For once, she used few words. ‘For Anita?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘It’s for us,’ he said. ‘The start of something. If that’s okay?’

  When her laugh rang out, it was full of joy and relief. She linked her arm through his. ‘It’s more than okay. But I thought your job was to remove the locks. Won’t you get in trouble for this if anyone sees you?’

  ‘I’m officially still off work. Maybe just one more won’t hurt.’

  ‘Well, I won’t tell if you don’t.’ She winked.

  ‘Good. I know just the place.’

  He led her off the bridge, along the road and down a few steps that led to a grass verge. Criss-crosses of white struts supported the Yacht bridge underneath it. ‘If we hang the padlock under the bridge, no one will see it. But we’ll know it’s there.’

  They both ducked down, where the shadows were cool and soothed their hot skin. The sound of anyone else nearby was eclipsed by the shush of the river flowing past them.

  ‘Is there a message on the lock?’ she asked him.

  He shook his head. ‘I thought about it, but some things are best said in person.’

  She looked into his eyes and opened her mouth to reply. He leaned forwards and stopped her with a kiss to her lips.

  She let out a small gasp before wrapping her arms around him. He cupped the padlock gently in his hand against her back.

  They both melted into the moment, and Mitchell felt happy, like he was somehow coming home.

  ‘Sometimes actions are better than words,’ Liza whispered.

  Afterwards, they glanced giddily at each other and attached the lock together. Mitchell put the key in his pocket rather than tossing it into the water, and they made their way back up onto the bridge.

  When they reached Barry and Poppy again, they were chatting to Carl and Susan.

  ‘Carl managed to get a meeting with Brad,’ Susan announced proudly as Mitchell and Liza joined them. ‘The two of them got on like a house on fire.’

  ‘I made origami figures of the band, Mr Fisher,’ Carl said. ‘He really liked them, said they were quirky.’

  Susan nodded. ‘And Brad really liked the story of Upchester people being inspired to write letters. He says he writes songs very quickly and even jotted down a few lyrics while I was there, and—’

  Her words were interrupted by a roar of applause that soared around them. Electronic feedback screeched through a speaker onstage and Mitchell frowned in the direction of the noise. A woman beside him whooped, and her boyfriend gave a loud whistle.

  Onstage, lights swept to and fro. Lasers shot up towards the sky. A young man with spiky purple hair appeared and sat down behind a set of drums. A brief expectant hush fell across the crowd before the cheering started again, even louder.

  Another man approached the microphone stand and thrust one arm in the air. This time, Mitchell felt bodies surging past him, trying to suck him along with them.

  He wrapped protective arms around Poppy and Liza, holding them close.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,’ the man shouted into his microphone. ‘I’m Brad Beatty and we are Word Up.’

  A fanfare of music blasted out. Popp
y jumped up and down, squealing.

  ‘We’re going to kick off tonight’s centenary celebrations with a new song,’ Brad said. ‘It’s called “Love Letters” and I hope you guys like it.’

  Mitchell, Liza and Poppy looked at each other and laughed.

  He wondered what effect the song might have on the city folk of Upchester, and it was joyous to contemplate.

  Then the first few bars of music kicked in. The crowd moved forwards again, and Mitchell allowed himself to be swept along with them all.

  Acknowledegments

  It takes a lot of people to bring a book to readers and I have a fantastic team around me. Everyone at my agency, Darley Anderson, does a fantastic job, with special thanks going to agent Tanera Simons for her support and advice at the start of this book, and to my super-agent, Clare Wallace, for being there for me throughout it all. Also, to Mary Darby, Rosanna Bellingham, Darley himself and Sheila David.

  A special mention goes to Janine McKown for her friendship and medical expertise in connection to Mitchell’s, Yvette’s and Connor’s stories – thank you! Any possible inaccuracies are my own.

  To all at Park Row in the US, especially my editors Natalie Hallak and Erika Imranyi, for their support, encouragement and understanding. In the UK, my appreciation and thanks go to my editor Emily Kitchin, Lisa Milton and the entire HQ team.

