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Back A Place to Call Home Save as PDF
Chapters (62)
  1. Cover
  2. Dedication
  3. 1
  4. 2
  5. 3
  6. 4
  7. 5
  8. 6
  9. 7
  10. 8
  11. 9
  12. 10
  13. 11
  14. 12
  15. 13
  16. 14
  17. 15
  18. 16
  19. 17
  20. 18
  21. 19
  22. 20
  23. 21
  24. 22
  25. 23
  26. 24
  27. 25
  28. 26
  29. 27
  30. 28
  31. 29
  32. 30
  33. 31
  34. 32
  35. 33
  36. 34
  37. 35
  38. 36
  39. 37
  40. 38
  41. 39
  42. 40
  43. 41
  44. 42
  45. 43
  46. 44
  47. 45
  48. 46
  49. 47
  50. 48
  51. 49
  52. 50
  53. 51
  54. 52
  55. 53
  56. 54
  57. Epilogue
  58. Author’s Note
  59. Acknowledgments
  60. More from Fay Keenan
  61. About the Author
  62. About Boldwood Books

Determined to stop talking about a subject that was clearly getting more under her skin than she’d anticipated, Holly raised her voice above the music, calling up the stairs to her sister, and, unable to help herself, lifting her arms to sway to the beat of the song. ‘Well, he’ll have to do a whole lot more for this constituency than Fingers-in-the-till Fitzgerald did to get my vote. And, to be honest, I don’t really hold out much hope for some career politician who’s just been parachuted in, do you?’

Holly, caught in the rhythm of the song, completely failed to notice the appearance of a figure at her open shop door, who paused, motionless, unsure now of what his approach should be. To be fair, though, even if she had been aware, she probably wouldn’t have been too concerned; Holly wasn’t one to worry too much about what people thought. Having lived the life she had, and owning the business that she did, public opinion was the least of her worries. What she didn’t realise, though, was that the encounter with this particular customer would change her life forever.

2

The voice, clear as a bell, cut over the top of the cheesy tunes of The Greatest Showman as Charlie Thorpe walked in through the open door of ComIncense. Although somewhat stung by the stridency in the speaker’s voice, he reflected, perhaps he shouldn’t have been surprised. Surveying the shop floor, he’d been assailed by hanging crystals, his nostrils filled with the scent of burning herbs, his eyes assaulted by the myriad rainbow-coloured New Age books on the shelves, and his mind overwhelmed by the shelves of apothecary jars of weird-looking dried plants, all labelled, he admitted grudgingly, with exquisitely handwritten names. He wondered how many of them were strictly legal, despite what the labels said.

‘Er, Miss Renton?’ he asked, closing the shop door behind him, which elicited an alarming jangle from the bells tied to the top of it.

The dancing figure froze with her arms above her head; slim arms, Charlie noticed, with the hint of a tattoo peeking out from one shoulder, revealed by her vest top. Charlie felt even more like an intruder on some strange planet. He’d known Willowbury was the home of all things alternative when he applied to stand as the replacement Member of Parliament, but the last time he’d been inside this shop, admittedly some years before, and long before he’d considered becoming an MP, this place had been a toyshop. He’d bought a cuddly toy dog for his newborn nephew, which the baby had promptly vomited on. The only touch of normality, to his eyes, was the sight of an adorable, curly-haired toddler sitting on the floor by the open back door, playing with a selection of exotic wooden animals.