Summer at the Château

Jennifer Bohnet

Description

'A lovely, uplifting, summery read. ' Bestselling author, Lisa Hobman
'A wonderful summer read. It had everything - romance, family, forgiveness and second chances. Highly recommended!' Bestselling author, Alison Sherlock

Every end has a new beginning...

When Pixie Sampson's husband tragically dies, she inherits the beautiful Château Quiltu in Brittany, Northern France.
But unbeknown to her, she also inherits a mysterious lodger, Justine Martin and her 4-year-old son Ferdie.
Heartbroken and with her adventurous Mum, Gwen in tow, they travel to France to put the Château on the market but are soon drawn into a quest to seek the Château's secrets.
Who is Justine? Why is she living at the Château? How did she know her husband?
Over the Summer months, the Château fills with family and laughter and secrets are discovered and old wounds begin to heal.

Escape to the Château with top 10 international bestseller Jennifer Bohnet, for an uplifting story of family, love and second chances.

What readers are saying about Summer at the Château:

'This book was a wonderful story full of likeable characters, grief, forgiveness, family, new beginnings, and second chances.'

'An uplifting and wise tale.'

'Emotional and realistic, a wonderful read.'

'A feel good read, dealing mainly with themes as forgiveness, family and second chances.'

'A very well written book, set in a beautiful and superbly described location.'

'I really do think each one of Jennifer’s books I read becomes my new favourite.'

If you are looking for your next read to give you that escape from reality, lockdown and life with Covid, that I think we all need right now, this is one for you.'

Sujets

• Mashups
• Holidays
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Friendship
• Workplace
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• General
• Family Life
• Romance
• Fiction

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 13 mai 2021
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781838890919
• Langue: English

Extrait

SUMMER AT THE CHÂTEAU



JENNIFER BOHNET
This one is for Bianca with love.
CONTENTS



Prologue


Part I


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11


Part II


Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28


Part III


Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43


Acknowledgments

More from Jennifer Bohnet

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
‘Oh time, thou must untangle this, not I

It is too hard a knot for me t’untie!’
TWELFTH NIGHT. SHAKESPEARE.
PROLOGUE
TEN YEARS AGO



‘Perchance to Dream’
HAMLET. SHAKESPEARE.
A Notaire’s Office in the town of Carhaix Plouger, Brittany, France.
The notaire’s office Pixie Sampson and her husband, Frank, were ushered into was a bright modern space, typical of office complexes the world over. But as she looked around, Pixie realised that, despite the twenty-first century setting, the room was quintessentially old French. Perhaps it was the combination of the subdued cream of the walls and the pale green of the woodwork; the gallery wall of portraits of past partners in antique gilt frames; or maybe the opulent chandelier hanging from the ceiling adding a certain je ne sais quoi . Antique-style chairs were placed in front of the painted French desk with its curved lines and gilded edges, a sleek gold coloured laptop placed exactly in the centre of its surface.
Jean-Yves Ropars, the notaire, solemnly shook their hands as he wished them ‘Bonjour’, first Frank and then Pixie, before indicating for them to sit as he placed the file of papers he’d brought into the room with him on the desk. They both declined the offer of coffee and Jean-Yves opened the file and began to explain exactly what they were signing. Three quarters of an hour later, when Pixie personally was beginning to lose the will to live, having struggled to understand Jean-Yves with his fragmented English and wishing that they had asked for a translator to be present, it came to an end.
‘And now, is the final one,’ Jean-Yves said, pushing the paper across the desk with a flourish and smiling as they both sighed with relief at the same time.
Pixie rubbed her right hand, trying to relieve the ache that had developed from signing and countersigning after Frank so many pieces of legal paper. She’d stopped counting after fifteen.
Jean-Yves gathered up all the papers, placing them in a neat pile before looking at them both, standing up and holding out his hand for them to shake. ‘Felicitations, Monsieur and Madame Sampson, you are now the proud owners of un petit château Français. Bonne chance.’
PART I



‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on.’
THE TEMPEST. SHAKESPEARE
1