  I’m lucky to have the support of many author friends, too numerous to mention here, but specific mentions go to B. A. Paris, Roz Watkins and Pam Jenoff.

  To everyone who reads my books, enjoys and shares them – thank you! I love reading your reviews, so do keep leaving them. Each one really counts. Also, to booksellers and book bloggers everywhere for their continued support.

  I couldn’t write without my wonderful family around me, and love and appreciation go to my mum and dad, and to my son, Oliver. To Mark, thank you for your support and believing in me. And thanks to my dog, Rosie, for our many walks together. Also love to my friends for sharing the good times and bad, especially Joan, Mary and Belinda.

  For reading group questions, writing tips and more information, please visit www.phaedra-patrick.com. I’m happiest on Instagram, and you can also find me on Twitter and Facebook.

  Enjoyed The Secrets of Sunshine?

  Read on for an extract from The Library of

  Lost and Found, the charming, feel-good

  novel from bestselling author

  Phaedra Patrick

  CHAPTER ONE

  Valentine’s Day

  As always, Martha Storm was primed for action. Chin jutted, teeth gritted and a firm grip on the handle of her trusty shopping trolley. Her shoulders burned as she struggled to push it up the steep slope towards the library. The cobblestones underfoot were slippery, coated by the sea mist that wafted into Sandshift each evening.

  She was well prepared for the evening’s event. It was going to be perfect, even though she usually avoided Valentine’s Day. Wasn’t it a silly celebration? A gimmick, to persuade you to buy stuffed furry animals and chocolates at rip-off prices. Why, if someone ever sent her a card, she’d hand it back and explain to the giver that they’d been brainwashed. However, a job worth doing was worth doing well.

  Bottles chinked in her trolley, a stuffed black bin bag rustled in the breeze and a book fell off a pile, its pages fluttering like a moth caught in a spider’s web.

  She’d bought the supermarket’s finest rosé wine, flute glasses and napkins printed with tiny red roses. Her alarm clock had sounded at 5.30 that morning, to allow her time to bake heart-shaped cookies, including gluten-free ones for any book lovers who had a wheat allergy. She’d brought along extra copies of the novel for the author to sign.

  One of the best feelings in the world came when she received a smile of appreciation, or a few grateful words. When someone said, ‘Great job, Martha,’ and she felt like she was basking in sunshine. She’d go to most lengths to achieve that praise.

  If anyone asked about her job she had an explanation ready. ‘I’m a guardian of books,’ she said. ‘A volunteer at the library.’ She was an event organizer, tour guide, buyer, filer, job adviser, talking clock, housekeeper, walking encyclopedia, stationery provider, recommender of somewhere nice to eat lunch and a shoulder to cry on – all rolled into one.

  And she loved each part, except for waking people up at closing time, and the strange things she found used as bookmarks (a nail file, a sexual health clinic appointment card and an old rasher of bacon).

  As she rattled past a group of men, all wearing navy and yellow Sandshift United football scarves, Martha called out to them. ‘Don’t forget about the library event tonight.’ But they laughed among themselves and walked on.

  As she eventually directed the trolley towards the small squat library building, Martha spied the bulky silhouette of a man huddled by the front door. ‘Hello there,’ she called out, twisting her wrist to glance at her watch. ‘You’re fifty-four minutes early.’

  The dark shape turned its head and seemed to look at her, before hurrying away and disappearing around the corner.

  Martha trundled along the path. A poster flapped on the door and author Lucinda Lovell beamed out from a heavily filtered photo. The word Cancelled was written across her face in thick black letters.

  Martha’s eyes widened in disbelief. Her stomach lurched, as if someone had shoved her on an escalator. Using her hand as a visor she peered into the building.

  All was still, all was dark. No one was inside.

  With trembling fingers, she reached out to touch the word that ruined all her planning and organizing efforts of the last couple of weeks. Cancelled. The word that no one had bothered to tell her.

