Second Chances at the Cotswolds Candy Store

By Hannah Lynn

Starting over never tasted so good

Holly Berry has it all: a good career, a steady boyfriend, and enough savings that the two of them will soon be able to buy a nice little house. But when she finds out her boyfriend has been cheating on her, she decides to retreat to the Cotswolds and a place full of far sweeter memories.

Quite literally.

However, Holly discovers the quaint village sweet shop she worked in as a teenager is starting to crumble. Putting all her chocolate eggs in one basket, she says goodbye to the city, and sets her sights on a new project.

After all, how hard can running a sweet shop be?

Full of laughter, sweet romance and cosy village life, The Sweet Shop of Second Chances will make you believe that the best things in life really are worth fighting for.

”A delightful, well written tale, full of wonderful characters in a charming setting. I loved it!” Katie Fforde

• Language: English
• Publisher: Boldwood Books
• Release date: Apr 27, 2023
• ISBN: 9781785130298

Hannah Lynn

Hannah Lynn is the author of over twenty books spanning several genres. Hannah grew up in the Cotswolds, UK. After graduating from university, she spent 15 years as a teacher of physics, teaching in the UK, Thailand, Malaysia, Austria and Jordan.

Book preview

1

Given that Holly Berry had left London in such a hurry, she hadn’t really put much thought into the clothes she had packed. And ‘packed’ was using the term very loosely. After hurling several shoes at her now definitely ex-boyfriend, she had hauled the suitcase from the top of the wardrobe and thrown in a half dozen armfuls of clothes. Meanwhile Dan (said ex) had been attempting to rescue some of his own things which were getting caught in the mix. A task that was hindered somewhat by the fact that he seemed unsure whether he should be trying to appease Holly, his girlfriend, who had just caught him butt-naked in a compromising positioning in their new Ikea bed – a bed she had paid half for – or comforting the sobbing woman who was still on said bed, also without a stitch on and desperately trying to cover herself.

‘Hols. Hols, just wait. Please, wait. Listen.’

‘I heard enough, thanks. Trust me, those noises are going to be hard to forget.’

Her hands were shaking as she grabbed another dress and ripped it off the hanger. Six years. Six years of her life had been all about him. Six years she had put her plans on hold for their plans. What a bloody fool.

‘Please let me explain.’ The moment his hand touched her shoulder, she span around and flung it away from her.

‘Don’t you dare. Don’t you dare touch me, or speak to me, or even look at me.’

‘But you don’t understand…’

‘No. No, I don’t. You’re completely right about that. I do not understand how the hell you could do this to me.’

‘I just… we just…’

‘We had a plan, Dan. You and I. We had everything planned out. We were looking at houses last weekend. Last weekend.’

‘I just… I just…’

‘Slipped?’ she questioned.

Her eyes moved involuntarily to where the woman was now wrapped up in the bed sheet. She had definitely paid for that. She remembered being particularly impressed with the 75 per cent discount she’d got during the sales. Her attention left the sheet and returned to the woman. Dark hair, dark eyes. Dan clearly had a type, that much was obvious. Apparently, he had gone for the oldest cliché in the book and traded her in for a younger model.

‘Please,’ he whined, trying to pull the pity card now, his eyes watery and pathetic.

Unable to take any more, she zipped up the case and marched out of the room, down the stairs and out of the front door.

While driving away from Dan and London, her mind was filled with questions. How could he have done it, after all they had been through? She had been there for him, through everything. And why? Why would he do it? And why hadn’t she seen it coming?

Despite having been at the same university for three years, the pair had never even laid eyes on each other until the day of their graduation. Ceremonies over, and celebration dinners concluded, she had headed out to a club with her old house mates.

It was on a brief respite away from the dance floor, when she had gone to the bar to grab them all drinks, that she saw him. His deep-brown eyes had caught her attention straight away. And the way he had struggled hopelessly to get the barman’s attention. After watching him get pushed in front of several times – clearly too polite to say anything about it – she had sidled up next to him and, on getting served first, had ordered drinks for both of them, which he had then gratefully paid for. She’d later learned that he had played the part of the helpless man in need of rescuing in the hope of attracting her attention. She had thought it was sweet. They’d laughed about it over dinner with friends. Now she saw the truth: he’d been manipulating her from day one.

