Everything I Have

by Tammy Robinson

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A heartfelt contemporary romance that immerses you in a heartfelt exploration of grief, healing and the enchanting magic of second chances. Perfect for fans of JoJo Moyes and Jill Mansell.

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A decade apart, one summer to fix the past. Can they find their way back to each other?

The last person Ellie ever expects to see back in Seclusion Bay is Sam. Widowed and clouded by grief, the moment he walks into her café, he makes it clear that he wants nothing to do with anyone...especially her.

So, when she sees him tie a letter to a tree at the end of the bay, Ellie is intrigued.

Desperate to help him navigate his grief, she puts pen to paper, and an exchange of anonymous letters begins. As they start to reconnect on and off the page, Ellie dares to hope that they both might get a second chance at happiness.

The only problem is, Sam still has no idea that the heartfelt letters are coming from her.

And as things between them start to heat up, and the line between friendship and love starts to blur, Ellie must find the courage to tell Sam the truth or risk losing him forever.

Why readers love Tammy Robinson:

'Heart warming and heart breaking - you will need tissues!' Hello!

'Heart-wrenchingly romantic, this book will leave you wanting to hold your loved ones just that little bit closer' Emma Cooper, author of The First Time I Saw You

'A deeply emotional story that will remind you that life is a gift, and it's never too late for love' Kelly Rimmer, author of Me Without You

'Robinson is a storyteller in the Jojo Moyes vein' Coast FM

'Tammy Robinson is a natural storyteller' Nicky Pellegrino

'How I wish I could give more than 5 stars! Reading this book will make you laugh and cry and feel every emotion in between' Goodreads reviewer

'Uplifting, bittersweet and powerful' Goodreads reviewer

Release date: November 9, 2023

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 80000

Sample

This time she’s dead for sure.

I rattle the door handle, being careful not to squish the contents of the brown paper bag I’m holding in one hand, and rap my knuckles on the glass. Louder, more insistent. It’s a hard one to balance, getting enough volume to attract the attention of an eighty-two-year-old woman who refuses to accept her hearing isn’t as sharp as it once was, while also trying to listen intently for any noises coming from within the house.

‘Nan?’

Knock knock.

I try to peer through the lacy net curtains she insists on having because they help keep the flies out, but the whole point of them is to block prying eyes, so all I can make out is the outline of the couch against the pale wall behind it, and the window of the dining room.

‘Nan!’

Finally, some movement. The hall door swings open and I watch as her figure potters into the lounge and towards the sliding door. While she fiddles with the dicky lock, I close my eyes and take a deep breath to slow my heart rate down. She’s going to be the death of me one of these days, I’m not even kidding.

‘Steady on,’ she says, sliding the door open and pulling aside the nets. ‘Where’s the fire?’

Alfie pushes past her and starts sniffing the air around me enthusiastically. I drop a hand to his silky head and lift the paper bag out of his reach.

I blink at her nonchalant manner. ‘Why was the door locked? And why did it take you so long to answer the door? I was worried you’d had another heart attack.’

‘I was in the bath.’

For the first time I notice she’s in her dressing gown. ‘So? Since when do you lock the door when you’re having a bath? You don’t even normally shut the bathroom door, let alone shut up the house.’

She sniffs. ‘Since that poor unsuspecting man copped an eyeful.’

I squeeze my eyes closed for a second, not sure I want to hear the answer to the question I’m about to ask. ‘What have you done now?’

‘Me? I’ve done nothing. Just been relaxing in the privacy of my own home. He was the one who came wandering up the wrong driveway. Certainly got more than he bargained on, that’s for sure.’ She chuckles. ‘It’s his heart you should be worried about. Never seen someone go so pale.’

‘What man?’

She waves a hand dismissively. ‘I don’t know, some kind of salesman.’

Alfie’s cold, damp nose snuffles its way into my hand as he inhales the delicious smells of my day. Nan, bored with the conversation already, turns and heads towards the kitchen.

