Reader
Turn the Page for an Exclusive Extract From Summer at 23 The Strand…
The Next Book From Linda Mitchelmore, The Little B & B at Cove End, Is Coming in Summer 2019!
For my son, James. And for my daughter, Sarah, and my grandchildren, Alexander and Emily Rose.
With my love always, and forever.
Lissy
Alicia – Lissy to her friends – was the first to arrive. Strand House, the far end property in a small cul-de-sac, stood majestically on the headland, large and imposing with its startlingly white walls and flat roof, very Art Deco, and, Lissy had always thought, more suited to the South of France, or maybe Miami, than a quiet Devon coastal town. The early morning, low winter sun was glinting off the huge windows, and the mimosa she remembered helping her late godmother, Veronica, to plant was just coming into bud. It never failed to surprise Lissy that mimosa flowered so early in the year, often when there was frost around, although frost rarely tinged the gardens of Strand House, situated as it was, quite literally, a stone’s thrown from the sea and warmer air. The first sight of Strand House always took her breath away, even though she’d known the house since childhood. And now that Veronica had left it to her, it was hers. A large, square, black-and-white tiled hallway led up to six bedrooms, all with en suites. The sitting room ran the full depth of the house and the dining room could seat twelve with ease. The kitchen was so large and well-appointed it would do any high-end hotel proud.
And later, three of her friends – Xander, Bobbie, and Janey – all single and alone at Christmas, and brought together by her so they would be less alone, less lonely, would be arriving at Strand House.
Xander – now sadly a widower – she’d first met fourteen years ago when he’d married Lissy’s childhood friend, Claire. God, how she missed Claire. They’d been friends since they’d met when Lissy came down to stop with her godmother; Claire’s family lived just a few doors along from Strand House and geography had made them instant playmates. All through college and university they’d kept in touch, meeting up when they could. Lissy remembered how excited Claire was to have met Xander, how her voice had buzzed with the romance of it all when she rang Lissy to tell her that he’d asked her to marry him. ‘You won’t believe this, Liss, but he’s lived just a mile away from my house all these years and I’ve not met him until now! You and me, we’ve probably been in the same café as him, or the same pub, or on the same beach as Xander at some stage. If that’s so I don’t know what we were thinking not registering how gorgeous he is! You’ll just love him!’ Claire had said. And Lissy had found that yes, Xander was easy to love, accepting her as his friend because she was Claire’s. He’d never minded that Lissy took Claire away for a long weekend once a year when they did some course or other, some activity that would teach them new things; time when they loved and laughed and had fun, cementing their friendship further. But that friendship had been cut short with Claire’s tragic death. Xander’s phone call telling her Claire had died in a road accident had played on repeat in her head for days afterwards. The shock of it. The tragedy of a wonderful, vibrant, friend’s life cut short. She’d kept in touch with Xander by email and the occasional phone call, but they hadn’t met up since Claire’s funeral; Lissy had let Xander grieve in his own way, as she had grieved in hers. Between then and now, Lissy had had her own life-changing moment and had got divorced.
Thank goodness, she thought, that she had Janey and Bobbie in her life. Neither were life-long friends as Claire had been but there’d been an instant bond between them from the moment they’d walked into the art studio for a life-drawing weekend workshop in Dartington four years before. Now without Claire to share sad news with it was to Janey and Bobbie that she’d turned, emailing them both, and getting an instant response from that they were there for her whenever she needed to talk. Mostly she didn’t because it was Lissy’s way to fight her own battles, but there were times when it had been almost too much to bear because she’d honestly thought she and Cooper were happy – well, she was. ‘The wife is usually the last to know,’ Bobbie had said. ‘And the first to make a better life for herself once she’s over the shock. Mark my words.’ Lissy had flinched at those words at the time, but it was just Bobbie’s forthright way. Janey, bless her, had been less forthright, but no less supportive. She’d painted Lissy a card – an exquisitely executed, busy picture filled with birds and flowers and clouds – and inside she’d written, ‘Birds and flowers and clouds are always around you, take time to look and ‘be’ among them’. And so, every day, Lissy looked at birds and flowers and clouds and just let herself ‘be’ among them, and it helped, more than she ever thought it would when she’d got Janey’s card.
Lissy steered the car into the drive of Strand House. She couldn’t wait to see them all again, even though her mother had poured scorn on the idea.
‘But, darling,’ her mother had said when Lissy had divulged her Christmas plans, ‘why don’t you come to us? Mark was only asking this morning if you would be.’
‘No ferries?’ Lissy had replied, the hint of a question in her voice. Perhaps her mother had forgotten the ferry didn’t run at Christmas. She doubted that her stepfather had said any such thing – largely he avoided her whenever they were in the same place.
‘Flights, darling?’ her mother had replied, whippet-fast. Lissy’s mother, Carol, was one who liked to have her own way.
‘Too problematical. I’d have to catch a flight to Paris and then get a train or hire a car.’
‘Goodness, but you’re making it sound as though you don’t want to come. Please do, darling, Christmas is for families.’
Lissy had heard her own deep intake of breath like a pistol shot in her ears because hadn’t her mother fractured their family when she’d left Lissy’s father, Ed, for another man? And hadn’t her father died of a broken heart? Well, ‘heart disease’ was the official term but Lissy had always believed differently.
‘Some people don’t have families. At Christmas or otherwise,’ she’d replied wearily.
‘And these friends, darling,’ her mother had gone on, unwilling to let the subject drop, ‘how well do you know them?’
‘Mum, I am thirty-six years old. I’ve been married and divorced. I am a chartered accountant with my own practice. I took the very brave step of joining a choir with a bunch of people I didn’t know and who could have been axe murderers for all I knew, and I was fine. It would be nice if you could give me the grace to choose my own friends.’
And
