Full English

by Rachel Spangler

  Table of Contents

  Titlepage

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Notes

  Pronunciation Guide

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Copyright

  About Bywater

  For Susie,

  I’m not sure what made you decide to take such a wild and wonderful adventure with me, but number fourteen wouldn’t exist if you hadn’t, and this is all your fault.

  Acknowledgments

  My family and I had the extreme blessing of living abroad for nine months last year. While we were able to travel to Ireland, Italy, France, and Spain, the bulk of our time was spent in Alnmouth, England. The little seaside village on the far north of England’s east coast became so much more than a base to us; it became home. Thanks to our friend Kelly Smith, we were able to rent a place much like the one Emma lives in during this book. We spent our Friday nights at a local pub with a wonderful group of friends and neighbors. We reveled in learning to drive on the left side of country roads, and ate more scones than any people had a right to. We made some of the best memories of our lives during those idyllic times in our beloved village. This book is part romance novel and part love letter to the place that stole such a big part of our hearts. It is my honor to share a little bit of them with all of you.

  I’d like to thank all the people who made our time in England so enjoyable, and by doing so lent a great deal of authenticity to these characters. Thank you to Kelly, Jane, Hilary, Kirsten, Max, and the Red Lion Friday Club for welcoming us into your circle. Thank you, Joanne, Barry, and Ethan for taking us under your wing and sharing so many wonderful experiences with us. Thank you to Velvet for being such a stellar host. Thank you to the Alnmouth Cricket Club community, the badminton “badders” boys, and the bouldering group at Willowburn Sports and Leisure Center, who kept my son active and involved with the most wonderful group of kids any parent could ask for.

  But like the characters in these pages, this book itself is part British and part American, and while the writing was done entirely in England, the work of editing and production saw the effort come back across the pond. Thank you to the amazing Bywater Books team for making all that happen in double time. Salem West, Marianne K. Martin, Elizabeth Andersen, Nancy Squires, and of course Ann McMan, Famous Designer (who never ceases to amaze with her covers) all turned this one around quickly and beautifully. Again, my longtime friends and beta readers Barb and Toni gave me wonderfully loving feedback. Lynda Sandoval flew through a sharp set of edits without making me cry once! Finally, a great group of buddies from all walks of my life came to-gether to proofread the final typeset, including Ann, Marcie, Susan, and Diane. I also need to thank Will Banks, aka Big Papi, without whom I might never be late. And throughout the entire process of writing this book, Melissa Brayden kept me moving on this story while I traveled, and Georgia Beers kept me from getting too down on myself when I didn’t hit my word goals by saying helpful things like, “But did you see a castle today? Well there you go. It all evens out!” In short, I have the best friends ever.

  Last but never least, I cannot ever put into words how indebted I am to the best travel partners in the world. Susie and Jackson were with me every step of this life-altering adventure. I simply wouldn’t have taken it without them. The time we spent together learning, exploring, playing, and growing offered me some of the best days of my life, and I will cherish those memories almost as much as I cherish the two of you. To Jackson, you inspire me every day with your willingness to jump into new situations and experiences with such open and accepting wonder. I am thankful every day for the blessing of watching you grow into a young man of the world. And to Susan, you are my rock and my roots. I cannot ever repay you for the way you steady and save me time and time again. No matter where we go, I am home as long as I am with you, come what may.

  And as always, I cannot thank anyone for anything without acknowledging that each blessing I receive is ordained by a loving creator, redeemer, and sanctifier. Soli Deo Gloria

  Author’s Notes

  Full English is told from the point of view of two characters, one American and one British. Many of their words were chosen with each character’s nationality and regional dialect in mind. For instance, the American character might use the words “gas pedal” while the British, “accelerator.” The same would be true of “rain boots” and “wellies” or “mom” and “mum.” These were conscious choices made with the help of several British friends. Initially I’d planned to do the same with spelling of words: a “neighbour” to my Brit would be a “neighbor” to my American. However, the actual practice of spelling the same words differently from one scene to the next ended up being confusing to readers, editors, spellcheckers, and proofers alike. The differences within the document also ran the risk of complicating printing and formatting as well. In the interest of streamlining these issues to create the cleanest, most readable book possible, we were forced to pick one set of spellings and stick with them, and since the book opens in the American’s point of view, we felt it most reasonable to carry that through. I know this choice may not please some of my British readers, but I hope you will forgive me, as I promise to you that if I ever write a sequel, I’ll make sure to open in a British point of view and carry those spellings throughout!

  Also, while the settings of this book are very much inspired by the places my family and I lived in and explored around the North East of England, I had to take a few liberties with the towns and the cast of characters that required I create a fictional village, dukedom, and castle. I hope those who know the area will still see the places and landmarks they love reflected in the story that follows, while understanding why the legalities of writing around them required me to change a few names and places.