  She swallowed hard and her organized brain ticked as she wondered who to call. The area library manager, Clive Folds, was taking his wife to the Lobster Pot bistro for a Valentine’s dinner. He was the one who’d set up Lucinda’s appearance, with her publisher. Pregnant library assistant, Suki McDonald, was cooking a cheese an onion pie for her boyfriend, Ben, to persuade him to give things another try between them.

  Everything had been left for Martha to sort out.

  Again.

  ‘You live on your own, so you have more time,’ Clive had told her, when he’d asked her to take charge of the event preparations. ‘You don’t have personal commitments.’

  Martha’s chest tightened as she remembered his words, and she let her arms fall heavily to her sides. Turning back around, she took a deep breath and forced herself to straighten her back. Never mind, she thought. There must be a good reason for the cancellation, a serious illness, or perhaps a fatal road accident. Anyone who turned up would see the poster. ‘Better just set off home, and get on with my other stuff,’ she muttered.

  Leaning over her trolley, Martha grabbed hold of its sides and heaved it around to face in the opposite direction. As she did, a clear plastic box slid out, crashing to the path. When she stooped to pick it up, the biscuits lay broken inside.

  It was only then she noticed the brown paper parcel propped against the bottom of the door. It was rectangular and tied with a bow and a criss-cross of string, probably left there by the shadowy figure. Her name was scrawled on the front. She stooped down to pick it up, then pressed her fingers along its edges. It felt like a book.

  Martha placed it next to the box of broken biscuits in her trolley. Really, she tutted, the things readers tried, to avoid paying their late return fees.

  She wrenched back on the trolley as it threatened to pull her down the hill. The brown paper parcel juddered inside as she negotiated the cobbles. She passed sugared almond-hued houses and the air smelled of salt and seaweed. Laughter and the strum of a Spanish guitar sounded from the Lobster Pot and she paused for a moment. Martha had never eaten there before. It was the type of place frequented by couples.

  Through the window, she glimpsed Clive and his wife with their foreheads almost touching across the table. Candles lit up their faces with a flickering glow. His min
d was obviously not on the library.

  If she’s not careful, Mrs Fold’s hair is going to catch fire, Martha thought, averting her eyes. I hope there are fire extinguishers in the dining area. She fumbled in her pocket for her Wonder Woman notepad and made a note to ask the bistro owner, Branda Taylor.

  When Martha arrived home to her old grey stone cottage, she parked the trolley up outside. She had found it there, abandoned, a couple of years ago, and she adopted it for her ongoing mission to be indispensable, a Number One neighbour.

  Bundling her stuff out of the trolley and into the hallway, she stooped and arranged it in neat piles on the floor, then wound her way around the wine bottles. She found a small, free space on the edge of her overcrowded dining table for the brown paper parcel.

  A fortnight ago, on a rare visit, her sister, Lilian, had stuck her hands on her hips as she surveyed the dining room. ‘You really need to do something about this place, Martha,’ she said, her eyes narrowing. ‘Getting to your kitchen is like an obstacle course. Mum and Dad wouldn’t recognize their own home.’

  Her sister was right. Betty and Thomas Storm liked the house to be spic and span, with everything in its place. But they had both died five years ago, and Martha had remained in the property. She found it therapeutic, after their passing, to try to be useful and fill the house with stuff that needed doing.

  The brown velour sofa, where the three of them had watched quiz shows, one after another, night after night, was now covered in piles of things. Thomas liked the colour-control on the TV turned up, so presenters’ and actors’ faces glowed orange. Now it was covered by a tapestry that Martha had offered to repair for the local church.

  ‘This is all essential work,’ she told Lilian, casting her hand through the air. She patiently explained that the shopping bags, plastic crates, mountains of stuff on the floor, stacked high on the table and against the wall, were jobs. ‘I’m helping people out. The boxes are full of Mum and Dad’s stuff—’

  ‘They look like the Berlin Wall.’

  ‘Let’s sort through them together. We can decide what to keep, and what to let go.’