Copyright © 2016 Victoria Walters
The right of Victoria Walters to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.
First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2016
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire
Cover art © Shutterstock.com, Elyomys (trees), Aslysun (figure), Robert Adrian Hillman (birds)
eISBN: 978 1 4722 2931 1
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
About the Author
By Victoria Walters
About the Book
Dedication
Prologue
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
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgements
An Exclusive Q & A with Victoria Walters
About the Author
VICTORIA WALTERS has always loved creating stories. Her first book was handwritten when she was sixteen years old, and was closely modelled on the Sweet Valley High series. Victoria studied sociology at Warwick University and has since worked for a business publisher and as a Waterstones bookseller.
She lives in Surrey with her cat Harry (named after Harry Potter, not Harry Styles). This is her first novel.
You can discover more about Victoria – and find pictures of Harry the cat – by following her on Twitter at @Vicky_Walters or by visiting her blog at: www.victoria-writes.com
By Victoria Walters
The Second Love of My Life
Digital Short Story
The Summer I Met You
About the Book
In the Cornish town of Talting, everyone is famous for something.
Until recently Rose was known for many things: her infectious positivity; her unique artistic talent; and her devotion to childhood sweetheart Lucas.
But two years ago that changed in one unthinkable moment. Now, Rose is known for being the young woman who became a widow aged just twenty-four.
Though Rose knows that life must go on, the thought of carving out a new future for herself is one she can barely entertain. Until a newcomer, Robert, arrives in Talting for the summer . . .
Can Rose allow herself the chance to love again?
For my mum, Christine. For everything.
Prologue
Four years earlier
‘Goodnight, future Mrs Wood.’
I wave to my soon-to-be to be mother- and father-in-law, Gloria and Graham, who follow the last of our friends as they weave down our path somewhat drunkenly into the night. I close the door and look down at the sparkling solitaire diamond ring now adorning my left hand. As someone who has never worn much jewellery, it’s going to take some getting used to.
‘I’m not sure I like the sound of that,’ Lucas says into my ear, wrapping his arms around my waist.
I raise an eyebrow. ‘Changed your mind already?’
‘Never.’ My new fiancé twists me around so I can see him. His familiar tousled fair hair, tanned skin and wide, bright blue eyes greet me. He gestures to the painting hanging in our hallway of the beach just a stone’s throw away from our house. He lingers on the signature in the corner. My signature. ‘You might be a rich and famous artist one day; you can’t change the name on your work.’
I chuckle, leaning into his chest. ‘I don’t think we need to worry about that.’
‘You never know.’
‘Are you serious? You want me to keep my name when we get married?’
‘As long as we’re married it doesn’t really matter, does it?’
Lucas has always been the biggest fan of my art. Probably because we met in art class at school, all those years ago. My mum used to say Lucas was a keeper when we were just teenagers; she was always right. I reach for his lips, unable not to kiss him again. He feels like home to me when our lips meet. He has always felt like home.
I can’t pretend that his proposal took me completely by surprise tonight. I’ve felt certain we would end up together for a long time now, but we’re still young, and I wasn’t sure it would happen this soon. He kisses me back enthusiastically and pulls me by the hand back into our small living room, which just minutes ago was crowded with all of our favourite people. Lucas had wanted them here to be part of our special moment. He loves that our family and friends have always been part of our relationship; we live in the small town we grew up in and everyone is so excited that we’re getting married. But even though I love Talting as much he does, I’m pleased we now have the rest of the night to ourselves. The two of us alone together in our house is always my favourite time of the day.
We curl up on the leather sofa in our usual position, Lucas sitting up and me leaning against his chest, my legs curled up beside me. Lucas brushes back a stray hair from my cheek and looks at the mantelpiece in front of us lined with photographs from our life together. ‘I wish I could have asked her.’
‘Asked who?’
‘Your mum. I always thought I’d ask her permission – well, her blessing, because I wouldn’t have taken no for an answer. I wish she was here,’ he says, murmuring his words into my hair. I look at the photographs, moving past the one of us on a beach in the Caribbean to one with his parents when we were younger, th
en the one with Emma and John, our best friends, and last of all the one of me with my mum in the house I grew up in. ‘I wish she was too. But you know she would have been so happy for us, I think she loved you even more than I do.’
‘She just knew I’d always look after you.’
