Intrigued? Read on to discover the synopsis and an excerpt from One Good Thing by Alexandra Potter, which releases on December 1st 2026.

Liv Brooks is in shock. Newly divorced and facing an uncertain future, she impulsively trades her fast-paced London life for the tranquil hills of the Yorkshire Dales, determined to make a fresh start. But fresh starts are harder than they seem. Feeling lost and lonely, she adopts Harry, a grumpy old dog from the local shelter, to keep her company while she renovates the dilapidated cottage she has optimistically taken on.

However, Liv soon discovers she isn’t the only one in need of a new beginning. During her and Harry’s daily walks around the village, they meet Valentine, an old man perpetually gazing out his window, suffering from loneliness; Stanley, an introverted little boy hiding behind his garden gate; and Maya, a teenager at odds with the world. Gradually, as these unexpected relationships develop, they each begin to rediscover themselves, all with the help of the lovable Harry.

Utterly relatable and tender, this novel explores the beauty of friendship and the joys of living an unexpected life. When everything falls apart, sometimes all you need is one good thing to turn your life around and make it worth living again.

EXCERPT

Chapter 1: YORKSHIRE

“So, what do you think?”

Having finished showing me around downstairs, the real estate agent pushes open a stripped pine door and ushers me into the primary bedroom.

It’s an innocent enough question, but probably not the wisest one to ask a recently divorced woman who has made the impulsive decision to leave London and all her friends, resign from the teaching job she’s held for ten years, and move several hundred miles away to the Yorkshire Dales.

I think lots of thoughts. Mostly that I’m still in shock. That I can’t believe my marriage is over. That I haven’t slept properly in months. That I’m clearly having a midlife crisis. That yesterday I looked for my keys everywhere and found them in the fridge. That I’ve gained five pounds—oh, who am I kidding? More like fifteen. That I feel lost and bewildered. That I lie awake in the dark thinking this is all a bad dream. That it’s all my fault.

That I love him.

That I hate him.

That secretly I wish I were the kind of woman who did crazy, angry, vengeful things to a cheating ex, things with frozen prawns and spray paint. Instead, I’m the kind who dutifully irons my husband’s shirts after he’s told me he’s leaving me for another woman, folding them neatly into trash bags, and leaving them in the garage for when he comes to pick up the rest of his things.

“It’s very nice,” I say politely, looking around the dimly lit room, with its old-fashioned flowery wallpaper and faded brown carpet, darker in parts where the furniture used to be.

A strong musty smell reaches my nostrils and I feel painfully homesick.

Only I no longer have a home to miss. It’s been sold as part of our divorce settlement. The new owners, a couple with two young children, are due to move in after New Year’s. My ex-husband has moved in with his new girlfriend. His son, Will, my beloved stepson, who spent weekends and holidays with us, has finished university and gone off traveling. It’s just me and an empty house filled with memories.

Which is why, a few weeks before Christmas, while the rest of the world is shopping for gifts and decorations, I’m shopping for a new place to call home.

“On your search criteria you said you’re looking for a flat, preferably something that doesn’t need any work done, but I thought I’d throw in a bit of a wild card for our final property.”

It’s been a long day, but this is my last viewing before I make the five-hour return trip to London. This morning, I caught the express train from King’s Cross station at first light, then changed at Leeds to the local railway line, which took me on a slow but breathtaking journey through dramatic landscapes before pulling into a small windswept station on the edge of the Yorkshire Dales.

There I was met by Mr. Hardcastle, my real estate agent. We’d corresponded by email after he replied to my inquiry into properties for sale in the Yorkshire Dales. Ruddy-faced and larger than life in his waterproof jacket, he’s nothing like his slick-suited counterparts in London. After cheerfully squeezing the life out of my fingers as he shook my hand, he drove us deep into the countryside, past fields filled with cows and sheep, showing me everything on the market he could find while providing a chirpy commentary on the weather in an accent that is pure Yorkshire.

“They’ve given rain . . . It’s a bit nippy . . . You’re lucky, yesterday it was fair tipping it down . . . There’s talk of snow on the tops . . . Looks like it’s clearing, I can see a patch of blue . . . With any luck, weekend should be grand after all . . .”

Considering it’s the beginning of December, his optimism about the weather is remarkable—as is his ability to see anything positive in this over-three-hundred-year-old stone cottage, originally built for farmworkers in the small but picturesque village of Nettlewick.

