The breathtaking promise of the English countryside can lift even the heaviest spirits . . .
Willow Armstrong, the once-famous “Queen of Weight Loss” and president of Pound Busters, succumbed to stress eating after her divorce. Now the scandal of getting caught on camera binging on pizza, and the internet-wide mocking of her new curves, may destroy her career. Add in a business advisor who drained her finances, and Willow is out of options—until she learns she’s inherited a house in England’s most picturesque locale, The Cotswolds.
Willow’s trip across the pond to sell the property and salvage her company soon becomes its own adventure: the house, once owned by grandparents she never met, needs major work. Plus, single dad Owen Hughes, the estate’s resident groundskeeper and owner of a local tour outfit, isn’t thrilled about the idea of leaving . . .
Yet as Willow proceeds with her plans, she’s sidetracked by surprising discoveries about her family’s history—and with Owen’s help, the area’s distinctive attractions. Soon, she’s even retracing her roots—and testing her endurance—amid the region’s natural beauty. And the more she delves into the past, the more clearly she sees herself, her future, and the way home . . .
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Books by Sharon Struth
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The Sweet Life
Willow’s Way
Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation
Willow’s Way
The Sweet Life
Sharon Struth
LYRICAL PRESS
Kensington Publishing Corp.
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Copyright
Lyrical Press books are published by
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Copyright © 2018 by Sharon Struth
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First Electronic Edition: April 2018
eISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0356-0
eISBN-10: 1-5161-0356-4
First Print Edition: April 2018
ISBN-13: 978-1-5161-0359-1
ISBN-10: 1-5161-0359-9
Printed in the United States of America
Dedication
This is dedicated to my daughter Katherine, whose semester in England gave me a reason to visit and explore the stunning Cotswold countryside.
And…
To my friend across the pond, Rachel Brimble, for all your advice about being British and helping critique this book.
Acknowledgments
I’d like to thank the readers of my books, who often tell me they get lost in the worlds I create and wish they’d never end. Knowing others join me on this journey is the icing on the cake of each book I write.
Thanks also to Paige Christian, editor extraordinaire, my agent Dawn Dowdle, and the staff at Kensington Publishing, a place that feels like family.
To my husband and daughters—you guys are everything.
Inspiration comes from many places, so I’d like to pass along a special thanks to my neighbor Jillian A. Her love for my dog Milo—a quirky, lovable, and always happy PBGV—helped inspire both Henry and Jilly in this book.
Special thanks to all my writer friends, because without you who would I talk to about writing? And especially Terri, who wastes no time when I message her with a grammar question and is always there to support me in a crisis.
To my wonderfully supportive mother, thank you for giving out so many of my business cards.
A special nod to Beverly, because you rock!! I’m so glad we’re friends.
Last, to my friends, your support is immeasurable. I love you guys!
Chapter 1
Willow Armstrong could hardly breathe as she stared at the video playing on her laptop. Stupid. She’d been so stupid. Once again, she’d let urges rule her choices, and this time, she’d been exposed.
Willow squinted at the blurred image. Maybe that wasn’t even her. Heck, she’d seen clearer pictures of Sasquatch. “Are you sure that’s me, Becky? I mean, lots of people in Manhattan could own a black Lexus.”
Her assistant remained silent on the other end of the phone for a little too long then said, “Give it a sec. Keep your eyes on the rearview mirror.”
The camera zoomed on the inside of the car and the front mirror came into focus. Willow paused the tape and leaned on the marble kitchen counter to get a closer look. A shiny object hung off the car’s rearview mirror. Was that…?
Nooooo!
Dread wormed through her, twisting and turning like a knife in her gut. The silver folded-fork symbol associated with Willow’s weight-loss empire, Pound Busters, dangled off the mirror.
She groaned. “I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry. I figured you’d want to know.”
“You made the right call.”
“Now I’m not sure. Why don’t you shut it off?” Becky couldn’t hide her worried tone.
Willow’s heart warmed for her concerned assistant, who had given Willow ten dedicated years of service. Loyal right to the end. And this could be the end.
On the screen, the arrow hovered over the play button. Terrified to see what the rest of the world would, she froze, her hand stilled on the computer mouse.
Thirty minutes and four thousand “likes” ago, Celebrity Secrets had posted the video to their Facebook page. Dear God! Over seven hundred comments she didn’t dare read, and some three hundred shares, all over a slip into Tony’s Slice of Heaven. The mouthwatering goodness of the slice barreled toward her with a vengeance. Just a few moments of cheesy bliss. Was it too much to ask for?
“You there, Willow?”
“Yes.” She drew in a breath that somehow boosted her courage. “I really should watch this.”