I follow her inside, making sure to wipe my feet properly on the welcome mat first. My grandmother is as house-proud as they come. She decorated this place herself half a century ago, and despite the interior-design crazes that have come and gone since, she hasn’t felt the urge to update the look. Everything is peach or pastel pink, sometimes both together, and made out of embroidered lace and satin. Even the artificial flowers in the vase on the sideboard are colours not usually seen in nature. Alfie trails after us, or more specifically, the paper bag. I place it on the bench and he sniffs at the air longingly.

‘What was he selling?’ I ask, pulling out one of the bar stools and perching on top.

‘Who?’

‘The salesman.’

‘No idea. I couldn’t understand a word he was saying.’

‘Why, was he speaking another language?’

‘No.’

I lift the paper bag up while she wipes underneath it, even though the Formica benchtop is as shiny and clean as the day it was installed. ‘Then how do you not know what he was selling?’

She lines the sponge back up in its place beside the sink, and sighs exasperatedly. ‘He was going on about nets, and fibres and cables. I think he might have been . . . ’ her nose scrunches up, ‘a knitting salesman?’

It takes about four seconds for me to connect the dots, and when I do, I have to suppress a smile. ‘Do you think, maybe, that he might possibly have been from a company that sells internet services? Like an internet service provider?’

‘How should I know? He should say so if that’s the case.’

‘I suspect he tried.’

‘Well, whatever he was selling, I told him I wasn’t interested, and off he went.’

‘Probably to the nearest bar to have a stiff whisky if he really did see you in the nude.’

She points a shaky finger at me. ‘I’ll have you know I was quite the looker in my time.’

‘Yes, your time . . . which was a long time ago.’

‘Oh ha ha. You can laugh. Time and gravity catches up with us all. You might have a gorgeous little figure now – which you have me to thank for, by the way – but one day you’ll be scaring salesmen away too,’ she warns.

‘No I won’t, because I’m not going to be walking around my house naked when I’m eighty-two.’

‘It’s my house. If I want to air out my bits, I’ll do so. It’s good for them.’

‘Eww, Nan.’

‘Speaking of bits . . . ’ Her tone shifts. ‘He was quite nice-looking, for a salesman. Nice eyes. Kind smile.’

I cringe. ‘Please tell me you didn’t.’

She blinks innocently. ‘Didn’t want?’

‘Set me up on a blind date with a stranger.’

‘Of course I didn’t.’

My shoulders sag with relief. ‘Thank God.’

‘Only because he was already married.’

‘Nan!’

‘Well excuse me for looking out for my granddaughter’s happiness,’ she says. ‘You’ve been on what, four dates this summer? Home by eleven every time, and not one of them came back with you.’

‘Have you been spying on me?’

‘Of course,’ she replies, completely unabashed.

‘That is wrong on so many levels. Anyway, it was three dates, and I can’t help if I wasn’t attracted to any of them.’

‘You’re too fussy, that’s your problem.’

‘I’m not fussy, I’m just not going to settle for someone who doesn’t do it for me.’

‘Ellie, they’d all have done it for you if you’d given them half a chance.’

‘We are not having another conversation about sex.’

‘Why not? You think your mother was immaculately conceived?’

‘La-la-la-la-la, not listening.’ I stick my fingers in my ears until she stops talking. ‘Anyway, I’m perfectly happy with you and Alfie.’ At the mention of his name, his ears prick up hopefully. His eyes have barely left the paper bag.

‘An octogenarian and a dog who spends most of the day licking his own arse.’ She arches her eyebrows. ‘Aren’t you the lucky one.’

‘I’m happy.’

‘You could be happier.’

‘Yes, I could, if you stop trying to set me up with any man who crosses your path.’

‘What’s wrong with that mechanic guy you used to go out with? Oh, what’s his name?’

I feel my stomach tighten. ‘Logan.’

‘That’s the one. You two were love’s young dream once. The whole town thought you’d end up married with a family.’

‘Yeah, well, the whole town was wrong. It was a teenage crush that fizzled out like most teenage crushes do. We’re ancient history,’ I say brusquely, in an attempt to shut the conversation down. It fails. When it comes to my love life, Nan is relentless.

‘Doesn’t have to be,’ she says. ‘I saw the way he was watching you at Chloe’s engagement party.’

