Coming Home to Seashell Cottage

by Jessica Redland

  She moves aside and Ben steps into the spotlight. ‘Hi, everyone. For anyone who doesn’t know me, I’m Ben, Kay’s nephew. I won’t take up much of your drinking time but I have an exciting announcement that I want to share with you. As many of you know, I work for a charity that helps find and support missing persons, particularly children. It’s based in Leeds and I helped set up a new branch in Birmingham at the start of this year. I’ve been trying for months to convince them to let me set up a branch in Whitsborough Bay. There’ve been all sorts of funding problems, and it looked like it might never happen, but at the start of December I got an early Christmas gift when they confirmed the go-ahead. From February, I’ll be heading up a new branch right here in The Bay and living here permanently.’ Ben pauses for more cheering and I’m aware that I’m grinning from ear to ear. That is the best news ever. We really didn’t think it was going to happen. Being able to curl up beside Ben every night will be such a dream come true.

  Ben holds his hands up to calm the audience. ‘There’s something I’ve wanted to do for a while, but I didn’t think it was fair while I was back and forth between here and Leeds. Now that I’m moving here permanently, I think it’s time. Clare? Can you join me for a moment?’

  Oh. My. God! My legs are shaking so much, I don’t know how I manage to put one foot in front of the other. I step onto the stage and smooth down my dress. Ben is kneeling and he’s holding the king between his fingers. My heart is beating so fast, I feel quite light-headed, although that could be the Champagne.

  ‘In March, you presented me with this and asked if I would be king of all your moments. I hope I’ve lived up to your expectation of what being your king would mean.’

  I nod, tears swimming in my eyes.

  He reaches into the pocket of his tuxedo jacket. I laugh as he pulls out a white king. ‘You will make me the happiest man alive if you agree to be the king of all my moments too. And, because you can’t exactly wear this, I’ve got you one of these as well.’

  A gasp goes around the audience as he delves into his pocket and holds out a ring. ‘Will you marry me, Clare?’

  I reach out my left hand towards him, tears streaming down my cheeks. He looks into my eyes, then slips the solitaire diamond onto my finger. ‘Yes,’ I whisper. ‘Yes!’

  Ben stands up and kisses me gently, as the audience erupts.

  I used to hate New Year’s Eve. Not anymore. And I used to dream about Daran all the time but, for the past ten months, all I’ve done is dream about this day with Ben and us properly setting up home in Seashell Cottage.

  At Sarah’s wedding just over a year ago, Elise suggested I wasn’t as cynical about weddings as I liked to make out and that I simply hadn’t met the right person yet. She was right about the cynicism – it had just been an act to protect myself. As for the right person, I’d already met him. I’d met him when I was fourteen. It had been real, it had been passionate, it had been amazing and, if things had been different, it probably would have lasted until the end of forever. But, as Daran’s sister Aoife had said: Sometimes the past is called the past because it’s passed. The time for Daran and me to be together had definitely passed and it was time for us both to build a new life.

  After losing Daran and my daughter, I’d built a protective bubble around myself. I hadn’t let my friends in, I’d denied my family, and I certainly hadn’t let love in. My mission in life had been success in my career and I couldn’t imagine anything – or anyone – being more important than that. How wrong I was! I’d discovered the value of friends, I’d found the importance of family and I’d realised that a career gave the financial means to live, but it wasn’t what life was all about. I can honestly say that I’ve never felt as happy and fulfilled as I have since running my own business, based locally, and not working every hour that God sends.

  But, more than that, I’d let love in. I hadn’t looked for it, yet it had unexpectedly found me, and I was so glad that it had. I’d found my king of every single moment and I knew that, for Ben and me, it really was going to last until the end of forever.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you so very much for reading the fourth and final part of my ‘Welcome to Whitsborough Bay’ series – Coming Home to Seashell Cottage.

  This book was originally released under the title: Dreaming About Daran. It has been re-vamped and re-packaged with a new title and new cover as part of an amazing publishing deal through Boldwood Books so my first enormous thank you goes to everyone at Boldwood for believing in me, for taking on the series, and for all your invaluable work in giving it a fresh lease of life. I’m so very grateful to my fabulous editor, Nia, for your guidance and suggestions, and to Dushi and Sue for your exceptional copy-editing and proofreading skills.

  All my books are uplifting stories of love and friendship. The first book I wrote started off purely as a romance story but, as the story developed, the theme of friendship and how it changes over time and circumstances soon became just as important to me. Friendships fascinate me. How is it that some friends stick around, no matter what different paths their lives take, yet others move on like a changing season?

  Susan, to whom I’ve dedicated this book, is the friend I’ve known the longest. We can’t remember exactly when we met. Maybe age 8-10? We lived in different parts of town, went to different primary schools, were only in one GCSE class together at senior school, attended different colleges, and went to different universities, finally settling in completely different parts of the country. Yet we stayed in touch for all that time which, in the days before social media, included writing long, descriptive letters to each other while at university. Oh, the excitement of going to the pigeonholes and finding a letter had arrived from my best friend!