  Pronunciation Guide

  After a few readers from each side of the sea got early looks at this book, it was brought to my attention that a pronunciation guide might be in order. I’d love to say this is definitive, however, seeing as how where you live might affect how to read even a pronunciation guide, this the best I can do.

  Amalie: AHM-a-lee, Emma’s ex-wife.

  Amberwick: AM-ber-ick, the “w” is silent, the town where most of the story occurs.

  Aoife: EE-fa, an Irish name, Brogan’s sister.

  Aubergine: OH-bur-zheen, which is eggplant in America and Australia.

  Bairn: Bern, Child or baby in Scotland and North East England.

  Ciara: KEE-rah, an Irish name, Brogan’s sister.

  Courgette: cor-ZHET, this is a zucchini for the Americans.

  Daideó: DAD-doh, which is “grandpa” in Irish.

  Eoin: For Americans, just go with “Owen” here.

  Haar: Har, this rhymes with “far” in American English, and it means sea fog.

  Liam: LEE-um, an Irish name, Brogan’s nephew.

  Maite: MY-tay, a Spanish name, and also a tourist in town.

  McKay: This is Brogans’s surname, and in the part of England where she lives, it’s most commonly pronounced Mick-KY, which rhymes with Pie.

  Siobhán: Shi-VAWN, another Irish name, Brogan’s sister, are you seeing a trend yet?

  Volant: Vo-LAWN, this is a French surname for our American protagonist.<
br />
  Zucchini: Zoo-KEE-nee, that’s an aubergine for folks in the United Kingdom.

  There are many others, so just pronounce the rest phonetically.

  Chapter One

  Northland Street was dark already, with sparse lights managing only to throw shadows across the black pavement. The headlights of the cab offered glimpses of stone buildings streaked gray by time, before sweeping out into a vast darkness over what she assumed was shrouded beach, then the North Sea.

  Looping back toward the town center on the one-lane road that appeared to circle the village, her driver slowed, then stopped in front of a low, white, one-story cottage surrounded by a small, stone garden wall.

  “This the one?” he asked.

  Emma squinted through the dim light emanating from a neighbor’s window. The cottage was the right size, but then again so were most of the neighbors’ homes, and she couldn’t quite make out the color in the dark but it was probably white, or maybe gray, or perhaps a light yellow. And the bushes were bigger than the pictures she’d seen online, but they were in roughly the same place, probably. “Um, it might be.”

  The cabbie raised an eyebrow at her via the rearview mirror, and she suspected his patience might be running thin with her lack of certainty. She understood his frustration as a little voice inside her whispered, What have you done?

  She fought back the wave of nausea that always accompanied the question and tried to sound more confident as she said, “Yes. It’s the right address, so it must be the right house.”

  “Good,” he said, not unkindly, but with more than a hint of relief. She suspected from his multiple comments about the remoteness of the village and her need to pay for his return fare to Newcastle that he didn’t get many clients inquiring about transport from the airport all the way up to Amberwick, much less having the means or the willingness to pay the cost. Maybe he didn’t even fully expect her to pay, as he made no move to exit the cab before clearing his throat and saying, “That’ll be one hundred pound fifty.”

  “One hundred pound fifty,” she repeated, unsure of whether he meant one hundred and fifty pounds, or one hundred pounds and fifty pence. She could give him one hundred fifty pounds and call it a tip, unless, of course, the actual cost was one hundred fifty, in which case she’d made him drive her an hour outside the city late at night, and then didn’t tip him a single cent, or pence, or whatever he’d call it. Either way, he was still waiting, his arm stretched across the back of the passenger seat with a forced casualness that allowed him to watch her more fully now. The poor man was clearly nervous as she rummaged through unfamiliar bills before finally pulling out some purplish ones and handing him two of them, mumbling, “Keep the change.”

  His eyes went wide, and he nearly strangled himself with the seatbelt as he tried to scramble out the door. “Let me get your bags, ma’am.”

  She supposed she’d answered the cost question. She’d clearly paid him double his already high rate. She would’ve smiled at his attempt to overcorrect his attitude if she weren’t so exhausted. Instead she said, “Thank you,” as he handed her a piece of carry-on luggage and struggled to hoist the larger suitcase from his trunk.

  “I can carry this one up for you,” he offered, suddenly more genial.

  “No,” she said, “I lugged it all the way from New York. I can get it to the door.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes,” she said, glad to have a definitive answer for the first time in days, if not weeks. “Drive safe.”

  “You, too,” he said enthusiastically. Then with a sheepish grin that showed his crooked teeth for the first time all night, he corrected himself. “I mean, stay safe on your holiday.”

  She stood awkwardly between her suitcases as he drove off, but once the taillights faded, she became aware of a distinct chill in the air, or maybe from somewhere inside her own chest.

  “Holiday.” She repeated the misnomer as she stood alone in a strange, dark town in the rural reaches of a foreign country where she didn’t know a single living soul.

