The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!. Daisy James

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СКАЧАТЬ like Jasmine, and Clara, her best friend at home, were just too precious to lose.

      ‘I’d love to see you and Marco in Devon – and so would Dad!’

      ‘Then it’s a date. Gabbie, you know what I’m always telling you, yes? When one door closes, another is ready to be flung open! I know you thought House of Gasnier was your dream job, but dreams can and do change, you know, and being back home will help you figure out what the next stage of your life has in store – professionally and romantically. Sofia would never have wanted you to shy away from finding someone who makes your heart sing – because that’s exactly what she found with Jeff.’

      Gabbie knew her friend was right. No matter how confused she felt at the sudden turn of events that had resulted in her resignation, nothing came close to the pain she still nurtured in her heart and carried with her every day, no matter where she chose to make her life. It was time she worked on coming to terms with her loss, just as her father was, and allowing someone into her heart again.

Chapter Three

      The journey from Nice airport to her childhood home in Devon passed in a blur of frenetic activity. She had flung everything she couldn’t bear to part with into a suitcase, then told Jasmine she could keep what she wanted from whatever remained and take the rest to the homeless charity which the two of them, along with Marco, had raised money for in a canoe race the previous month during one of her rare days off.

      When she arrived at Gatwick she had stupidly glanced in the bathroom mirror and a jolt of shock reverberated around her body. The previous day she had faced the world – albeit courtesy of Jasmine – looking polished and elegant in a pair of Louboutins and a three-hundred-euro dress. Now look at her – she looked as if she’d been dragged through Customs on the back of a tractor! Her hair was no longer pinned in a sleek mahogany chignon but had ballooned into a candyfloss mess.

      However, Gabbie didn’t care what she looked like. Until she had relocated to France, sartorial perfection had been low on her list of priorities. She much preferred to sport a pair of comfortable old dungarees, more than likely enhanced with a splodge of oil from when she had helped her father change an exhaust or fit a new clutch. Sadly, jeans were frowned upon at House of Gasnier and she’d been towed around the boutiques in Grasse by Jasmine, who’d been intent on giving her a lesson in French couture. She hadn’t argued because her theory had always been that if she kept busy, even if it was shopping for dresses – something that had never hung in her wardrobe – there would be no time to contemplate the grenades life had strewn in her path.

      She had utilised her time during the flight back to the UK to formulate a believable explanation for her impromptu visit home. Her father had mentioned, only in passing, that the finances at the garage were squeezed, and the last thing she wanted to do was cause him any additional anxiety over the fact that she no longer had a source of income. Despite this complication, she was looking forward to being back.

      Yet, Oakley would never be the same ‘home’ as the one that still existed so vibrantly in her thoughts. How could it be when one of the most precious people in her world was no longer there?

      Shoving her anguish into the dark crevices of her mind, Gabbie smiled brightly at the monosyllabic taxi driver who picked her up at the station and settled down to enjoy the familiar ride through the Devonshire countryside. When, twenty minutes later, she caught her first glimpse of the white-painted signpost declaring Oakley’s award for Best Village in Bloom – something her mother had loved to be a part of – she almost unravelled. She squirmed at the thought of succumbing to tears in the taxi, but surely it was better than the alternative scenario – to feel nothing at all, to be cold and unmoved by life’s tragedies, wading through life like some kind of automaton?

      She paid the driver, watched him screech off to collect his next victim of the silent treatment, and inhaled a steadying breath, taking a few moments to cast her eyes around the place that had been her home for twenty-one years. No matter how hard she had tried to block out this image of bucolic beauty and replace it with an equally picturesque image of Grasse, she had never quite managed it.

      Her heart hummed with affection. The village had once been selected as the setting for a TV murder-mystery drama and the locals hadn’t stopped dropping the fact into dinner-party conversations ever since. It was no surprise it had been a star performer, with its thatched roofs, painted window boxes bursting with scarlet geraniums, and the welcoming allure of the village pub – The Pear Tree. However, for Gabbie, it was the people who made the place so special. Every single one of the residents had rallied round to support her and her father in their hour of need; in fact, they still did.

      An upsurge of emotion tightened her throat as her eyes were drawn to the church on the other side of the village green, but she just didn’t have the courage to linger on what had happened within its walls. She hitched her canvas bag higher up her shoulder, hooked her fingers around the handle of her wheelie suitcase, and fixed her gaze on the sign in front of her. Immediately the corners of her mouth perked upwards.

      Jeff Andrews Autos.

      For the first time, she noticed that the blue-and-silver paint had started to peel like sunburnt skin and a couple of the letters were missing. When had that happened? Further inspection revealed that the double doors, currently flung wide open in an expansive and welcoming gesture, could also do with a fresh coat of paint, and there was a tangle of weeds sprouting from the hanging baskets instead of the pale-pink fuchsias her mother had planted every year as part of the RHS Britain in Bloom competition.

      Gabbie cringed. Had Andrews Autos let the side down this year?

      She stepped onto the forecourt that had been her playground and classroom for as long as she could remember. The familiar tang of engine oil, mingled with a soupcon of rusty nail and the freshly ground coffee her father loved, invaded her nostrils and caused her lips to curl even higher. Some people loved the smell of roses, or perhaps the whiff of lavender or recently mown grass, but for her the aroma of old engine oil caused her memories to scoot back to her childhood, to the happy times when she had performed the role of mechanic’s mate in her father’s beloved garage.

      By the age of six she could name every make and model of vehicle, and at eleven could deliver a confident diagnosis of potential engine faults. She had been Jeff Andrews’ secret weapon when the car repairs were behind schedule because a part had taken ages to arrive from the manufacturer – for who could get annoyed with a cute eleven-year-old dressed in her own oily dungarees, her chestnut-brown ringlets tied back in a red handkerchief, and waving a spanner like a magic wand? She had never had the slightest interest in playing with dolls or wearing pretty dresses, preferring to climb trees or race the local boys down to the river where she could swing from the branches with the best of them.

      So engrossed was she in her memories that she had failed to notice the mechanic wiping his hands on an oily rag and surveying her from beneath the longest, darkest eyelashes she had ever seen on a guy. When their eyes met, she was surprised at the way sparks of electricity shot through her veins and rippled out to her fingertips.

      ‘Hi, there. Can I help you?’ asked the Adonis, striding out to greet her with a wide smile on his face, causing a pair of cute dimples to bracket his surprisingly full lips. He smirked when he caught her eyes lingering on his mouth and heat seeped into her cheeks.

      God! What was the matter with her? She swallowed quickly, astonished to find her throat was dry, mortified when her words came out of her mouth in a strangled squeak.

      ‘Oh, I… erm…’

      ‘You know, if you need the help of a garage mechanic, you really should СКАЧАТЬ