‘The way he watches me,’ I point out, ‘is inappropriate. He has a girlfriend.’

‘Girlfriend or not, he still has feelings for you. It’s as obvious as the nose on my face.’

‘Any feelings he might have are not reciprocated,’ I say, hopping off the stool and pushing it back underneath the bench. ‘Logan and I were over a long, long time ago, OK? So, and I mean this in the nicest possible way, keep your obvious nose to yourself. Oh, and stop molesting perfect strangers to see if they’ll date me. It’s humiliating.’

She sighs. ‘It’s not that I don’t love having you back here,’ she says. ‘You know I do. But I can’t help feeling guilty about everything you’ve given up. Whatever you say, I know how much you loved your job and the glamorous lifestyle that came with it.’

‘You didn’t ask me to give up my job,’ I remind her. ‘It was my choice and I did it willingly. You’re more important to me than any job. Besides, don’t believe everything you see on the TV. It’s not as glamorous as it looks.’

I feel a pang, though, even as I say it. I mean every word: my grandmother is more important to me than anything. But she’s right. I did love my job as head chef on a superyacht, and I worked bloody hard to get as far as I did. Starting as a lowly steward on a smaller yacht in the Mediterranean, I worked long hours for little pay for eight months before a French chef named Christophe took a chance on my burgeoning interest in learning to cook. A no-nonsense kind of guy, he was impressed by my work ethic and the fact that I stayed out of the typical onboard drama: the excess drinking and crew jumping from one bed to another. In my time off, I’d hang around his galley, watching and learning, and after a few months of that, he hired me as his assistant and we moved to a bigger yacht sailing out of the Caribbean.

I spent the next two years learning the intricacies of five-star cuisine from him, before he retired. On his recommendation, the yacht’s owners promoted me to be his replacement. It was a huge responsibility; after all, clients paid upwards of $140,000 to hire the yacht for just one week, so they expected, and deserved, the best. I quickly earned industry respect and was headhunted twice for higher-paid jobs on even more expensive superyachts, but when Nan’s health took a turn for the worse and she ended up in hospital, I knew it was time to come home. It wasn’t easy leaving that life behind, but I’ve never regretted the decision. Not once. My grandmother is the only family I have left. Nothing’s as important as that. Nothing.

‘Anyway,’ she carries on, waving a hand in the air, ‘you don’t need to worry about me any more. I’m as good as I was before the heart attack, maybe even better thanks to all the “lifestyle changes” the doctor had me make.’ She mutters the two words darkly.

‘Those changes are keeping you alive.’

‘Go back to the boats, I’ll be fine.’

‘No. I’m staying right here. And I’m getting tired of having this same conversation over and over.’

She changes tack. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

‘I told you, I am happy.’

‘Settled down, then. Married, with children. This town is too small, you’re not going to meet anyone here. Not anyone decent, anyway.’

‘If it’s meant to happen, it will. I’m not in any rush.’

‘Fine.’ She throws her hands up in defeat. ‘Ignore my dying wish.’

‘You’re not dying any time soon,’ I say, fervently hoping I’m right.

Her face softens. ‘I’m not planning on it, no. But you know no one has control over these things. When I do die, I want to go knowing that you’re OK.’

‘There’s more to life than finding a husband.’

‘You know what I mean.’

Leaning over, I give her a kiss on the cheek, and her skin rustles like paper. ‘I’m staying right here with you. No arguments. Now, do you need me to do anything before I take Alfie for a run?’

She eyes the paper bag hopefully. ‘Is that for me?’

‘It’s Wednesday, isn’t it?’ I slide it halfway towards her. She pulls it the rest of the way and picks it up cautiously, like we’re doing a drug deal. Unrolling the top, she peers inside.

She has a wicked sweet tooth, my nan, and before I came back, she’d think nothing of having a cup of tea and a large slice of cake with buttercream icing for her dinner. No point cooking a proper meal for one, she protested when I discovered just how bad things had gotten. Not a single vegetable in the fridge, but seven kinds of cheeses, four processed meat products, and far too many biscuits, chocolate or otherwise. Out it went, all of it, and now I make sure she eats the foods the doctors recommend. Green leafy vegetables. Fruit smoothies. Wholegrain crackers and bread. Low-fat cheese, margarine and milk. I do allow her the occasional treat, though, every Wednesday, otherwise I’d never hear the end of it. And because I happen to agree with her when she says there has to be some enjoyment in life.