It wasn’t until she’d turned off the M4, the sun long since set, that Holly actually thought about where she was driving to. She realised she was automatically heading towards her parents, but did she really want to face them? Of course, they would be supportive, but deep down she knew they’d never been that keen on Dan.

‘He just seems a bit beige,’ she recalled her mother saying once.

‘Beige?’

‘You know. Plain. Unexciting.’

‘There’s nothing wrong with someone who’s sensible, Mum.’

‘No, but do you have fun together?’

‘Of course we do.’

Her mother hadn’t look convinced. ‘What about that house you were talking about last month. I thought you were going to buy it?’

‘We were, but we’ve decided to wait. Save a little longer. Get a bigger deposit together.’

‘You were saving last year, weren’t you? And the year before. You’ve got a steady job. You don’t have to always be worrying about money, you know.’

She had gritted her teeth. ‘Yes, but houses are expensive, and the bigger the deposit we have, the less we’ll have to pay back in the long run.’

‘But you need to have some fun too, Holly darling. It can’t all be about saving money and working hard.’ Then her mum had tutted in a way that suggested her desire to be financially secure was the most irresponsible thing she’d ever heard of. How would she respond to this news? She’d be devastated that Holly was upset, that was for certain, but beyond that it was impossible to tell.

As she reached the turnoff for her parents’ home, she kept going. She would talk to them later. She still had a spare key and could sneak in when they were asleep, if she wanted. Or maybe she’d just splash out and get a room somewhere for the night. It wasn’t like she needed her savings for a house deposit now, was it?

She was travelling down a long, straight road. If you looked on your satnav, this particular road was now called the A429, but to anyone who lived locally, it was the Fosse Way. The full length of this Roman road extended for miles, going as far north as south Leicester. Holly never travelled that far, though. She continued on past Northleach, then the little Cotswold village of Cold Aston, until she reached the bottom of a low hill, where she flicked on her indicator and turned left. This took her right alongside the river and led straight to the heart of Bourton-on-the-Water.

Even the most cynical visitor to Bourton would struggle to argue with the claim that it was one of the most idyllic villages in Britain. With its shallow river flowing gently next to the High Street, complete with quaint little bridges, it is Instagram heaven, whatever the season. In the autumn, it’s time to don your woollen coat against the chilly air and enjoy watching the flurries of amber and gold leaves cascading from the trees at every hint of a breeze. And during the festive season, when thousands of twinkling white lights adorn the shop fronts, a fifteen-foot Christmas tree stands smack in the middle of the river. It really is a little slice of countryside paradise.

However, for residents, particularly a teenaged Holly, this was something of a double-edged sword. Any day with remotely pleasant weather resulted in traffic that backed up all the way from the High Street to the nearest A road, half a mile away. When said vehicles finally managed to get into the village, they would inevitably park in the first available spot they saw, regardless of whether it was an actual, designated space or who they blocked in. It was generally impossible to find a seat in any of the cafes – which were mostly overpriced – and the whole village was overrun with screaming children, irate parents and hikers, not to mention the busloads of tourists who visited just to pose for a photo, ice cream in hand, ankle deep in the river, before hopping back onto the bus for their next destination.

It hadn’t been all bad growing up there, though. Cycle rides on her rusty, old bike, up hills so steep her legs wanted to give up a third of the way there, were seared vividly into her memory. Hikes across the surrounding fields to one of the more hidden streams where, armed with jam jars and fishing nets, she and her friends would catch newts all afternoon. Traipsing up and down the riverside, searching for various flowers and herbs to take back and place in homemade, ceramic vases. A simpler time, before iPads and phones.

But there were other memories, too. Ones she didn’t recall quite so fondly. Like the bedroom window that didn’t close properly so that, in winter, her breath fogged the air when she was in bed. Or dry cereal days, when they had run out of milk and were saving the last few coins to feed the electric meter (Cold showers were one thing. Cold showers in a freezing house were altogether another). The day her father was made redundant. Then when it happened again… and yet again.