She hit the play button. The camera moved and refocused, closing in on the shadowy figure in the driver’s seat until the picture became perfectly clear.
A blond woman, whose hoodie barely hid her face, ate—no, more like shoved—a hot slice of Tony’s extra-cheese thin crust into her mouth. Willow could still taste their trademark sweet sauce laced with fresh basil, the stretchy, melted mozzarella, the crust toasted to perfection in a brick oven. She salivated. So damn tasty.
The show paused right at a second messy bite and the camera panned back to their main studio, leaving the screen view of Willow pinned, mi
d-bite, in the upper corner. Show host Lindsay Star stood on the set, her body turned to the video of Willow. Her thigh-high, sleeveless, sequined dress seemed more suitable for clubbing. Suddenly, the pretty brunette swung to face the camera, her sly smile suggesting she’d just heard the century’s juiciest piece of gossip.
Willow turned up the volume, prepared to face the jury of one.
“Once again we find Pound Busters founder and CEO Willow Armstrong in the spotlight. Just over two years ago, her then-husband, Lieutenant Governor of New York Richard Carter, announced he planned to leave Ms. Armstrong for his campaign manager.
“Viewers might remember Pound Busters made news earlier this week when Ms. Armstrong’s long-trusted business advisor, Tom Comstock, embezzled both her company and personal funds, leaving the country without a trace. Word on the street is the Pound Busters’ board isn’t too happy with their founder, as it was at her urging that they kept Mr. Comstock rather than firing him six months ago. And Ms. Armstrong’s significant weight gain since her divorce has caused Pound Busters shareholders to blame her for lower profits and dropping stock prices.
“It makes this reporter wonder if this is the end of the line for the woman known as the queen of weight loss. Earlier today, I interviewed Nikki Winslow, President of Pound Busters’ Board of Directors. After seeing our clip of the firm’s CEO during her visit to Tony’s Slice of Heaven, here’s what Ms. Winslow had to say…”
The video of Willow vanished, replaced by a taped interview of Nikki with the brunette reporter. Outside her Upper East Side co-op building, Nikki stared at the camera, her thin face always angry and holding the dire expression of a woman who wished she’d eaten more for lunch. Wrapped in a beige Burberry trench coat, the Manhattan sophisticate clutched a Gucci shoulder bag while the doorman held an umbrella over her head. She pursed her thin lips, causing the cosmetic-tight-skin around them to twist unnaturally.
Willow’s heart raced. The board had exhibited tolerance with her assurances that she’d been trying to lose the weight gained after Richard’s public humiliation. After all, how many marriages ended that way? Hell would have to ice over before she’d forgive him for not telling her privately first. She’d owned her role in the gain, even though by many people’s standards Willow’s weight would be considered average. She ran a hand along the dip in her waist, full in an area where no curve had existed for decades. In the world of selling weight-loss services, going from a size six to a size ten—sometimes a twelve—was sacrilege.
“I’m dismayed to see this tape.” Nikki shook her head. “Ms. Armstrong has lost sight of the company’s vision. Pound Busters has seen a steady decline in her commitment to our goals. Because of her belief in Tom Comstock, we kept him on. A huge mistake. And now this latest episode proves she’s been lying to us about a desire to return to her previous weight. We will be having a meeting soon about the direction and management of the company. A direction that may or may not include Ms. Armstrong.”
Bile clogged Willow’s throat. Fired. Tossed out on her butt from the company she’d started some twenty years ago. Her blood, sweat, and vision had gotten this firm off the ground when others merely laughed at her idea. If she knew one thing, it was how it felt to be fat and get skinny. Then get fat again, and lose it. Rinse, lather, and repeat. The sad story of her life.
Only after college had she figured out how to lose the weight and keep it off. A strict food regime and military workout routine. One often balked at by the experts.
But both celebrities and the public loved it.
One Pound Busters location led to ten, then to a hundred. The firm grew in leaps and bounds, finally so enormous she’d taken the company public. A move that seemed smart at the time, but now a board of nine people controlled Willow’s destiny.
Becky quietly asked, “You okay, Willow?”
No. She wasn’t. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for the heads-up. I need to think about what I’m going to do. See you tomorrow.”
She hung up and headed to the refrigerator, automatically reaching for the handle. She jerked her hand back as if she’d touched a hot metal rod.
Come on, Willow! Fix, don’t feast. Commandment Four of Pound Busters’ Five Commandments of Weight Loss.
She plunked down on a stool at the kitchen island, reaching for an apple from the basket then tossing it back in without taking a bite. Drawing in a deep breath, she closed her eyes. The depth of her current problems coiled around her like a cobra, getting tighter, tighter, tighter, until it sapped her energy.
