Snowflakes Over Bay Tree Terrace

Fay Keenan

Description

As the snowflakes fall, new love blossoms...

When teacher Florence Ashton receives a surprise inheritance, she decides to make the life-changing decision to up sticks to the charming town of Willowbury in Somerset. With a new house and a new job, she’s too busy putting down roots to think about love.

Air Ambulance pilot Sam Ellis is definitely not looking for romance either, especially not on his doorstep. When Florence, his new neighbour, complains about his noisy housemate, he feels more cross than star-crossed.

But as the nights draw in and both find themselves thrown together in Willowbury’s seasonal drama production, will they overcome their differences and allow a little bit of winter magic to fall along with the snow? And what secrets will be revealed by the box of memories Florence finds in the attic at Bay Tree Terrace?

Let Fay Keenan transport you to the perfect country winter wonderland, with roaring fires, spectacular scenery, and unforgettable characters. Perfect for all fans of Cathy Bramley, Fern Britton and Katie Fforde.

What authors and readers say about Fay Keenan’s novels:

'Fay Keenan's books are filled with warmth and humour. They are the perfect escape to beautiful countryside settings' Jessica Redland

'A gorgeous rural romance full of warmth and charm.' Victoria Connelly

‘Guaranteed to put a spring in your step. Feel-good, frisky and great fun with a hearty dash of romance and intrigue.' Julie Houston

'Moving, funny, thoughtful and romantic. Bring on the next one!' Jenny Kane

'This is a lovely and heart-warming story, that has a serious side hidden within the romance.' Amazon reviewer

'It was a wonderful book, guaranteed to put a smile on your face.' Amazon reviewer

‘I was so engrossed in the storyline, which is thoroughly heart-warming, that I read the entire book without stopping. I always enjoy Keenan’s books and am looking forward to the next one!’ Amazon reviewer{::}**

What readers are saying about Snowflakes Over Bay Tree Terrace:

’This has been an absolutely gorgeous and perfect read.’

’A beautiful Christmassy romance with lovely characters and an easy to follow but well written plot loved it’

’I really enjoyed this Christmas read even though it is July, it makes you wish that Christmas was just around the corner’

'An entertaining and well written romance. Great plot and fun characters.'

’A great way to while away an afternoon’

’A perfect book for reading with a warming hot chocolate.’

Sujets

• Romance
• Romance contemporaine
• Mashups
• Emergency Medical Services
• Allied Health Services
• Firefighters
• Holidays
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Men
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Workplace
• Romantic Comedy
• Types of rural communities
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• City Life
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Topic
• Family Life

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 20 août 2020
• Nombre de lectures: 1
• EAN13: 9781838891602
• Langue: English

Extrait

Snowflakes Over Bay Tree Terrace


Fay Keenan
For the key workers, especially those in the emergency services, who, in 2020, have faced so many challenges with grace, kindness and professionalism. Thank you.
Contents