It’s steeped in history and still has a lot of its original features, like the inglenook fireplace, but with its dark, poky rooms, rotten windows and nicotine-stained walls, it’s old and tired and in desperate need of a makeover.

I know the feeling.

“It’s got a certain charm, don’t you think?”

“I’m not sure charm is the word I’d use.” I point to some scary-looking mushroom growing out of the wall. I peer more closely at the suspicious-looking pinprick holes in one of the large beams running across the ceiling.

“The seller is very open to offers,” he continues brightly, rocking on his heels. “And there’s a lovely westerly view from the back garden. There are a few houses, but mostly you can see straight across the Dales.”

“What’s the view from the front?” Walking across to the sash window, I pull back the graying net curtain. “Oh—a graveyard.”

“At least it’ll be dead quiet.” Mr. Hardcastle chuckles at his own joke. “Apparently the owner inherited the house from his greataunt,but he lives in Singapore and has no use for it.”

It’s dark outside, and my reflection stares back at me in the windowpane.

I look tired and pale as a ghost.

No use for it.

That’s how my husband must have felt about our marriage when he walked out. The thought drops like a weight on my chest. With my back still turned, I squeeze my eyes shut, pinching my tear ducts with my thumb and forefinger. I mustn’t cry here.

“Well, like I said, it was a bit of a wild card.”

As he flicks off the bare bulb overhead, I open my eyes and linger for a moment by the window. My reflection has disappeared, and my gaze extends over the high stone wall and through the skeleton branches of the trees into the graveyard’s dark recesses. It’s only four o’clock, but it’s already pitch-black.

“So, what makes you want to swap the bright lights of London for the Yorkshire Dales?” he asks curiously.

“I fancied a change,” I say vaguely. “I vacationed here as a child. My grandparents used to live in this very village. Happy memories,”

I add, forcing a smile.

Is this a terrible mistake? Maybe I should call this whole move off. Admit I’ve made a rash mistake. Rent something in London and beg for my job back. After all, this is so unlike me. I don’t do impulsive. I’m risk-averse, according to my financial adviser.

Plus, all the self-help books advise against making major decisions for at least a year following a divorce. I have a whole stack of them on my bedside table emphasizing that point.

“Going back to the new apartment with the roof terrace that you liked, ten miles from here. There’s been a lot of interest in that one, what with it being in a bustling market town near the big shops, station and amenities . . .”

In the background, the real estate agent is giving me his sales pitch.

“So, if you’re serious I’d advise acting quickly.”

Still gazing out the window, I catch sight of something. A flash of pink. White spots. I peer more closely. It’s started to rain, and drops are hitting the window, forming rivulets down the glass. It’s an umbrella. A bright pink polka-dot umbrella. I watch as it moves across the cemetery, its owner hidden underneath. Something about the scene makes me smile. It’s so incongruous, this spotted flash of color bobbing cheerfully along in the wintry bleakness, weaving in and out of the graves. Like a beacon of light in the darkness.

“I’d like to make an offer.”

Turning away from the window, I look across at the real estate agent, who is studying his smartphone. He looks up with an expression like one of my students caught misbehaving.

“Christmas shopping,” he explains sheepishly. “Perfume. For the wife. I get her the same present every year.” He quickly puts his phone away. “Sorry, what did you say?”

“I want to make an offer.”

“Oh! Excellent! A very wise decision. Our warehouse conversions are always popular with professionals such as yourself—”

“No, I want to buy this house.”

“This house?” he repeats, as if he can’t quite believe his sales pitch worked.

His incredulity only makes me more determined. There’s something about this house—the way it’s been neglected and unloved— that’s stirred something inside me. It needs someone to love it back to life. I begin descending the steep, narrow staircase.

“I’ll offer close to the asking price, as long as it’s taken off the market and we can close by New Year’s.”

“Right. Yes. Absolutely . . . I’ll get straight on to the seller.” Mr. Hardcastle’s footsteps follow hurriedly behind me. “Rest assured, Ms. Brooks, at Hardcastle and Son, your problems are our solutions.”

“Oh, and, Mr. Hardcastle.”

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, I turn to see him banging his head on the low beam and wincing.

“Buy your wife something different this Christmas. Take it from me, she’s sick of that bloody perfume.”

The post Read An Excerpt From ‘One Good Thing’ by Alexandra Potter appeared first on The Nerd Daily.