I feel in danger of crying so I look away from the picture and into Lucas’s eyes. He always steadies me. ‘Did you choose the ring by yourself?’ I ask him.
He chuckles, his chest moving under me. ‘It’s quite annoying that you know me so well. Emma actually demanded to come with me and she dragged John along too. We went into Plymouth a few weeks ago. Seriously, we were there hours; she dragged me to every jeweller’s. She told me you’d be wearing this forever so it had to be perfect. I kind of thought all diamond rings were the same . . . I’ll never say that again,’ he says, shaking his head at the memory. I can imagine Emma making a very impassioned speech as to why that was definitely not the case. Secretly, I agree with Lucas, but I’d never have the guts to tell her that.
‘Well, I love it, so you chose well,’ I tell him.
Lucas turns to me, his eyes serious. ‘This is what you want, isn’t it?’
‘Well, I’m still waiting for Brad Pitt, but as it’s unlikely he’ll ever come to Talting . . .’ I tease, leaning in to kiss him on the nose.
‘Ha ha,’ he says sarcastically. ‘I just want to make sure you’ll never regret just being with me your whole life.’
We haven’t been back long from our travels. Instead of going to university, we had taken the opportunity of being young and free and headed off to see the world. Emma had actually thought that Lucas would propose whilst we were away. ‘Imagine all the romantic places he might be thinking of doing it in,’ she said as we shopped for clothes for me to take. But I didn’t agree with her. Our home town has always been the soundtrack to our relationship – we were born and bred here, and we want to grow old here. I knew he’d want to mark this special moment here somehow.
I think about his speech earlier. How he got down on his knee, holding out a blue velvet box. I couldn’t hear the gasps around me or see the smiles; all I could focus on was him – my Lucas. My best friend, my partner, my soulmate.
My everything.
‘I can’t wait to walk towards you,’ I say. ‘Do you know how lucky we are? Because sometimes I look at other people and wonder how we got so lucky to have each other. We just fit.’
‘Like Ross and Rachel?’
I shake my head with a smile. He has always been obsessed with Friends. ‘You do realise planning this wedding is going to be a nightmare, though?’ This will be the news of the year here, and I know everyone will want to be involved.
‘It’s going to be fun,’ he disagrees. ‘We’re going to get married in the church then have a big party. You know you won’t have to do anything – Mum, Emma, Joe, they’ll do all the organising. All you have to do is wear a white dress and show up.’
I groan. ‘Oh God, a white dress.’
‘You can do it, I believe in you.’
I nudge him in the ribs. ‘Hey, you chose an un-girly girl, it’s your own fault.’
He turns serious again. ‘I chose perfectly,’ he says.
I roll my eyes, unused to all of this. Lucas and I are usually the ‘we know we love one another so we don’t need to say it all the time’ couple. ‘Tonight has made you impossibly romantic.’
‘Don’t worry, tomorrow I’ll just be impossible again.’
‘Good.’ I lean in for a lingering kiss and then relax back in his arms. I’ll never get tired of Lucas holding me.
‘We’re going to be together forever,’ he promises then, as if he can read my mind. I sometimes think he can, actually. There is not one doubt in my heart he’s right.
I was blissfully unaware in that moment just how short our forever would end up being.
Chapter One
Now
They say that everyone is famous in a small town.
In my home town of Talting I had always been known as an artist.
The Last Painting?
I stare again at the bold headline on the front page of the Cornwall News. ‘This might be your last chance to own a painting by renowned local artist Rose Walker’, reads the opening line of the article.
‘Why are you reading that again?’ my best friend, Emma, demands as she comes to sit opposite me in the booth. ‘Who left this here?’ She looks around the room accusingly. It’s been two weeks since the article was printed and I’m still haunted by its words.
Joe, our boss, comes over then, guilt flashing in his eyes when he sees the paper. ‘I thought we agreed to get rid of them all,’ he says.
‘I just can’t forget it,’ I say, thinking back to the young journalist interviewing us all in this very bar a few weeks ago to publicise our town’s annual Easter Fair, which takes place this Saturday.
Emma snatches the paper from my hands. ‘I still can’t believe the nerve of him,’ she says.
I don’t need the paper in front of me to remember the words: ‘Ms Walker hasn’t painted anything new in two years and it looks unlikely we will see any work in the future by this talented woman, so head for her stall at the Fair and grab an original Walker before it’s too late.’
