A charmingly quirky seaside town offers a recently separated restauranteur a fresh start and possibly a new lease on love in A Season for Second Chances, by the author of The Twelve Dates of Christmas. Intrigued? Well read on to discover an excerpt from A Season of Second Chances by Jenny Bayliss, which releases October 19th 2021.
Annie Sharpe’s spark for life has fizzled out. Her kids are grown up, her restaurant is doing just fine on its own, and her twenty-six-year marriage has come to an unceremonious end. Untethered for the first time in her adult life, she finds a winter guardian position in a historic seaside home and decides to leave her city life behind for a brand-new beginning.
When she arrives in Willow Bay, Annie is enamored by the charming house, the invigorating sea breeze, and the town’s rich seasonal traditions. Not to mention, her neighbors receive her with open arms—that is, all except the surly nephew of the homeowner, whose grand plans for the property are at odds with her residency. As Christmas approaches, tensions and tides rise in Willow Bay, and Annie’s future seems less and less certain. But with a little can-do spirit and holiday magic, the most difficult time of her life will become…a season for second chances.
EXCERPT FROM CHAPTER 9
The tiles were straight out of the 1970s: bright orange sunflowers and yellow daisies on beige and biscuit backgrounds. But what really held Annie’s attention was the black range oven, which hummed in the corner. Mari saw her looking.
“Beautiful, isn’t she?” she said. “As you may imagine, we don’t have mains gas here, so this little beauty heats the house and hot water as well as cooking dinner. It’s oil-fueled; you probably saw the tank outside? John makes sure she’s serviced every year and a winter’s supply of oil will be delivered next month, so even if we go into an ice age you’ll be snug as a bug till spring.”
“Wow,” said Annie. “I’ve never cooked on a range before.”
“Do you cook much?” asked Mari.
“I’m a chef,” said Annie. “Was a chef.”
Was she still a chef? Did it still count if you weren’t cooking for a living? Now what was she?
A hand brushed her arm and broke her reverie.
“Are you okay, hen?” asked Mari. “I lost you for a wee moment there!”
“Oh, crumbs! Yes, sorry,” said Annie. “It just occurred to me, I have absolutely no idea what I’m going to do with my life.”
Mari handed Annie a mug of strong tea and offered up the sugar bowl, which Annie declined.
“Then it seems to me,” said Mari, “that this position is just what you need. A little hiatus from the business of normality to get your head straight.”
Mari ushered Annie back into the sitting room and bade her to sit on the sofa, while she took the armchair.
“Now, why don’t you tell me what it is that has brought you here?”
It was a strange sort of interview. Mari asked a series of leading questions, which Annie found herself only too willing to answer. She told Mari about the restaurant and Alex and Peter and invariably—suffering as she was at the moment with some sort of oversharing virus—about Max’s affairs, and table nine, and the Keep Calm and Carry On cushion that hadn’t covered her usurper’s perfect young breasts.
Mari listened. Too well. Annie wished Mari would intervene or cut her off, since Annie didn’t seem able to stop herself. But Mari sat back in her chair, nodding and drinking her tea, and said soothing things at appropriate times, like “Aww, you poor wee thing” and “Goodness me, you have been through it!” And when Annie reached the point in her story where she’d answered Mari’s ad in the paper, the point at which, to Annie’s mind, her story stopped abruptly because the rest had yet to be written, Mari leaned back and took a long swig of tea and watched a seagull drop a pebble from a great height down onto the stones below.
“Well, dear,” said Mari. “I feel like my little house will be safe in your hands.”
“You do?”
“Yes. I can’t think of a better guardian for my home than one who’s lost her own.”
“Oh, I haven’t lost it,” said Annie. “I just don’t want it anymore.”
“That’s the spirit!” said Mari. “Truth be told, we’re in a similar position, you and I. My nephew wants me to sell the place. Thinks a property developer would jump at the chance to get his hands on this land.”
“Surely your nephew can’t force you to sell?” said Annie.
“Force isn’t the right word,” said Mari. “Like I said, he’s a worrier. He’d like to see me somewhere a bit more populated. For safety! If he had his way, I’d be living in one of those retirement villages with twenty-four-hour warden control and a panic button around my neck.”