Pixie Sampson’s thoughts were all over the place as she lay in bed at nine o’clock on the Wednesday morning after the funeral, trying to summon the energy to get up and face the world.
She’d spent the three weeks since her husband Frank’s death in a kind of stupor, more dead than alive herself. Married for thirty-five years, the shock of Frank’s accident had thrown all the known certainties of her life up in the air, leaving her struggling to accept the inevitable changes his death had brought. Becoming a widow at fifty-nine because of some teenage joy-driver had never featured in her life plan.
Widow . How she disliked that word. But she had no option other than to accept it. To, ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’ as the faded poster pinned to the kitchen wall of her grandparents’ Devonshire home had urged her as she was growing up. She’d learnt that lesson well. So well in fact, her friends called her stoical in the face of a crisis, which made her smile. If they only knew how hard she had to work to keep showing that face to the world. To keep the pretence up.
Her name, Pixie, alone had given her more opportunities than she wanted to learn stoicism in the face of torment. Why her mother had thought it a good idea to christen her daughter with such a childish name was beyond her. Her twin brother had rebelled against his name, Augustus, which he’d shortened to Gus by the time he arrived at secondary school and proceeded to thump any boy who dared to call him anything else. All her mother had ever said when Pixie complained bitterly about her name and ask ‘why’ was, ‘You were so tiny when you were born, you looked like you’d jumped out of one of the illustrations from the Flower Fairy books.’
‘But you could have given me a sensible proper name to fall back on and call me Pixie as a nickname.’
Gwen had just smiled at her. ‘Didn’t want to,’ and had wafted away to her pottery studio in the garden, to make and paint more Devonshire gnomes and pixies that the tourists seemingly couldn’t get enough of.
Pixie sighed. She wished Gus and his family hadn’t re-located to Wales a few years ago, she missed them all so much, especially her godchildren, Charlie and Annabelle. At least her mother still lived reasonably close.
Five years ago, Gwen had finally been persuaded by the twins to move from her isolated house on Dartmoor and live nearer Pixie and Frank. Protesting loudly, she’d finally decided on a cottage down near the coast in the South Hams, situated on the outskirts of a large village with lots of amenities like a doctor, supermarket, bank, cafe, post office, et cetera, all within walking distance.
It had taken just six months for Gwen to become a part of the community: she’d joined the WI, was welcomed into the church choir, went OldTyme Dancing once a week and had even started to paint again. She told people that moving to the village was one of the best decisions she’d ever made, never mentioning how anti the move she’d been when Pixie and Gus had first suggested it.
Eighty-four next birthday, she was still as irrepressible and independent as ever, but Pixie had sensed her mother was beginning to struggle with certain things. Not that Gwen would ever admit it. Maybe the time was coming when another move was needed? Not to a home, Gwen had made the twins promise years ago that they would never put her ‘out to pasture’ as she put it. With her brother and his wife living with their family too far away in Carmarthenshire, Pixie knew helping Gwen would be her responsibility, which, loving her mother as she did, was something she willingly accepted. Would daily visits be enough or should she invite Gwen to live with her now that she was a widow?
Maybe she should downsize – another word Pixie hated – and buy something suitable for her and Gwen to live in together. A bungalow perhaps? The thought flashed through her mind, while she’d happily take on the role of carer for her mum, who would do the same for her? The longed for family she and Frank had planned for had never happened. Life had thrown the curveball of infertility in her direction and after years of tests and treatment both she and Frank had given up on their dream of having a family, accepted the fact that it would never happen and got on with life and growing older together. Frank had seemed more accepting of things than Pixie, who, whilst never admitting it to anyone, never quite got over her inability to do the one thing a woman was supposedly on earth to do, produce babies.
For over thirty years, though, they’d been happy together. It was only recently, in the last year, that Pixie had begun to feel that everything had slipped into becoming a habit. They never seemed to talk any more. She’d tried to console herself with the thought that this was what happened to people in long, successful marriages. Frank still loved her and was as attentive as always, but there was a sort of hesitation in the air sometimes in the way he regarded her, as if he wanted to say something before changing his mind. She didn’t think for one moment he was having an affair, he was incapable of hurting her like that, but there was definitely something on his mind. When, some weeks ago, Frank suggested a ‘city break’ weekend away in Bath, Pixie had happily agreed, promising herself she’d do her best to get Frank to talk to her properly, like they always had. Then, the accident that changed everything happened, a week before the booked break.
Pixie didn’t think the memory of the events of that Friday, the first week in March, would ever leave her. She’d spent the day in her study doing the final read through and tweaking of her next book before pressing the button to send it to her editor. It was early evening when she stood up, stretching her arms above her head and giving a sigh of relief. It was done. Hopefully her editor would like – no, love it, and the edits when they arrived in a couple of weeks wouldn’t be too harsh. In the meantime, she’d enjoy some downtime, especially the coming weekend in Bath. To think, this time next week they would be on their way there. Frank had reserved a room at one of their favourite hotels, booked tickets for the theatre and was talking about dinner afterwards at one of the five-star restaurants the city boasted.
As she’d turned to leave the study, her mobile rang. Frank.
‘I’m sorry, but I’ll be later than I thought getting back this evening. The traffic coming out of Exeter is horrendous and it’s pouring with rain so I’ve stopped in the motorway services and I’m going to have a coffee and something to eat until everything settles down.’
‘Sounds a sensible idea,’ Pixie had said. ‘You take care and drive safely. Love you.’
‘See you soon. Love you too.’ And the connection had died.
Pixie had mooched around for the next