A sweet and uplifting Christmas romance, No Room at the Little Cornish Inn is perfect for fans of Philippa Ashley, Holly Martin and Jenny Hale.
O’er Hill and Dale
‘Mummy, why do you have to work over the Christmas holidays?’ Danny, my almost eight-year-old son, wants to know as we speed down the M3 towards Cornwall instead of Birmingham. ‘Can’t we go see Nana and Grandpa like we planned?’
The answer, my friend, is, unlike the famous song, not blowing in the wind, but actually blasting from my mobile phone in the form of the infamous and ominous The Ride of the Valkyries tune. It’s the ringtone I’ve assigned to the HR manager at Johnson Hotels Head Office, Susan Hearst – better known as Susan the Sacker.
I’ve lost count of the number of times she’s called since we left London, so I’m entitled to ignore her at least this once. I can always use the excuse that Cornwall has an iffy signal. Even the county border sign I’ve just sped past advises to – and I’m quoting here – remove my face from my phone because I won’t get a decent signal anyway.
I was hoping to have a lovely Christmas with my family and some old friends. Some good food, stops at the local bakery, time for reading a quality book by the fire. All the things that I don’t have time for in London and was really looking forward to this year. And thanks to her, none of it is going to happen.
Because, at the eleventh hour, she gave me an assignment without any alternative, implying that I could be up for promotion as manager if I sort out the Old Bell Inn in Cornwall. It has lost a star due to a cartload of bad reviews and recent cancellations, creating a big black splotch on the pristine reputation of Johnson Hotels who, in turn, are considering closing it.
I’m supposed to go in incognito, observe, find out what the problems are and report back. But if I don’t, it is, as Susan so politely put it, my ass out on the street. And if working during the holidays isn’t bad enough, the twenty-fourth of December, only three weeks away, is Danny’s eighth birthday.
My little boy shouldn’t have to spend his big day watching his mum work. He should be having a ginormous party with his friends and family in Birmingham. My parents are crushed we can’t be there this year, but they won’t show it so as not to make me feel bad. However, every now and then, they ask me to move back and work in their coach company. Taking care of Danny there would be a breeze, surrounded by my people. Aunt Milly alone would kill to have him to herself. So why do I keep saying ‘Thanks, but no thanks’? Why is it so important to me to be independent, when being independent is making me so miserable?
Nancy Barone Wythe grew up in Canada, but at the age of 12 her family moved to Italy. Catapulted into a world where her only contact with the English language was her old Judy Blume books, Nancy became an avid reader and a die-hard romantic. Nancy stayed in Italy and, despite being surrounded by handsome Italian men, she married an even more handsome Brit. They now live in Sicily where she teaches English. Nancy is a member of the RWA and a keen supporter of the Women’s Fiction Festival at Matera where she meets up once a year with writing friends from all over the globe.
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