Annie didn’t think this sounded like a bad idea. Mari had to be well into her eighties, if not nineties. How long could she realistically stay living somewhere this remote? All the same, Annie wondered how much of selling to a developer was for Mari’s benefit and how much for his personal financial gain; beachside land must be at a premium. Instead she said: “Don’t let anybody force you into something you don’t want to do. If you don’t want to sell, don’t sell. Your nephew will have to respect your wishes.”
“Ach, don’t you worry about me, hen,” said Mari. “He’s a big softy underneath it all. Now, I’ll leave instructions on how everything works and days for bin collections and things. Paul, the window cleaner, comes every third Monday of the month, and I’ll leave this month’s money in an envelope. I’ve taken the liberty of making a few notes that might be helpful with orientating yourself with the Nook. I have to write notes for myself these days . . . I get a little absent-minded . . . Now then, let me see, what else . . .”
“So, I’ve got the position, then?” Annie asked.
“Yes, dear,” said Mari. “I’ve never left my home with a guardian before, so I’m not exactly sure of the protocol.”
“I’ve never been a guardian before, so we’re both learning new things!” said Annie. “I won’t let you down.”
“Of course you won’t!” said Mari. “How soon can you move in? I’m packed and ready to go. I had a good feeling about you. I called my nephew last night, and he’s coming down tomorrow to take me to the train station.”
Can’t wait to bundle you off so he can sell your home from under you, thought Annie.
Mari was bustling about the little sitting room, pulling papers out of seemingly random books on shelves and stacking them in a pile on the coffee table.
“If you’re leaving tomorrow,” said Annie, “that gives me a day to get my things in order, and I’ll move in on Sunday, if that’s okay?”
“Perfect!” said Mari. “I wouldn’t want the place left empty for too long; being so close to the sea, the house can get a little damp if it’s not lived in. But if you’re moving in straight away, I can leave the range on for you.”
Mari picked a black china cat from one of the shelves, unscrewed its head, and tipped a set of keys from out of its body into her hand.
“Here,” she said, dropping the keys into Annie’s outstretched palm. “They’re all labeled. There’s rather a lot, I’m afraid, what with the kiosk and the tearoom and the flat, but I like to keep them all locked, you see, for extra security. These are my only spares. I’ve got a set, John has a set, and now you have a set. He may pop in from time to time just to see you’re okay.”
“It’ll be nice to meet him,” Annie lied. “He obviously means a great deal to you.”
“He’s a good boy,” said Mari. “He’s been like a son to me. Now, I’ll leave my number in Cornwall and my nephew’s number with the instructions.”
Annie smiled and thanked her while Mari continued to fuss around the small sitting room. “You can park by the garden fence; that’s what John does,” Mari went on. “He’s got one of those 4×4 thingamies, makes light work of the shingle.”
“That’s very kind of you,” said Annie. “Thank you.”
Annie drank the last bit of her tea and stood to leave, putting out her hand, and Mari took it. Her hand felt small and frail in Annie’s; the skin was loose around the slender bones and her fingertips were rough from a lifetime of hard work. Annie found herself feeling protective of this slight elderly woman and the home that she held so dear.
Mari stood and watched Annie to the garden gate.
“Good luck!” Mari called. “And bring jumpers!”
Annie smiled and waved back.
“Don’t worry about a thing!” Annie shouted back.
She felt pleased with herself and—dare she say it—really quite positive about the next few months. She had just bought herself some time to decide what she would do next, and not having to pay a deposit or a month’s rent in advance was excellent news for her credit card.
The breeze teased some wayward strands of hair loose from her ponytail and Annie felt like a romantic heroine embarking on an adventure. She felt inclined to have a little gallop—there was no one around to see her, after all—so she thrust her arms out to her sides and let the wind ruffle her bingo wings as she erupted into a kind of lolloping jog. She would find herself in this place by the sea; how could she possibly not find herself in such perfect, dramatic surroundings? Her spirits soared. “This is the start of something wonderful!” she shouted.
A seagull swooped in low, coast-bound from the ocean, chanting its unmistakable song of the sea, and shit on her head.