It was difficult to pinpoint her exact age when Holly realised her family was poor. She suspected it was around the start of secondary school. While other children would start each new term with their brand-new, designer shoes – Kickers, Doc Martens, Air Jordans, or whatever the fashion at the time dictated – her feet would be squeezed into whatever pair of black lace-ups her mother had sourced. Her uniform was always either too big or too small, the window of time when it would actually fit comfortably seeming narrower each year.

While other parents bought their children the latest fad toy or favourite doll for their birthday, Holly received cookery books, often dog-eared, with stained proof of their previous owner’s attempt at culinary skills. On her birthday morning, after tearing off the wrapping paper, she would choose a recipe to make, usually something sweet and, no matter what, her parents would somehow always manage to scrape together the ingredients she needed: vanilla pods, dark chocolate, double cream, whatever. It wasn’t until she was in her twenties that she realised the weeks that followed were always filled with more frugal meals, like lentil soup, or Welsh rarebits made with homemade bread and the thinnest slithers of cheese.

For the longest while, it hadn’t bothered her. She had counted her blessings for her loving family, and despite their lack of wealth they were happy. But, on her fourteenth birthday, that all changed.

She had made little attempt over the previous few months to hide what she really wanted. She’d had enough of the recipe books and the cooking. After all, she was fairly accomplished already, always preparing her own lunch box and often the family evening meal, too. It no longer felt like a treat and certainly not something worthy of a birthday present. What she’d really wanted was a pair of Levi 501s.

She had hoped that Christmas would yield the illusive garment but instead had received a tie-died T-shirt. But she didn’t lose faith; after all, there was still her birthday in March.

‘Now, I hope they fit okay,’ her mother said, stepping into the room and placing the parcel down on the bed next to her. ‘If they don’t, I’m sure Maureen at the pharmacy will take them up for you. She’s far better at hemming things with an overlocker than I am.’

When Holly ripped off the wrapping paper to reveal a neatly folded pile of denim, emblazoned with the Levi 501 badge, her heart leapt. She gazed at the jeans in her hands. Was it really possible that, after months and months of completely ignoring every request she’d made, her parents had finally listened to what she’d been saying? Her hands shook with excitement as she picked them up and flicked them outwards.

Her jaw had dropped.

‘Are they okay? I know they’re not the fancy make you keeping banging on about and they aren’t brand new, but they’ve got a lot of life left in them. The seams are strong, and there are only small holes under those patches.’

Patches. Much of the denim was lost beneath a hideous array of multi-coloured, multi-patterned fabric, stitched haphazardly all the way from the waist to the hems. Later, on reflection, she realised there couldn’t have been more than five or six squares, but to her teenage eyes it looked like there were thousands strewn across the jeans. It mightn’t have been so bad if they had all been one colour. But half of them looked like they’d been stolen from a children’s nursery and at least one had teddy bears on it.

‘Why don’t you try them on?’ her mother asked. ‘We need to make sure they fit.’

Holly continued to stare at the monstrosity. What could she do? The last thing she wanted was to hurt her mother’s feelings. Knowing her luck, she’d probably spent the last six months sourcing the materials for the patches. But she just couldn’t try them on. She couldn’t bear to even look at them without wanting to cry. Forcing herself to smile, she folded the jeans neatly back up and dropped them down behind her on the bed.

‘I’ll just have a shower first,’ she said.

As her mother’s face fell, guilt churned in the pit of Holly’s stomach, but she just couldn’t put them on. She couldn’t. If they fitted, then she would insist on her wearing them out in public and that was more than she could take. At least, this way, she could pretend they were far too small, and her mum would be none the wiser.

‘Oh, okay then.’

Silence filled the room as her mother rose to her feet, her lips strained upwards in a smile. Holly’s guilt intensified. Even at fourteen, she couldn’t fail to recognise the sadness in her eyes. But she’d forget about it soon enough, she reasoned. They were only jeans.

‘Well, you try them on when you’re ready then,’ she said, crossing to the door. ‘I’m going to put some porridge on for breakfast.’

