The Little Kiosk By The Sea Read online

  One summer they’ll never forget….

  Meet Sabine, desperately fighting to save her little kiosk from closure whilst turning down her friend Owen’s proposals, time and time again.

  Cue Harriet, returning to Dartmouth after thirty years, haunted by the scandal that drove her away and shocked by a legacy that threatens her relationship with her journalist daughter.

  Enter Rachel, the mysterious newcomer who has an unexpected chemistry with a local widower, and who sets in motion a chain of events she could never have predicted…

  One thing’s for sure, as the autumn tide turns, there’ll be more than one secret laid bare!

  The Little Kiosk by the Sea

  Jennifer Bohnet

  www.CarinaUK.com

  JENNIFER BOHNET

  is originally from the West Country but now lives in the wilds of rural Brittany, France. She’s still not sure how she ended up there! The saying ‘life is what happens while you’re deciding what to do …’ is certainly true in her case. She’s always written alongside having various jobs: playgroup leader, bookseller, landlady, restauranteur, farmer’s wife, secretary – the list is endless but does provide a rich vein of inspiration for her stories.

  For three years she wrote a newspaper column in The South Hams Group of Newspapers (Devon) where she took a wry look at family life. Since living in France it is her fiction that has taken off with hundreds of short stories and several serials published internationally. If you like stories set down on the French Riviera, Antibes, Cannes and Monaco, then take a look at Follow Your Star and Rendezvous in Cannes. Her other books, too, have passing references to the South of France.

  Allergic to housework and gardening, she rarely does either, but she does like cooking and entertaining and wandering around vide greniers (the French equivalent of flea markets) looking for a bargain or two. Her children currently live in fear of her turning into an ageing hippy and moving to Totnes, Devon.

  To find out more about Jennifer visit her website: jenniferbohnet.com or chat to her on Twitter: @jenniewriter

  This one is for my daughter Emily and my son Nicholas – my very own Dartmothians!

  Thanks to Charlotte Mursell and the team at Carina – couldn’t have done it without you. A big thank-you must also go to the online forum of Carina authors for their friendship and support. No names, no pack drill, but you know who you are! Thank you.

  Contents

  Cover

  Blurb

  Title Page

  Author Bio

  Acknowledgement

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  Epilogue

  Excerpt

  Endpages

  Copyright

  EARLY SEASON

  PROLOGUE

  For as long as anyone could remember, the kiosk on the quay had been part of the town’s summer street furniture. A focal point for the locals as much as the holidaymakers. Every 1st March, the wooden hexagonal hut re-appeared without fuss or fanfare on its designated place on the embankment between the taxi rank and the yacht club, its wooden struts and panels gleaming with freshly applied paint. Red, white, blue and yellow – all bright summer colours which, come October, would have been bleached and faded away by the summer weather. The jet-black orb on the top of the domed roof was a favourite with the gulls, who perched there serenely surveying the scene before swooping down and stealing ice creams and pasties from unwary holidaymakers.

  As well as its annual paint make-over, the kiosk had occasionally been refurbished inside. These days it boasted an electric connection for the necessary computer, a kettle, mugs, a round tin that was never empty of biscuits and a small electric heater to keep the occupant warm in early and late season when the wind off the river blew straight in through the half-open stable door.

  There was a small shelf unit for holding tickets and the cash box, a cupboard for locking things in, space to the left of the door for the outside advertising boards to come in overnight and three foldaway canvas director chairs for sitting outside in the sun with friends when business was slow.

  The whole atmosphere of the town changed as the locals welcomed the re-appearance of the hut which signalled the imminent arrival of the holidaymakers, the second home owners and the day-trippers. Maybe this would be the year fortunes would be made. If not fortunes, at least enough money to see the families through winter without getting deep into overdrafts. The last thing anyone wanted – or needed – was another wet season.

  This summer though, 1st March came and went with no sign of the kiosk. All winter rumours had rumbled around town about its demise and locals feared the worst: the council had never liked it and wanted it gone – not true, the mayor said. Health and Safety had condemned it as an unfit workplace – but nobody would give details of the problem. The rent for the summer season had doubled and Owen Hutchinson, owner of the pleasure boats he operated through the kiosk, had refused to pay. A fact he denied.

  Then, two weeks before Easter, without any warning, the re-painted kiosk appeared in its usual place. Collectively, the town heaved a sigh of relief. Panic over. Time to enjoy the summer.

  CHAPTER ONE

  SABINE

  ‘Two tickets for the afternoon river trip? No problem,’ Sabine said, smiling at the young woman standing in front of the kiosk. ‘Here you go. We cast off at 2.30 today, so make sure you’re back here at least fifteen minutes before.’