‘Ooh,’ she coos when she clocks the cream-filled jam doughnut inside the bag. ‘Jackpot. Thanks, love.’

‘Savour it,’ I say, reaching for Alfie’s leash, which hangs on a hook with various old keys and a cap that used to belong to my grandfather. ‘Because if you try and set me up with a stranger again, I’ll completely cut off the supply.’

‘You wouldn’t.’

‘Try me.’

I head out to the back yard, where my home is. Some people might consider living in an old railway carriage in your grandmother’s yard at the ripe old age of twenty-nine to be a bit . . . tragic. Once upon a time I’d probably have thought the same. When I was five, my mother and I moved here after my parents’ divorce left her with no money and nowhere else to go. She hated returning to the small town in which she grew up. Hated it with a passion. Saw it as a sign of her failure in life. Divorced. A single mother. It ate away at her, and though I can’t be sure it caused the cancer that grew in her bowel, it probably didn’t help. She died when I was eight, and I barely remember her. Afterwards, my father made a token offer for me to come and live with him and his new family, but Nan’s house was where I felt most at home, where I belonged. Besides, I didn’t want to leave her alone after the death of her only daughter.

I bought and renovated the carriage myself when I moved back two years ago, because as much as I adore my grandmother, I knew that the two of us living under the same roof was a recipe for disaster. We are both independent, stubborn women, and we both need our own space. When I saw the carriage come up in an online auction, I fell in love with it straight away and knew I had to have it, despite the fact that it was run-down, leaking and full of spiders and dead birds. It took me almost eight months to get it to a liveable standard, doing some of the work myself but also relying on friends and the odd tradesman. We stripped it right back and then rebuilt it into the snug, waterproof home it is today. My bedroom, complete with a tiny en suite, is down one end, the kitchen sits in the middle, and a living area fills the other end. It even has a small fireplace to keep the place warm in winter. It’s small and cosy, but I’ve lived in ship’s cabins and slept in bunk beds that were much smaller, so to me the space feels luxurious. Every time I step inside, I feel instantly calm.

The potholes on the road leading over to the peninsula are even bigger than I remember, and I wince as the car hits a particularly deep one. I check the rear-view mirror in case the blow has knocked something off the undercarriage of the car, but there’s nothing left sitting in the road behind, thank God, and I exhale gratefully. The car’s a rental, and the insurance excess that the guy behind the counter rattled off disinterestedly as he brushed over the contract was eye-watering. The old me would have challenged it, demanded a cheaper rate, but the new me knows there are far more important things in life to worry about. Besides, that mere three-hour nap I had on an eleven-hour flight will catch up with me before too long, and I’d rather have my head on a pillow when it does.

There’s also the fact that I’ve been dreading this moment for the past four months, ever since I made the decision to pack up my life and come back here. Now that I’m close to my final destination, I have an overwhelming urge to just hurry up and get there. Get it over with quickly, like ripping off a Band-Aid. I come around a bend and there it is. Seclusion Bay. Picturesque, with its white sand beach and blue waters. The town itself is small, four blocks of trendy little shops, surrounded by residential suburbs. It’s expanded quite a bit since I was last here, I notice as I drive through, my stomach a ball of mixed feelings.

Jesus. I was expecting my grandfather’s place to look neglected – as far as I’m aware, no one has been out here for a couple of years at least, since his death – but still, I’m taken aback as I pull into the driveway and the full state of it is revealed. It’s unkempt. The garden’s overrun with weeds, the trees are taller, the bushes . . . bushier. As for the lawn . . . well. I’m not even sure a normal lawnmower will be up to this task. It’s my fault, I should have organised someone to look after it, but it was a case of out-of-sight, out-of-mind. I cast my mind back to how it looked when my grandparents lived here and feel ashamed. Someone else I’ve let down, even though they’re not alive to see it.