Prologue

Nine Months Later


Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

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

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

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Epilogue


Author’s Note And Acknowledgements

More from Fay Keenan

About the Author

Air Ambulance Charities

About Boldwood Books
Prologue
A Christmas Surprise

‘…And to my great-niece Florence, I leave Number 2, Bay Tree Terrace. I know how much she loved visiting as a child, and it seems only right that, in the absence of a daughter or granddaughter of my own, the house passes to her to do with as she wishes.’
John Hampshire, of the firm Hampshire, Thomas and Robinson, of Willowbury, Somerset, glanced up at her and smiled. ‘Well,’ he said as he caught sight of his client’s aghast face. ‘That’s rather a lovely Christmas present, if I do say so myself.’
Florence Ashton was glad she wasn’t holding the cup of coffee she’d been given when she arrived, otherwise it would have ended up in her lap. When she’d been summoned to the solicitor’s office, she assumed it would be to sign some papers or some such other mundane business. Great-Aunt Elsie’s funeral had been a while ago, and the executor of the estate had been a friend of Elsie’s that the family didn’t know, so there’d been no contact up until the phone call she’d had at the end of last week from the solicitor’s office. It turned out she was walking out of there the owner of a pretty, red-bricked terraced house in Somerset.
‘Mince pie?’ Mr Hampshire passed the plate that his PA had brought in with the coffee in Florence’s direction. Gratefully, she took one, shocked at how much her hands were shaking.
‘Thanks.’ She bit into the one she’d chosen, the warm, spiced and orange-infused filling reminding her of the Christmases she’d spent at Bay Tree Terrace with Aunt Elsie and her mother while her father had been on one of his many tours of duty with the army.
‘So how long are you staying in Willowbury?’
Florence swallowed her mouthful of mince pie and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Well, given what you’ve just told me, it would seem I might be moving here.’ She laughed. ‘Sorry. It’s just a bit of a shock.’
‘I understand,’ Mr Hampshire replied. ‘These out-of-the-blue things can take a bit of getting used to. Of course, you don’t have to drop everything and move into the house. There’s no condition about that. You could just instruct an estate agent to sell it. I know of a good one in Willowbury who’d be more than happy to handle it for you.’
‘Oh no,’ Florence said hurriedly. ‘I loved spending time here when I was younger. And I’ve been thinking of making a move somewhere else for a while.’ She’d been teaching for nine years in York, which was the longest she’d stayed anywhere, and was just starting to think about change.
‘Well, give it some thought,’ the solicitor smiled. ‘There’s no rush. It’ll take a week or two to tie up the last of the paperwork, and if you’re sure then about keeping the house, sorting out the rest of the estate shouldn’t take too long.’
‘Can I see it?’ Florence asked, taking another sip of her coffee. ‘I haven’t been back to Willowbury in a while.’ She swallowed the sudden lump that had formed in her throat. ‘Towards the end… Aunt Elsie didn’t really want visitors, so Mum popped down for a bit, but she wouldn’t allow anyone else to actually stay with her.’
‘Of course.’ He rummaged in the box file for the door keys. ‘After all, it’s yours now, so really, you can do as you wish.’
‘Thank you.’ Taking the keys, with their surprisingly cheery Highland Terrier key fob, Florence stood up on somewhat shaky legs.
‘My pleasure,’ Mr Hampshire replied. ‘We’ll be in touch to confirm all the details in due course.’
As Florence left the solicitor’s office and wandered out onto the busy Willowbury High Street, she glanced at the sky, which seemed thick with heavy, snowy clouds. Snow was unusual in this part of Somerset, but a small, childish part of her couldn’t help hoping for some of the white stuff this close to Christmas. She smiled as she saw the seasonal decorations in some shop windows, and the pagan and alternative colours and shapes of those who celebrated more ancient rituals. Willowbury was a haven for all kinds of spirituality; the centre of the town might have been the ruins of the old priory, destroyed during Henry VIII’s time but acquired by the National Trust to be preserved in perpetuity, but there were plenty of corners of the town where the ancient religions and customs found their home, too.
Sprigs of holly and fragrant cut pine branches graced nearly every shop doorway, with the odd sneakily placed frond of mistletoe tucked away in a few, as well. In the air was the heady scent of cinnamon from the festive versions of hot drinks in the cafe on the High Street, the invitingly named ‘Cosy Coffee Shop’. Florence decided she’d grab a cinnamon latte from there before heading over to Aunt Elsie’s house – there was a real chill in the air and she wasn’t sure how warm the terraced house would be.
Heading towards the cafe, she passed the brightly lit window of ComIncense, the health and well-being shop that specialised in herbal remedies and relaxation products. Even in Yorkshire, Florence, a keen follower of politics, had observed the media’s interest in the owner of the shop, Holly Renton. Holly had gone up against and then, in a plot twist worthy of a prime-time television drama, had married, the member of parliament for Willowbury and Stavenham, Charlie Thorpe, this summer past.
Glancing through the shop window as she walked by, she could see a tall, striking woman with tumbling red hair straightening the displays in the centre of the shop, and smiled back as the lady smiled Florence’s way. Not exactly your typical politician’s wife, Florence thought wryly, noting the ripped jeans and the flowing coloured tunic that Holly was wearing. But then Willowbury wasn’t exactly your typical Somerset town – it had a feel and an atmosphere all of its own, and people flocked from miles around to soak up its alternative atmosphere. And now she was deciding whether to come and live here. For her, it could go from just a nice holiday destination to a permanent place to live.
Florence wasn’t, by nature, a risk-taker, but at the age of twenty-nine she was due for a change. She’d taught at the same school in Yorkshire since she’d left university, and, as the daughter of a serving army officer, she was used to never staying anywhere for too long. The past nine years, happy and settled on the outskirts of the city of York, a place she’d come to love, had been wonderful, but literally being given the keys to a new life in a different, but comfortingly familiar, part of the world seemed like a great opportunity. She had a bit of money saved, and no house to sell as she’d been sharing a flat with another teacher since she’d moved out of the family home; she certainly had enough to live on if she couldn’t immediately find a job in Somerset. She had to give at least a term’s notice if she was going to leave her job, but, depending on the state of Aunt Elsie’s place, it might take that long to make it liveable.
All this she pondered as she stepped up the couple of stone steps and into The Cosy Coffee Shop. There was so much to think about, and she’d not even begun to take in the fact that Aunt Elsie had left her a house. But for the moment, a cinnamon- infused latte, and possibly another mince pie, were the foremost in her mind.
As she walked up to the counter and was greeted with a smile by the barista, a sandy-haired man in his late thirties, she determined that all other decisions would have to wait.
‘What can I get you?’ the barista, whose name was Jack, asked cheerily.
Florence took a deep breath of the coffee-scented air, and gave her order. It felt like the first step of her new life.
Nine Months Later
1

Florence hadn’t expected to sleep well the night before she began her new job. She also hadn’t expected, rather than the usual anxiety dreams about turning up to a classroom with no clothes on or shouting at the top of her voice while students ran amok around her, that it would be the noise from the neighbouring terraced house that would keep her awake. And not just any old noise, either. This sounded like the death throes of a Siamese cat being stretched on a rack. She had eclectic musical taste, but at three o’clock in the morning, even Harry Styles strutting his stuff and crooning personally to her would have got short shrift. Pulling her pillow over her ears even more tightly, she prayed that the owner of the electric guitar would garrotte himself on his G-string before she did it for him.
Nine months ago, when Florence had walked into her great-aunt’s old house in the eccentric but charming small town of Willowbury, with the intention of living permanently there, it had been with a sense of excitement, laced with trepidation. Aunt Elsie’s death had been a great sadness to Florence; she’d spent many childhood summers here in Willowbury with her aunt, and it was only in recent years that life and work had taken over and she’d n