Hot Chocolate and Other Stories

By Gail Crane

The first book in a series of heart-warming short stories about love, romance and relationships.

Perfect coffee-break reading for fans of women’s fiction.

A Dog of his Own: Deborah should have said no to adopting the poor, homeless little puppy, as her son described it, but the effect of two pairs of pleading eyes was irresistible.
Everything’s Coming up Roses: Dinah moved to the village to forget Carl and to write in peace and quiet, but she soon found the villagers had other ideas.
Cooking up a Storm: Helen was the world’s worst cook so why had she invited a chef to dinner?
Lord of the Harvest: When her Grampy tells her she can choose The Lord of the Harvest, Daisy knows just who she will pick.
Saving Gran’s Tomatoes: An attack of tomato blight results in an unexpected reunion.
A Helping Hand: There was rather a lot going on at Vera’s allotment; digging, weeding, falling in love.
Hot Chocolate: Jenny was still getting over Matt’s leaving her and the last thing she wanted was sympathy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gail Crane
• Release date: Apr 8, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301455034

Gail Crane

Gail Crane writes romance novels and short stories inspired by the Exmoor countryside where she lives. She is a member of The Alliance of Independent Authors and The Romantic Novelists Association and in 2014, she completed a BA degree with Open University, studying creative writing and children's literature. When not writing or reading, she enjoys walking and gardening, and is addicted to crosswords.

Book preview

A Dog Of His Own

It was a perfectly ordinary, adorable puppy showing no sign at all that it would turn out to be, well, not quite what we expected.

It was Jen, next door, who raised the first feelings of alarm.

'Golly, Debs, look at those feet,' she said. 'They’re like dinner plates. He’s going to be a whopper; you’ll see.'

That was when I began to get worried. Our tiny cottage was not designed for swinging the proverbial cat, let alone accommodating a giant canine.

'Where did you say he was found?' I asked Tom.

My twelve-year-old son and I had moved to the village only a few weeks before, the small Georgian cottage seeming the perfect antidote to the London flat where we had lived with his father before the divorce.

For most of his life, Tom had yearned for a dog of his own, but London was no place to have one so, when he begged me to let him keep this ‘poor homeless little puppy’ as he described it, how could I refuse. It seemed the least I could do; and maybe it would make up in some small part for up-rooting him and taking him away from his school and friends.

Not to mention the loss of his father. Not that we’d seen that much of Graham, even when we had been living together.

'I told you,' Tom said. 'Someone found him lying at the side of the road and took him to Pete’s dad.'

Pete’s dad was the local vet.

'Did Pete’s dad happen to say what breed it is?' I asked.

'He said he’s just a mongrel.'

That was the point at which I should have hardened my heart and sent it back to Pete’s dad but, as I said, how could I refuse. The combined effect of two pairs of pleading eyes was irresistible. Also, I thought, it might be nice to have some company round the house, even if it was only a dog.

Glad though I was to be to be free of my husband, I was finding the quiet rural life lonely after the noise and bustle of London. Graham was a social animal, which meant that we were constantly entertaining friends or business contacts, and I was surprised at how much I was missing it, despite the fact that it had often meant that Graham and I only seemed to meet when in company at opposite ends of a dinner table.

We no longer had anything in common. The evenings we were not entertaining, he would be out. Where he went I had long since given up enquiring.

He spent more and more time at the office or visiting clients and, at the end of one particularly long week when he hadn’t managed to see Tom once, even to say goodnight, I had decided enough was enough and told him I wanted a divorce.

'I’m sorry you feel like that, Deborah,' he had said, not actually looking at all sorry, 'but if you have made up your mind I’m not going to try and stop you.'

That was when I realised that my suspicions had been right; he already had my replacement lined up which, no doubt, accounted for much of his late-night working.

At least he had been decent enough to make Tom and me a generous allowance and we had moved to the cottage in Compton Down soon afterwards.

I had found myself a part-time job in the village doing secretarial work for a retired Air Commodore who was writing his memoirs. He was a dear, but he lived alone and had certainly seen his ninetieth birthday, so not much chance of romance there. Not that I was looking for romance; in fact it was the last thing on my mind, but the company of a reasonably intelligent male around my own age would have been nice.

Ah, well; it looked as though I was going to have to settle for an infant male with four legs and a tail.

I agreed that Tom could look after the dog while we waited to see if anyone claimed it.

No-one did.

Two months later, the puppy, who Tom, with a stunning lack of originality had named ‘Dog’, was still with us; doubled in size and consuming vast amounts of food. His bloodline remained a mystery but, judging from his size, I reckoned he was a cross between an Irish Wolf Hound and a St Bernard.

'Give him a trunk and two tusks and he’d pass for an elephant,' I commented sarcastically.

'Oh, Mum!' Tom groaned.

'Seriously, Tom, I really don’t know how we are going to manage to keep him. It’s not only the fact that he fills a room, or that he creates havoc with every wag of his tail; there is also the question of food. How are we going to afford to feed him?'

I didn’t even mention all the other problems that were spinning through my head, such as exercise, vet bills, garden space, holidays. The list was endless.

However, Tom must have taken my comments to heart because the following day he came home later than usual from school.

'I’ve got a job,' he announced.

'A job?' I repeated.

'Yep. I’m going to do a paper round and Dog can come with me; it’ll be good exercise for him. And my earnings will pay for his food. What do you think of that, eh, Dog?'

Dog obviously thought it sounded a wonderful idea. He woofed in agreement, his enormous rear end swaying ecstatically as his tail cleared the coffee table with one efficient swish.

'That’s very enterprising of you,' I said, rescuing my crossword and newspapers from imminent death by Dog. 'I’m genuinely impressed; but what about, for instance, when you go to visit Dad?'

'I’ll take him with me.'

I knew a moment’s wicked delight as I pictured the chaos that would ensue in Graham’s immaculate flat, and wondered whether his new relationship would survive the trauma.

'That’s a good idea,' I said, innocently.

'But, there is still the small matter of vet’s bills for his jabs,' I added. 'And he will need a new collar and lead. I don’t think that one is going to fit him for much longer.'

'I’ll buy him a collar and lead