Turning the engine off, I’m tempted to stay in the car and close my eyes – the jet lag and months of sleepless nights have taken their toll – but I know I’d merely be prolonging the inevitable. Being back here after all this time is hard enough, for many reasons. I don’t want to think about what I’ve left behind, or how I’ve uprooted my life as I’ve known it for the last six years. It still doesn’t feel real, but then again, not much has these past couple of years.

The air is warm and sticky when I climb out of the car and stretch my back, hearing a pop of protest. I swear to God, airline seats have shrunk in size since I first travelled overseas, years ago. Either that or the human race has doubled in size, which is entirely possible. I’ve certainly grown. I left a young man, fresh out of university, eager to explore the world. I’ve returned older, jaded, weary. Not fat, though. Any excess weight I might have been carrying has peeled off since the funeral. My appetite just isn’t the same when faced with cooking for only one.

I become aware of a low hum and realise the twilight cricket chorus is warming up. Soon they’ll fill the night air with their song, at once both soothing and deeply annoying. From experience, I know that in a few nights I’ll barely even notice them any more. Their sound will become part of the background, just as the sound of the waves rushing the beach will, and the sound of twenty-four-hour traffic did back in the city I have just left behind. When I first moved there, I thought I’d never be able to sleep again. But I got used to it.

I haven’t been here in ten years, and yet the smell of salt in the air is at once familiar. I’d recognise the scent of this beach anywhere in the world. Something stirs in my stomach, reminding me that as much as I don’t want to be back here, I once loved this place.

I get my bags out of the back seat of the car and close the door. The alarm chirrups when I push the button. I just need to get inside. Blow off the cobwebs. Pop the cap off one of the beers I purchased at the superette, and sleep. After that . . . I have no idea.

The house is still a shrine to my grandmother and her minimalist Scandinavian tastes. My grandfather’s were more eclectic, thanks to his travels, but he adored my grandmother to the bones, so whatever made her happy made him happy. Consequently, everything is either white or wooden, with occasional pops of grey. It always felt a bit sterile to me, though sandy tracks across floorboards never bothered my grandmother and her broom. I head for the one room I always felt at home in, pausing with my hand on the door handle to mutter a silent plea that nothing has been changed since his death.

Nothing has changed. It’s messier, definitely, but after my grandmother died of breast cancer, there was no one left to prompt my grandfather into keeping anything tidy. Stacks of books teeter on the desk, and on the little side table beside the old yellow couch. Its seat is still sunken from the weight of him and the many hours he spent there. I can almost make out the imprint of his behind. Everything is coated with a thin layer of dust, or sand. A mixture of both, probably. Even though the house has been locked up tight, the beach has a habit of finding its way in through cracks under doorways and loose window panes, the same way it has a habit of finding its way into your soul.

I trail a finger along the edge of his desk, disturbing the dust, and picture him there, with the light of the little brass lamp pooling on the large map of the world that covers the surface. It sits under a glass layer, to preserve it from time and the grubby fingerprints of grandchildren.

He would call me in and we’d huddle together on the oversized black chair while he pointed out all the beaches in all the countries around the world where he had surfed when he was younger. Like a pirate, he’d fill my head with tales of lands far away, of people made of sand and salt, of nights around campfires, rum-soaked songs lifted on balmy air to the starry heavens. Of waves as tall as skyscrapers and water every shade of blue and green you could possibly imagine. It wasn’t all magical, though. He’d also ghoulishly describe all the gory injuries he’d seen. A calf muscle sliced to the bone by a wayward fin. Skin peeled away by coral, nerves exposed, agonising screams. Bones snapped by angry waves. One friend left paralysed after being dumped on his head. Another friend, Neil, shot in the chest by robbers somewhere in South America.

He was thirty-one when he travelled to Hoddevik in Norway to surf and met my grandmother in a bar in Oslo. Before she even finished pouring his drink he was in love, or so he would tell the story. He couldn’t explain how he knew, other than it was simply a certainty that he felt in his head and in his heart. He knew he’d met the woman he would marry. And he did.

To a young boy, it all sounded tremendously exciting, and I yearned to follow in his adventurous footsteps. It seems a prepostero. . .