  ‘Definitely. We’ll be here. It won’t be rough, will it?’ the girl asked as she handed over the ticket money. ‘I’m not a very good sailor. We’re down on holiday and my boy f… my husband loves boats so I thought I’d treat him.’ She looked along the embankment. ‘He’s wandered off to look at some old steam engine or something.’

  ‘The river will be as smooth as the proverbial baby’s bottom this afternoon,’ Sabine promised.

  ‘Great. I’d hate to spoil things by being sea sick.’

  ‘On honeymoon, are we?’ Sabine said, looking at the shiny ring on the girl’s left hand.

  The girl flushed. ‘How’d you guess?’

  ‘Oh something to do with the way you forgot to call him your husband? Y
ou obviously haven’t had time to get used to saying it yet.’

  ‘Two days,’ the girl confided. She leant in. ‘We eloped.’

  ‘Very brave of you,’ Sabine said, smiling.

  The girl shrugged. ‘Necessity rather than bravery,’ she said. ‘See you this afternoon.’

  Sabine watched her walk away and join her new husband, who greeted her with a lingering kiss. ‘May married life be kind to you,’ she muttered before turning her attention back to sorting the kiosk out for the season.

  Two weeks late arriving on the quay meant there’d barely been time to set up things before the first river trip of the season. Not that there was a lot to do really, but Sabine liked to have everything to hand. Ticket books, cash tin, receipt book, tide table book, chalk, mugs, foldaway chairs, kettle, bottles of water, coffee and biscuits. That just left finding space for the first four paintings of the season.

  A couple of years ago, she’d discovered the tourists liked her pencil sketches of the town and the river. One quiet afternoon she’d sat in one of the canvas director’s chairs outside the kiosk and idly started to sketch the river and its boats. She’d wanted a small picture to hang in her newly decorated bathroom, with its blue and white nautical theme. A tourist collecting tickets for a boat trip had seen it and asked to buy it when finished – provided she’d sign it for him.

  That initial sale had thrown her into a panic. She’d no idea what to charge for an unframed original picture. It wasn’t as if she was famous or anything – or likely to be. In the end she suggested a sum and the tourist had shaken his head at her – before giving her double what she had asked and saying, ‘You really don’t know how talented you are, do you?’

  Sabine had taken the money thoughtfully. Yes, she did know she had a talent. Years ago she’d been all set to go to art college but instead had to give up her place and stay at home to help look after her mother. Something that she’d done willingly.

  By the time she was free to pursue a career, the time to go to art college had passed and marriage and family life had eventually taken over. If she drew anything in the following years it was simply because she fancied doing it.

  After that first, unexpected sale, she’d started to do a couple of drawings a week, surprised by how quickly they sold. These days she spent winter painting and drawing views of the town and the river, ready for summer. By the end of the season she rarely had any left. Her secret ‘just for fun’ bank account grew substantially every summer.

  The one she hung now on the folded-back stable door was a firm favourite with the tourists. A pen and ink drawing of the old Butterwalk with its columns and hanging baskets, it sold well every season.

  Once she was satisfied the picture was hanging straight, she stood with her back to the kiosk looking across the river and along the embankment, breathing deeply and thinking about the future. Was this really going to be the last season she’d be working in the kiosk? If the council carried out their threat at the end of summer, forcing Owen and the other boat owners to use an un-imaginative refurbished office on the other side of the road, it would be. No way could she bear the thought of working indoors all summer long. Still Owen and the Robertsons were on the case, demanding a public meeting before a decision was taken and getting up a petition.

  A flash of red coming towards her caught her eye. She laughed and shook her head. Johnnie, her twin brother. The old Breton red beret sitting jauntily on his head and the folder of papers he was carrying told her instantly this morning he was on the ‘Save the Kiosk’ warpath. Five minutes later he was greeting her with his customary cheek kisses. They might have been born in the town, but their French father had ensured they knew all about their French ancestry and learnt the language. For years now, they’d spoken only French to each other in private.

  ‘Ça va?’

  ‘Oui. Et toi?’

  Johnnie LeRoy nodded.

  ‘Haven’t seen that for a few years,’ she said, looking at the beret. ‘Thought we’d thrown it out when Papa died.’

  ‘Never,’ Johnnie said, shaking his head. ‘Family heirloom. Sign of the workers’ solidarity this is.’

  Sabine smiled. She doubted that any of the locals would realise the significance of the red beret.

  ‘Got a few signatures already,’ Johnnie said opening the folder and handing her a poster with the words, ‘SAVE THE KIOSK’ emblazoned in red across the top. ‘Need you to pin this up and to put the petition somewhere people can sign it.’

  ‘You don’t think the powers-that-be are serious about getting rid of the kiosk?’

  Johnnie shrugged. ‘Don’t know. Telling them we want it kept won’t do any harm though. Embankment wouldn’t be the same without the kiosk.’

  ‘True. Fancy a coffee?’ Sabine asked, reaching for the kettle.