‘Sounds good,’ she replied.

It was not until that evening, after a full day at school with friends questioning her about what presents she’d received, that Holly got a knock on her bedroom door for the second time that day. This time it was her father.

A man of few words, Arthur Berry was a six-foot two, gentle giant who’d had little luck when it came to employment. After the closure of the factory he’d worked in since his teenage years, when Holly was only two, it was one short-term position after another. Always last in, first out. He had now been working a steady position for a couple of months, but they never took anything for granted. After hearing the knock, she called that it was open. He waited until he’d walked across the room and taken a seat at her desk before speaking.

‘So your mother thinks you don’t like your present.’

It was said as a statement, not a question. Her dad had an annoying habit of doing that. Making statements and then leaving it to her to be the next to speak. He gave her a look at the same time, too, as if puzzled, brows down. It was an impressive skill that ensured she’d feel as guilty as possible in the shortest time. She held her tongue, determined not to fall into his trap. But the look just kept going, stretching the tension in the air.

‘She can’t seriously expect me to wear them.’ she said, unable to restrain herself for even half as long as she had hoped. ‘There are teddy bears on them, Dad. No one over five wears jeans with teddy bears on.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yes,’ she nodded emphatically. ‘It is. People wear normal jeans. Blue jeans. Light blue jeans. Occasionally black jeans. But they don’t wear ones with nursery characters on. Just like they don’t wear sweaters knitted with multi-coloured wool, or socks with hundreds of darns in that they’ve done themselves.’

Her father steepled his fingers and put them against his top lip. This was his ‘thinking’ pose, which Holly knew well. Both she and her mother had lost many an hour with her father like this, as he’d internally debated various decisions, from what to have for dinner, to which politician to vote for in an upcoming election.

‘I know it’s difficult,’ he said, finally removing his fingers. ‘I’m sure I didn’t appreciate my parents at your age either.’

Holly felt the anger rising.

‘That’s not fair. I do appreciate her. I appreciate you both.’

As the words came out, all whiny and high-pitched, she was fully aware of how petulant she sounded, but she wasn’t going to be accused of something that wasn’t true. Yes, she was a child, but she had always worked hard at school and done far more chores than any of her friends had ever had to do. She mended her own clothes, cooked family meals. Not to mention the other stuff, like traipsing along to seed-swap parties with her mother and unpicking jumpers so that the wool could be re-used. Other children got to spend their Saturday mornings watching cartoons while they lazed around in bed, whereas she had to travel ten miles on the bus to get a tomato plant someone was giving a way.

‘I just wanted a normal pair of jeans, that’s all. I don’t see what the big deal is.’

‘Holly, those jeans you want cost a fortune. More than we spend on food for the entire week. Do you have any idea how many hours your mum spent patching those for you?’ With a heavy sigh, he pushed his glasses to the top of his head and rubbed the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry that we can’t afford to spend money on all the things you wish we could. I’m sorry that you’re disappointed by the gift.’

‘Dad…’ The churning guilt in her gut intensified.

‘No, I understand. I do. We’ve never had enough money to save, Hols. I wish we had, of course I do, but we’ve been lucky in lots of other ways. We’re healthy, and we’re happy. At least I hope we are?’

His weary look had now transferred to her, as her shoulders slumped down in a huff.

‘I’m sorry,’ she said, moving from the bed and wrapping her arms around his shoulders. ‘I am. And I’ll wear the jeans, I promise. But maybe if she could change the teddy bear patches?’

‘I’m sure we can see to that. You’ll talk to her, then? She’s worried she ruined your birthday.’

Together they headed downstairs and her parents sang ‘Happy Birthday’ over a homemade lemon cake her mother had baked that afternoon.

Later that night, when she was tucked up in bed considering the events of the day, a thought tumbled through her mind. Her father was right; her parents had never had much money, but they had always made sure she was loved and well. Still, if she ever had children, she would make sure they could have everything they wanted, and that meant money. Money she was going to start earning as soon as possible.