‘I’m sorry, Rose,’ Joe says for the hundredth time, looking at the paper fearfully. ‘I only wanted him to know how proud I am that you’re taking part in this year’s Fair with everything that you’ve been through. How proud we all are.’
‘He twisted everything you said,’ Emma says indignantly, trying to console him. I know how bad he feels about the article. She screws up the paper in her hands. ‘We are all really proud of you. This article doesn’t change that.’
Two years ago, my world changed forever.
I was no longer known in Talting for being an artist. Instead I became known for being something I could have never imagined: a widow at the age of twenty-four.
It’s April and the weather is beginning to warm up, which means Talting is beginning to turn from an inconspicuous coastal town in Cornwall to a busy tourist destination, thanks to our stretch of golden sand and, more importantly, waves ripe for surfing. Our Easter Fair used to be one of my favourite events here but I missed last year’s, unable to think about attending without Lucas by my side. It would have been my first time there without him in ten years and I wasn’t ready to accept that. I’m still not sure if I’m ready to face the Fair alone, but I need to sell my last few paintings.
The remaining pieces of my past life.
It’s the only way I can start to get some of myself back. I used to love these events and I’m determined to take part again. This is what living in Talting is all about, and I’ve never wanted to live anywhere else.
Although the past two years have severely tested that resolve.
The door to the bar swings open and a group of tourists come in, talking loudly and drawing our attention to them. Thanks to the forecasted warm weather this weekend, the Fair is going to be packed, and Talting Inn and our various B&Bs are already booked up for it.
This group are almost certainly here for the waves. I’d guess they are city types, working in banks or similar and here for a break to blow off steam. Their outfits are trying to be surfing cool but look expensive. Maybe they won’t even get out to the sea, just take photos of it to brag to their Facebook friends.
‘Here we go again,’ Mrs Morris mutters as she walks over to collect her bag and coat from next to me, her eyes narrowing at the newcomers to the bar. She has displayed my paintings in her café since I was a teenager, but she’s having it refurbished as it gets so packed during the tourist season and there won’t be room for them. It gave me the perfect opportunity to free myself of them. ‘I’m always relieved when it’s all over,’ she adds. Everyone in Talting calls her Mrs
Morris. She’s about seventy but we don’t know her exact age, as she doesn’t ever seem to have a birthday. She has one daughter who moved up north when she got married, but her granddaughter Amanda lives with her here.
‘It’ll be a busy few months,’ I reply non-committally. Mrs Morris exemplifies a typical Talting view. We like to moan to one another about our town being invaded each season, even though we’d all sink otherwise. It’s just one more eccentricity I love about this place. I don’t actually mind that we’ll be seeing tourists now all through the summer and into September. Anything that occupies my mind is welcome.
‘It’ll be over before you know it,’ Joe consoles her, with a wink at me. I know exactly how much his profits are boosted during the summer months. Joe is Emma’s uncle, so I’ve known him all my life. He’s past sixty now with a mop of unruly hair and a round belly that Emma constantly pokes fun at. I’ve worked for him for eight years and he likes to think of himself as my surrogate father. He has taken to popping by my cottage to ‘fix things’ – and check up on me. It’s almost impossible for me to stay upset with him about the article; I just need to put it behind me and hope that he and Emma are right that it will mean a sell-out of my stall. And keep quiet about the main reason I can’t be mad at him: I’m worried the journalist will be proved right – that these will be the last paintings I ever sell.
‘Right, we better get to work then,’ Emma says, linking her arm through mine as we go out to the back to put on our Joe’s Bar aprons. Her heels clip-clop against the wooden floor, her chestnut, shoulder-length curls bouncing as she walks.
The bar is pretty small but we have a few booths at the back and a terrace with outside tables, although it’s too cold tonight for them to be occupied by non-smokers. The décor is rich dark wood and creams, from when Emma and I spruced the place up when we started working here as eighteen-year-olds. Joe’s only acknowledgement that the summer brings tourists, mostly young ones, is to play music in the bar. And usually it’s the Beatles at a very low volume, but he thinks it makes the place seem hipper. He doesn’t need to worry, though, as apart from the Inn, which is more expensive, and the fish restaurant on the beach, it’s the only place serving alcohol in town, so we’re pretty much guaranteed customers.
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