Weight gain sat at the center of her work problems. Much as she wanted to stand up and scream at those who criticized her gain, how could she?
Every day of her forty years, she’d been aware of her weight. A chubby early childhood. Those plump adolescent days, turning into plus-sized teenage and college years. Every single moment living in the shadow of a mother who’d once modeled, worsened by a stepfather who’d pounded in her head that she’d better be smart, because with her weight, only her brain would get her places.
Getting thin at the end of college had given her the acceptance she always wanted. Deep inside of her, though, lurked the same person. The one who let dark demons in the pantry lure her to comfort. But who was she, without food in the equation? She’d asked that question too many times lately, making it hard to fight off the people who now fat-shamed her.
She stood and walked to her apartment window, searching the twinkling lights of the cityscape for answers. In the past, if she gained a few pounds, she’d sneak off to the spa upstate nestled in the Catskills. Maybe it made her a fake, but she couldn’t afford to fail. This time, she faced a bigger loss obstacle. Five pounds had turned to ten. Ten to twenty. Twenty to thirty.
Her problems beat her silly, pummeling away at the idea she could salvage this. What had she done to herself? She rubbed her throbbing temples.
Stupid. Stupid me! All because of stupid Richard and his affair.
She dug into the Pound Busters Commandments, reviving number two: Believe, don’t blame.
Inside her head she repeated, I believe I can lose this weight three times until her frustration slowly lifted.
If she could just get to Golden Bridge Spa, she could fix this. A month in secret seclusion, eating only what their dieticians provided while this video blew over. When she came out, she could reappear closer to her old self, even laugh at her lapse of judgment. Except she needed money for that secret seclusion. As Nikki so rightly pointed out, Tom had run off with both Willow’s and the firm’s money, leaving her without a dime. She could borrow it from her stepfather? No. No borrowing, from anyone.
There had to be money she could use. Somewhere.
Then it hit her.
She raced to the bedroom closet. Tossing shoe boxes and boots out of the way, she dug deep into the back for the cardboard box she’d shoved away a while ago and ignored since. Heart thumping, she set it onto her bed but hesitated to open it. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she opened the flaps and pushed past the personal items, a mishmosh of things she had no other place to store. A large manila envelope made her pause. Her mother’s things.
Her stepfather’s maid had delivered the envelope a week after the horrible car accident that ended her mother’s life. Maria had handed it over, simply saying, “These were in your mother’s closet. Your stepdad said you should have them.”
That night, Willow opened it, surprised to find it filled with photographs. She’d removed a handful of the aged photos, tried to figure out who these strangers were to her mother. But with her gone, Willow would never be able to ask, or get answers to her questions. In her sadness, she’d shoved the photos back inside and figured one day she’d try to learn more. But life took over and she’d forgotten they were here.
Willow exhaled and returned to her task, looking past the large envelope as she rummaged for the bank passbook, of course, finding it at
the bottom.
After opening the small booklet, a relic of banking’s past, she blew out a relieved sigh at the eight-thousand-dollar balance. Plus interest. At least she had money. She’d call the bank in the morning. Placing the passbook on the nightstand, she thanked her lucky stars she hadn’t closed out the account when she got married or shared this account with her former business advisor.
As she folded the box top to put it away, her mother’s envelope beckoned. She removed it and tipped it, allowing the photographs to spill out. An envelope and a small black velvet jewelry case fell out, too.
She picked up the jewelry case. Mom’s twenty-third birthday. The cook had made a breakfast tray and Willow ran ahead of her stepfather into the bedroom with this case, wrapped in shiny paper. Her stepfather had personally helped her purchase the gift at a swanky jeweler on Fifth Avenue, a big moment for five-year-old Willow, who’d lived rather modestly with her mother until she’d married Charlie. Willow could still remember Mom’s beautiful smile as she’d removed the rosebud necklace and put it on.
The fond memory faded. Willow lifted the hinged lid. She ran a finger over the silver granulated pendant, across the bumps of the tiny rosebud surrounded by three leaves. The dark oxidized finish highlighted the flower’s grooves, a gift Willow had been certain her mother would love. Rose was Willow’s middle name.
With years of sadness starting to unravel, Willow slipped the silver chain over her neck. A thickness filled her throat. Avoiding these special things had allowed her to cope with the loss.
She gathered photos left scattered on the mattress. On top was one of her mother as a young woman holding hands with a man around the same age. Willow gave him a closer look, noting a familiarity in the man’s face. Mom only shared the occasional story about her life in England before moving to the States. Could these people have been from that life? Were they relatives Willow never knew about?
She put down the photos and took the long, thick envelope. The postmark date was a year before her mother died, the contents from a lawyer in Bath, England.
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