2

There was no competition for a parking space at this late hour and Holly could take her pick as she slowed her car on the empty street and turned into a spot by the river. She thought she would just sit there for a while and ponder what a mess her life had become. But no sooner had she cut the engine than she found herself unbuckling her seatbelt and crossing to other side of the road. A moment later and she was standing outside the grubby window of Just One More, her gaze lost in its dark interior until a high-pitched meow drew her attention away.

A lithe, black-and-white cat with scruffy fur snaked its way between her ankles, pressing its head against her calves as it meowed again for attention.

‘What are you doing?’ she asked, as she knelt down to stroke it and it immediately started purring at her. ‘If you’re out hunting, I’m afraid you’ll only find chocolate mice in there.’

With a final, plaintive meow, it sauntered to the front door of the shop where it paused for just a moment before continuing on down the High Street.

The night air was chilly as she stood up and peered back into the shop. Spring was on its way, but it definitely hadn’t arrived yet. The sign above the door looked worn, the paint chipped and peeling, and the awning had also seen better days, with rust along the edge. Apart from that, it was exactly the same as it had been when she’d first gone through the door. Her heart swelled as she cupped her hands around her eyes, pressed them to the glass and was just able to make out the jars filled with sweets inside. One by one, memories from days gone by seeped into her consciousness and slowly, as the seconds ticked by, a smile crept across her face for the first time since she’d arrived home early from work to surprise Dan.

‘Are you lost?’

She jumped, banging her head against the glass.

‘Crap,’ she said, rubbing her forehead and turning back to the street. Considering the road had been empty only moments earlier, she was surprised to find herself face to face with a very serious-looking man.

‘Are you lost?’ he asked again.

‘Uhm. No. I’m not lost,’ she replied.

‘Then would you care to tell me what you’re doing here so late in the evening?’

As the temperature continued to fall, Holly locked eyes on this stranger who, despite being smartly dressed, not unattractive and probably only in his mid-thirties, wore the suspicious frown of a busy-body pensioner. Having been torn from her reverie, she was in no mood to accommodate his nosiness.

‘Are you with the police?’ she asked.

He bristled slightly. ‘No.’

‘Neighbourhood Watch then?’

‘No.’

‘Well, if you’re not with the police or Neighbourhood Watch, why is it any of your business?’

He shuffled his feet. ‘Well, it is rather late, and you’ve been staring into that window for nearly ten minutes.’

‘So you’ve been watching me? Spying on me?’

‘Yes… no. I mean, I watched you… I saw you… but I wasn’t spying.’

Her initial annoyance was rapidly passing through indignation and now transforming into something decidedly more like anger.

‘I was merely questioning your intentions here,’ he stuttered.

‘My intentions?’ Her eyebrows disappeared under her fringe. After the day she’d been having, pompous, village do-gooders were the last thing she was in the mood for. She pulled back her shoulders and placed her hands squarely on her hips. ‘Firstly, as you’re not a police officer, you have absolutely no right to ask me what I am doing. Secondly, are you implying that I might be about to rob a sweet shop? Seriously? There’s a jewellers three doors down, and the shop next to it sells antiques. Not to mention all the holiday homes on Sherborne Street that are empty during the week. If I were going to rob a place, I think there are far better options for me in the village than this little place, don’t you?’

The man, who now looked not only confused but also somewhat fearful, took a step back.

‘You’re from the village?’ he asked.

‘Well done. Now, if you don’t mind, my intention is to stand here, minding my own business and stare at these jars of sweets,’ she said. ‘Do you have a problem with that?’

His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, all of his previous bravado gone, although a bristle of mistrust remained.

‘Sorry, I didn’t recognise you. I’ll wish you a good evening then,’ he said and, without a final word or apology, strode off down the High Street and out of view.

‘A good evening, yeah right,’ she said out loud, turning her attention back to the shop.

Two days after her fourteenth birthday, Holly found herself walking along the riverfront, heading into each of the cafes in search of employment. If she had her own money, it would solve so many problems. They wouldn’t have to worry about buying her things to start with. Not to mention the fact that she could help them out, too. Pay for some groceries occasionally. Treat them to decent birthday and Christmas gifts. Getting a part-time job would be an all-round win. So