  Susan has been there for me during dodgy haircuts, questionable fashion choices, and boyfriend disasters. We’ve drunk far too much cider together before going out clubbing, stunk out every shop in Middlesbrough after drenching ourselves in Body Shop Vanilla, Dewberry or White Musk perfume, and spent sleepless nights on Ranger Camp when our supposedly heat-reflective ‘moonbags’ turned out to be the coldest, flimsiest sleeping bags in the history of the world ever. Good times! She’s read all of my books, even though romance isn’t the genre she’d normally choose, which I find really touching. She even beta-read the original version of this book for me and provided some really valuable feedback, so it’s definitely fitting that I dedicate this book to her and thank her for her support both now and over the past thirty-eight years or so!

  I’d like to thank my cousin, Lisa. (Actually, she’s my cousin’s daughter so I believe that makes her my first cousin once removed, but that sounds ridiculous so let’s stick with cousin!) Anyway, Lisa is a nurse and she’s given invaluable guidance on everything from how a nurse would introduce themselves to a patient, to medical terminology, to how quickly a patient would be encouraged to walk after an accident. Google is a good friend to a writer, but there’s nothing to beat real life knowledge. If there are any mistakes in any of the medical aspects of this book, I can guarantee it’s me being a muppet and misinterpreting what Lisa told me rather than her inaccuracies! Thanks, Lisa. Hope there’s another family get-together again soon so we can drink wine and have a giggle about sleepy bees! ;-)

  As always, thank you to my wonderful beta-reader team – Joyce (my mum), Clare, Liz, Sharon, Jo and, as already mentioned, Susan – for taking the time to read the original version of this book and for giving me honest and helpful feedback to help make him even better. Sorry I kept you up till the early hours reading again, Clare, although that’s such a massive compliment that you couldn’t put the book down. Every writer dreams of hearing those words!

  Thanks go to my husband and daughter for not moaning about the hours I’ve spent with my fictional friends instead of them, my writing family ‘The Write Romantics’ for being there through the highs and lows of writing and life in general and to the fabulously talented writer and great friend, Sharon Booth, for a
lways being there.

  My final thanks go to everyone who has bought/borrowed/read/reviewed any of my books, promoted my writing, and/or attended the various library talks I’ve delivered across North Yorkshire. Your support and encouragement is amazing. I hope you enjoy the final chapter of the series and that you’re ready to meet a new cast of characters in the next book. Although, never fear, this isn’t the last we see of some of the characters you’ve met already. I love them too much to say a proper goodbye so watch out for the occasional cameo appearance.

  Big hugs

  Jessica xx

  More from Jessica Redland

  We hope you enjoyed reading Coming Home to Seashell Cottage. If you did, please leave a review.

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  If you’d like to gift a copy, this book is also available as a paperback, digital audio download and audiobook CD.

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  You can buy The Secret To Happiness, another wonderful novel set in Whitsborough Bay, by clicking on the image below. Or read on for an exclusive extract…

  Chapter 1

  Alison

  * * *

  It had to be time to get up for work. Surely. Alison stretched her arm out from under the duvet and retrieved her mobile from the bedside drawers. The bedroom briefly illuminated as she checked the time. 5.38 a.m. Not time for work, then.

  She turned her head towards the window. It had been raining for three hours and forty-seven minutes now. Starting with a torrential downpour at 1.51 a.m., it had now settled into a slow but steady rhythm. And she’d been wide awake for every single drop.

  Beside her, Dave was in a deep untroubled sleep, punctuated by the occasional grunt or snore.

  She slowly turned over to face him, but he had his back to her as usual. He muttered something when she gave him a gentle nudge, but didn’t wake up. She was about to give him a harder shove but stopped herself. What was the point? He’d only tell her to go back to sleep. Sleep? If only she could. And he’d tell her that getting upset about it wasn’t going to change anything. No, it wasn’t. But a hug and comforting words might help her find the strength to face the hardest day of the year.

  Peeling back the duvet, Alison pulled on her fluffy dressing gown and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

  The familiar feeling of despair enveloped her as the fluorescent tubing flickered then burst into life revealing the concrete flooring, bare plaster, and dilapidated dark wood units. Oh, the joys of living with a builder: a house full of unfinished projects because Dave couldn’t bear to spend his evenings and weekends doing what he did all day. Of course, paying someone else to do it was completely out of the question. She’d stupidly suggested that once. Never again.

  The dining room had been out of action for four years because it was packed out with boxes containing the new kitchen. It wasn’t good to moan about that either. Besides, they had no social life, so who would they invite round for a meal even if it was in use?

  He’d promised this would be the year for sorting it, though, and had even booked a week off work next month to finally fit the kitchen. She wouldn’t hold her breath.

  *

  Alison placed a giant mug of milky, sugary tea on the coffee table in the lounge and took a few deep breaths. It was time.

  Crouching down, she opened the cupboard on her grandma’s old dresser. There it was, nestled under Trivial Pursuit, a guidebook for Corfu, and a pack of playing cards. She lightly ran her fingers down the navy spine of the large photo album, goosebumps pricking her arms, then carefully removed it.

