The Cornish Key to Happiness by Laura Briggs
Past
secrets return to complicate Maisie’s future with the charming
Sidney Daniels in the final installment of the Cornish romance
series.
Picking up where book seven left off, Maisie’s
plans to celebrate her book’s thrilling news remain on hold after
Sidney has vanished from Port Hewer overnight, following a brush with
his secret past. His departure leaves Maisie with a head full of
questions and a heart torn in two, made even worse by the rumors
flying about him through the town. Where and why has he gone? Will he
ever come back again? And—foremost in Maisie’s mind—was the
heartache from his younger days somehow to blame for his sudden and
mysterious flight?
But when Dean convinces her that
Sidney may be facing a choice that could ruin his life, Maisie must
set out to find him, once again leaving behind the Cornish seaside
haven of Port Hewer she’s come to think of as home, and leaving
behind the answer to a secret she’s been longing to know since the
beginning. Not knowing when or if she’ll return, she’s taking the
biggest risk with her heart so far...and the truth she discovers
waiting for her at the end of her journey will make her wonder if
things can ever possibly be the same as they were before.
Questions
are answered, secrets are spilled, and the biggest reveal of the
series is finally unveiled as A LITTLE HOTEL IN CORNWALL reaches its
exciting conclusion.
https://smarturl.it/cornishroad
Thank you so much to Ellesea for letting me drop by and share an extract of my new book with her readers! Called The Cornish Key to Happiness, it is the eighth book in my series ‘A Little Hotel in Cornwall’ and concludes the story of Maisie Clark, a wannabe writer who chased her dreams all the way to Cornwall and a quirky hotel by the sea. The following scene finds Maisie on a train bound for London, though, where her boyfriend Sidney is confronting the past he’s kept concealed from her, making Maisie wonder what his actions mean for their future as a couple.
Long train journeys give one plenty of time to think, which wasn't what I wanted, though I knew I needed it. Reflection brought uncertainty and anxiety, as if I was barreling towards a messy failure I would never be able to control. Telling myself that it would all be fine was not working, for at the back of it all was the fear that Sidney had made exactly the choice he wanted, the choice he needed, even if Dean was right about the mother's reasons.
What if Sidney has decided he doesn't belong in Cornwall anymore? I would look ridiculous, sitting in his living room, telling him it was his true role in life to play handyman at the vicarage for room, board, and pocket change, just so stray dogs had a place to call home, and stray people with loneliness in their lives had him to fill the gap. But it was more than Dean who needed him right now — it was people like frail Mrs. Primmer and elderly Mr. James, who looked forward to having someone young and cheerful patch their homes and surprise them with kind gestures. Someone else could take his place, but it wouldn't be him anymore, friendly, thoughtful, and capable in nearly any situation.
What if he thought I was asking only for myself? Because I loved him deeply, and life in Cornwall would never be the same without him. It would be easy to believe, because it would be easy for me to betray that fact, compared to the two days I spent numb and helpless to understand why after he left.
The train stopped with a low, grinding whine, a station of people moving to and fro outside my window, seeming a hundred miles away. It sped on a moment later, as I pretended to take an interest in the copy of the real Tam Lin myth I had brought with me, though I opened its cover just to give myself something to do.
A faded daisy from this summer past marked one of its pages. I twirled it once between my fingers, remembering how Sidney had picked it for me, tucking it in my hair when we went for a picnic by the ruins of an old tin mine on a day we were both free. I had pressed it between the book's folds when reading became less interesting than playing with his fingers, his arm wrapping me close against him. We watched seabirds swooping for our leftover crusts, laughing about something silly that happened in the village recently.
Four hours to London, where I would look into those hazel eyes and see if what he wrote in his letter was true or only words. This time, no Cornish sunlight turning those unruly curls to red gold, no grass stains on his faded cotton shirt, imbued with the scent of field clover and hay when I nestled my face against his shoulder. It would be unromantic reality, probably in a living room decorated with modest furniture and strangers' photos.
And what if everything changed? What if that magic doesn't exist outside of Cornwall?
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