  Johnnie shook his head. ‘Not this morning, thanks. I want to drop a poster off at the yacht club and then I’m planning on giving Annie and her bottom a good going-over.’

  Sabine smiled at the scandalised expression on a passing tourist’s face. Johnnie grinned at her before whispering, ‘Gets them every time!’ Annie, named after his late wife, was Johnnie’s thirty-two-foot sailing yacht moored out on one of the pontoons in the river.

  ‘Have fun. See you tonight for supper,’ she said, turning her attention to a couple looking at the times of river trips for the week and began to talk them into taking the afternoon trip. Gift of the gab, Owen called her sales technique. Said it was the main reason he employed her to run the kiosk. That and the fact he was in love with her. She’d lost count of the number of times he’d asked her to marry him since Dave died. Said he was going to keep asking her until she said yes.

  It had become something of a joke between them now. Only last week he’d asked her again and she’d said her usual ‘No’, adding jokingly, ‘I think you’d better stop asking me, Owen. Otherwise one of these days I might be tempted to say yes and then you’ll be saddled with me.’

  ‘If that means there is a possibility of you saying yes one day, I intend to keep on asking,’ Owen had replied seriously. ‘I’ve always loved you. Dave was my best mate but I could have killed him when you married him and not me.’

  Sabine sighed. ‘Owen, I love you to bits but not in that way. You deserve more than a one-sided marriage.’

  ‘If you were the one side, I’d take it happily,’ Owen said.

  Sorrowfully Sabine shook her head at him before reaching up and giving him a kiss on the cheek. ‘Sorry, Owen.’ She knew she hurt him every time she refused his offer, but love had to be a two-way thing for a marriage to work, didn’t it? She’d been a single woman for so long she could barely remember what it had been like being in a relationship, let alone being married.

  When Dave had died, it had been a devastated Owen who’d tried to step into his shoes and be there whenever Peter had needed a father figure, insisting that was what godfathers were for. Two years ago he’d made sure Peter had a job ready and waiting for him when he’d finished his engineering course at college. At the time she’d questioned Owen as to whether it was a genuine job at the time or one he created.

  ‘Of course it’s genuine,’ he’d said. ‘I need a boat engineer. Happy for it to be Peter. Besides,’ he added with a grin. ‘A bit of nepotism never did any harm!’ It was Peter’s second season this year and he’d told Sabine he loved it. Couldn’t imagine doing anything else – living anywhere else.

  She did wish sometimes that Peter had been a bit more adventurous – left home and seen a bit of the world before settling down in town. He’d done a couple of yacht deliveries with Johnnie but hadn’t wanted to do more. Took after his father in that respect. Dave had never wanted to live anywhere else or even take holidays abroad. Whereas she had always longed to see the world. The one opportunity to do that had sadly come at the wrong time of her life.

  She glanced at a tourist studying the sailing timetable.

  ‘Can I book a ticket for this afternoon’s trip?’ he
asked, his accent marking him as American.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Great little town you’ve got here,’ he said, as Sabine took his money and handed him a ticket.

  ‘Your first visit?’

  ‘Yeah, hoping to unearth some relatives,’ he said with a grin. ‘Grandmother was a GI bride way back in ’44. She kind of lost touch with folks here when she left. Family name was Holdsworth. Don’t suppose it’s yours? Know anyone of that name?’

  Sabine laughed. ‘Well-connected ancestors you’ve got with that name, that’s for sure. No, it’s not mine. And as this isn’t small-town America, I don’t know everyone, but I don’t think there are any Holdsworths currently living in town.’

  ‘You mean there’s no longer a Govenor Holdsworth in charge out at the castle? I was hoping for an invite to stay there.’

  ‘You wouldn’t be very comfortable if you did – Windsor Castle it’s not.’

  ‘Shame. Good job I booked into The Royal for a week or two then. See you later.’

  By the time Sabine helped Owen and Peter to cast off that afternoon, the boat was three quarters full and she watched it depart, pleased the first of the season’s sailings was so full.

  As the Queen of the River began to make its way upstream, Sabine started to close up the kiosk. Life for the next few months would be ruled by the tide table and the need to open the kiosk every day to take advance bookings. Today, though, it was early enough in the season, with few people around, she could close up and go home for an hour or two before the boat returned and she had to be on hand to help the passengers disembark.

  A chilly March breeze was blowing off the river and Sabine was glad of her fleece as she made for her cottage halfway up Crowthers Hill, one of the old roads leading out of town into the back country.

  The house in Above Town she and Dave had bought together as a newly married couple had been too full of memories for both her and Peter to stay there happily without Dave. Far better to have a new start in a different house – one that she and Peter and could build into a home, so twelve years ago she’d bought the cottage when Dave’s insurance money had eventually turned up.