  Curling up on the large tub chair with the unopened album resting on her legs, Alison closed her eyes and breathed in and out slowly, trying to steady her racing heart. Fifteen years. Had it really been that long?

  As she slowly turned page after page, photos first, then newspaper clippings, the rain continued its patter against the front of the house and Alison’s tears kept in time with the slow and steady rhythm of the drops.

  *

  Alison was in the kitchen eating breakfast when she heard Dave thunder down the stairs. She glanced at her watch, tensing. He was running late as usual, which would somehow be her fault.

  ‘Where’ve you put my phone?’ he demanded as he strode down the hall, sounding more like an army sergeant than a loving boyfriend. A hefty six-foot-three rugby player, he dominated the kitchen doorway, blocking out the natural light from the glass either side of the front door.

  ‘I think you might have plugged it in to charge in the lounge,’ she said softly, knowing full well that he had.

  When Dave returned to the kitchen, phone in hand, she looked up at him expectantly, but he didn’t even glance at her. She willed him to look at her, to hug her, to tell her he was there for her. He’d forgotten last year but surely he wouldn’t do that again.

  ‘What were you doing up so early?’ he asked, his voice still gruff.

  Alison felt herself deflate. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she muttered. ‘Too much in my head.’

  He yanked open the fridge. ‘Where’s my butties?’

  Alison’s shoulders drooped even further. ‘In the blue container.’ She picked up her second warm croissant and slathered it with butter, blinking back the tears. He’d forgotten it again; he was more concerned with his sandwiches than her, as usual.

  Pushing a stray dark curl behind her ear, Alison took another deep breath. She’d have to prompt him. Last year, she hadn’t said anything until the following day and he’d had a go at her for not reminding him on the day. She wouldn’t make that mistake again.

  ‘So, it’s the 11th of May today.’

  He closed the fridge door and stared at her. ‘And…?’

  ‘And… well… it’s… you know…’

  ‘Ali! I’m late. Spit it out or shut up.’

  His eyes bored into her and she felt that momentary burst of confidence ebbing away. ‘Never mind. It’s nothing.’

  Dave dropped his packed lunch into his toolbox. ‘Where’s the bananas?’

  Damn! She knew she’d forgotten something. ‘Still on the shop shelves? Sorry. There’s pears.’

  ‘Bloody hell, Ali,’ he snapped. ‘When have I ever liked pears?’

  She continued eating while he wittered about pears being the devil’s fruit. Why did he have to make such a fuss about little things like that? Especially today.

  Watching him choose a pear from the bowl – with such a disgusted look on his face it could just as easily have been a decaying mouse – Alison shook her head and bit into her croissant again, closing her eyes as the melted butter oozed onto her tongue. Heaven in pastry format.

  ‘Jesus Christ, Ali!’

  She snapped open her eyes, startled to find him right next to her.

  ‘No wonder.’ He shook his head. ‘No bloody wonder.’

  She flinched as he grabbed his toolbox and stormed out of the kitchen.

  As the front door slammed, she ripped off a piece of croissant and crushed it between her thumb and forefinger, a mixture of guilt and frustration flowing through her. She hadn’t needed to ask him what he meant. She could fill in the rest of the sentence for him. No wonder you’re so fat. No wonder you keep ordering bigger uniforms. No wonder the stairs leave you breathless. No wonder we never have sex. She surveyed the plateful of pastries, the full-fat butter, the luxury jam, her third giant mug of milky, sugary tea. All for one person. Yes. No wonder.

  She had a good excuse for the feast that morning, though, not that Dave had acknowledged it.

  As she cleared the table, tears welled in her eyes once more. How could he have forgotten again? Maybe he’d remember that evening. Maybe he’d come home with flowers and a hug. Alison wiped the table with such a furious swipe that crumbs scattered across the concrete. Sod it! They could stay there.

  *

  ‘Morning, Ali! Morning, Chelsea!’

  Aliso
n couldn’t see her, but she knew that Sarah the florist was hidden behind the enormous floral arrangement travelling past the reception desk of Whitsborough Bay’s only five-star establishment, The Ramparts Hotel.

  ‘Morning, Sarah!’ they both called.

  Alison inhaled the fresh, heady scent. ‘Ooh, they’re gorgeous.’

  ‘They weigh a ton.’ Sarah placed the vivid orange, purple and cream arrangement on the end of the granite desk then rolled her head and shoulders. ‘I swear I get a better workout from my contract here than I would from any gym membership.’

  ‘I’ve never set foot in one and wouldn’t want to,’ Alison said. ‘How I maintain this sylph-like figure is a complete mystery.’ She ran her hands down her curves and shimmied, making Sarah and Chelsea laugh.

  Watching Sarah reposition a couple of violet Calla Lilies, Alison sighed. ‘I love flowers. Shame the only place I get to enjoy them is at work.’

  Sarah looked up. ‘Dave doesn’t buy you flowers?’

  ‘Not even supermarket ones.’

  ‘Not even today for the anniversary?’ Chelsea asked.