Pat's Pantry: Trewton Royd small town romances, #0

By Rhoda Baxter

Can you ever forgive your first love?

 

Jack broke Sue's heart when she was eighteen. Twenty five years later, Sue is busy running her bakery and fighting off competition from the new bistro in the village and has no time for romance.

 

After more than two decades away, Jack returns to the village he grew up in. Seeing Sue rekindles all the feelings he thought were long buried.

But will Sue forgive him for leaving…  especially when she finds out that his daughter runs the enemy bistro?

 

If you like small town romances, character driven plots and sparkling dialogue, you'll love this standalone short story by award nominated author Rhoda Baxter. Pick up Pat's Pantry to discover this heartwarming new series today!

 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rhoda Baxter
• Release date: Jan 30, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386855699

Rhoda Baxter

Rhoda writes contemporary women’s fiction with a hint of geek. Back in the early 2000s, when she commuted into London every day, Rhoda read romance novels and wished there were more stories about women who were not obsessed with shoes. Besides which, where were all the nice men - the sort that rely on wit and charm rather than money and biceps? Rhoda now writes the sort of books she wanted to read. She's lucky enough to have several books published by a traditional publisher (thank you Choc Lit!). Her books have been nominated for prizes and her articles have appeared on various websites, including USA Today. In real life, she has a DPhil in microbiolgy, so if her pen name sounds vaguely bacterial, you can guess why. You can find her wittering on about cake and science or making bad puns on her website (www.rhodabaxter.com), or on Facebook or Twitter (@rhodabaxter). Or, if you like, you can email her at [e-mail]. Please do say hello if you’re passing.

Book preview

Pat’s Pantry

By Rhoda Baxter

It was still dark when Sue went to work at 4am. The deserted main road had a shifting, unreal feel as the fog drifted lazily in the streetlights. Footsteps echoing, she walked past the familiar shop fronts of Trewton Royd. She loved this time in the morning, when you couldn’t see the detail and everything could be just perfect. If she put her mind to it, she could pretend it was thirty years ago and that she was seventeen, walking to her first job in Mr Dooley’s bakery.

She stopped to look at the restaurant opposite, with its fancy fake plants in the windows. They didn’t start work for another half hour. She liked feeling smug that she worked harder than their chefs did. What did they know about proper hard work, people from the city with their fancy ideas and expensive menus? Until they had come along, she and the pub had been the only food outlets in town. Even the pub sold bread that she made in her ovens.

With a sigh, she turned to go down the alley that led to the back of ‘Pat’s Pantry’. She let herself in and shook out her arms to get rid of the clinging cold.

The fluorescent lights gleamed off the spotless stainless steel worktops of her kitchen. She walked round it, flicking the ovens on to warm, feeling the bakery come alive around her. She may sleep in a house in the next village, but this place... this place was home. It was at its best at this time in the morning, when there was no one else about. No customers, no serving staff, no tourists being drawn to the restaurant opposite. Just her and her bread. She checked her list of what she was baking today, even though she knew it by heart. First things first, she put the kettle on and went to check on the dough.

Professor Jackson Bruce stared out of the window at the Yorkshire countryside. How long had it been since he’s been back? Twenty years? More? They had left the motorway and were heading into what his ex-wife would have called The Sticks. The roads were narrow and hemmed in by fields and drystone walls. He knew that if he wound down the window, the air would smell of cows and damp grass.

Dad? Dad, Megan interrupted his thoughts. You okay?

He turned to look at his daughter. She was casting quick sideways glances at him and frowning. Bother. She must have been saying something important about the restaurant she was managing. He’d zoned out about 2 miles ago. Sorry, what was that?

I was saying, said Megan. That I don’t understand why the restaurant isn’t doing better than it is. I mean – we’ve got a wonderful chef. And there’s nothing else like it for miles around. So I don’t see why we can’t seem to get bookings.

Maybe... it’s the price point? he suggested. This is Yorkshire, not Hampstead. People want good value for money. Not overpriced frippery, he added to himself.

That’s a very old fashioned view, Dad. There’s a lot of money around here now, you know. People have moved up North for the cheaper houses. They want the nicer things in life to come with them.

Right. He knew better than to argue. When Megan got an idea into her head, it was very difficult to dislodge it. She got that from her mother. He sighed, moved his leg in the footwell and winced. Twisting his ankle by falling down the stairs was embarrassing and stupid. It was also particularly bad timing. Coming up to Yorkshire for a few weeks’ rest while he gathered his thoughts before he started writing the book had been a great idea. He’d expected to be able to go for long walks and maybe hire a car and go see what monstrosities had been built on the places he’d loved as a child, but now, with a duff leg, he’d be trapped in Megan’s house. Or worse, have to rely on her to ferry him about. Stupid, stupid leg.

Anyway. Megan swerved sharply to avoid a pothole and nearly collided with