  She turned wearily toward the house, her house, and tried to fight back the refrain that had dogged her for weeks with an internal whisper: What have you done?

  Hefting both suitcases so they wouldn’t drag noisily across the gravel driveway, she staggered under their weight toward the door. Then she stopped abruptly as she reached it.

  She didn’t have the key.

  Why in the name of all things holy hadn’t she realized that, until this moment? She was supposed to have stopped by the real estate office when she got into town. She was also supposed to have arrived in town at 10 a.m. instead of 10 p.m.

  She didn’t glance up and down the street to see if any of the stores were still open, because they clearly weren’t. She did, however, pull out her cell phone to confirm her American plan had no service in the far north of England.

  What have you done? The voice wasn’t quite a whisper anymore. Her heart rate accelerated, causing her pulse to pound through her ears. The panic would overtake her soon if she didn’t act. But where could she go? What could she do? There was no one around. And even if there were, what would she say to them? “I bought a house sight unseen, and I think it’s this one, but I don’t have a key, do you?” Maybe she could also add, “I’ve been traveling for thirty-two hours solid, and I’m exhausted and heartbroken and cold and lost and lonely.”

  Her bottom lip twitched as she realized she was no longer practicing a sad speech to garner sympathy so much as stating the facts of her life.

  Swallowing a sob, she made a desperate grab for the door handle and gave it a downward yank. To her vast surprise, it pushed all the way down with an audible click, then swung open a few inches.

  Her heartbeat didn’t slow as she stared at the open space she’d created. Either someone had left her house unlocked, or she’d broken into someone else’s.

  “Hello,” she whispered, not sure the noise would’ve been enough to wake anyone sleeping inside. Then again, if someone were sleeping inside, she didn’t want to wake them.

  Maybe she should close the door and knock. Then at least if she were at the wrong place, she wouldn’t actually be inside someone else’s home when she found out.

  “No. This is my house,” she whispered, fully understanding that she was whispering because she wasn’t at all certain of the truth of the statement. So she did what any reasonable human would do and backed away slowly, pulling the door with her.

  “Okay,” she said, no longer even trying to pretend she wasn’t talking to herself. “You’re a writer. Write your way out of this.”

  Closing her eyes, she pictured a romantic lead, strong, confident, able, walking up to a door in the dead of night and rapping on it with purpose. Once no one answered, she would stride in and claim it as her own, a modern-day Columbus in this new land. Except Columbus was a raping, murdering bastard who landed on the wrong continent, and nope, too far with that analogy. Just knock.

  Before she lost her nerve, she quickly lifted her hand and rapped on the door lightly. Then she counted to ten. When no one answered, she knocked a little harder. Another ten-count later, with the tightness in her chest loosening almost to the point where she could draw a full breath, she knocked one more time, loud enough to be heard by any neighbors who happened to still be awake. Ten, nine, eight, seven, six, five, four, three, two, one, and she swung wide the door to her new home.

  Then she screamed in the face of the person standing directly on the other side.

  The dark form in front of her returned the scream in kind, only its shriek resonated with a disconcertingly high tone that seemed entirely out of place from such an imposing figure standing in a dark hallway.

  “You’re a woman,” Emma blurted, not stopping to process why the thought mattered enough to be verbalized.

  “Bloody hell, really?” The person doubled over. “Is that how you fucking greet women in your country?”

  “What? Oh no. I mean, I’m sorry. I didn�
��t mean to startle you.”

  “Well, here’s a tip, not letting fly a blood-curdling scream on sight is a good way to not startle someone.”

  Emma’s stomach did a little somersault. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m the worst. And I pushed into your house and everything.”

  “My house? I sort of hoped this was your house. Holy shite, if you’re not Emma Volant, this just got a lot weirder.”

  “No, of course I am, but wait, so this is my house?”

  “Yes, but why do I get the sense you thought you were walking into someone else’s during the black of night?”

  “I wasn’t sure, and . . .” She shifted from one foot to the other, then took an abrupt step back, causing her suitcase to topple over with a dull thud. “Hold on a second. If this is my house, then who are you, and why are you in there? Oh my God, am I getting robbed before I even move in? I have some money on me. You can have it, but I—”

  “Hey, slow down. I’m not robbing you. I mean, I get the whole Irish ruffian stereotype has made it to America, but I’m not robbing you.”

  She had only the fleeting wherewithal to realize the woman sounded more English than Irish, but amid the myriad confusing notes to this experience, the comment barely ranked.

  With a sigh, the woman in front of her flipped on a hall light, casting a fluorescent sheen on rich, ginger hair and a pale complexion offset by the most breathtakingly beautiful, sage-green eyes. For the second time in as many minutes she stepped back, startled by the appearance of the woman before her.

  “No need to back away again. I’m Brogan,” the woman said with a placating smile. “Come on in and let me explain.”