Family Matters

Book 1: A Polvellan Cornish Mystery

by Rachel Ennis

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Small Town & Rural; Romance

Synopsis

The Polvellan Mysteries by Rachel Ennis are warm-hearted contemporary stories set in picturesque Cornwall. The sudden death of her husband costs Jess Trevanion her family home in Truro. Returning to Polvellan, the village where she grew up, she buys a small neglected cottage and sets up her own business. As her friendship with first love, boatbuilder Tom Peters, is rekindled, her confidence is rocked by revelations about her late husband. The night of a concert by Polvellan choir, Jess and Tom discover a desperate and frightened young couple hiding in the church hall. With secrecy vital and time running out, can they help the stowaways reach safety?

Release date: July 27, 2015

Publisher: Accent Press

Print pages: 38

Sample

‘Rob, that’s unfair.’ Jess’s grip on the phone tightened. Realising her knuckles were aching she swapped the phone to her other ear and flexed her fingers. ‘I’d love to have Helen for the day. I just can’t manage this week because –’ There was a click. ‘I have commitments too,’ she finished to the sound of the dialling tone.

Anger flared but quickly faded as she replaced the receiver. He sounded stressed and exhausted. Drunks, car smashes, overdoses, fights, and broken bones: the demands on A&E would be non-stop and it was still a week until Christmas Eve.

But her accounting work wasn’t a hobby. Nor were the family trees she compiled. They were paying jobs. She needed the money and had given her word. Though she understood the reason for Rob’s short temper, being on the receiving end of it wasn’t pleasant.

Hearing Tom’s familiar knock lifted her mood. She hurried to open the door.

‘Come in.’ She stood back, happy to see him. Springy fair hair now threaded with silver had been tamed with water and a comb. His dark brown waxed jacket was unzipped revealing a navy crew-neck sweater over a checked shirt and clean jeans. ‘You look smart.’

‘I can scrub up when I need to.’ He grinned, his teeth white against his weathered tan. He leaned in to kiss her cheek. ‘Hello, my bird.’ His lips were soft and warm and he smelled of soap and fresh air. He straightened. ‘Don’t mind do you?’

‘A kiss? No, I don’t mind. It was nice.’

‘I don’t want to mess up this time.’

‘You didn’t mess up. We were young and wanted different things.’ Jess touched his face lightly then crossed the open-plan living room to the kitchen area. ‘We’d better get going. The concert starts at seven thirty and it’s almost ten to. It’ll be a push to get all the food plated up and the crockery set out before the singing starts. Will you bring those?’

He lifted the two shopping bags filled with plastic containers off the worktop.

‘Dear life, Jess. How many are you feeding?’

‘That won’t go far. There are thirty in the choir – thirty-three if you include Margaret the accompanist, conductor Dennis, and our soloist Morwenna. They all eat like gannets after a concert. At least half the village will stay for a cup of tea and a chat. But Viv has promised sandwiches. Morwenna said she’d pick up three dozen splits, and Gill is bringing sausage rolls and a fruitcake. Knowing her she’ll have persuaded some of the WI to donate quiches and tray-bakes.’

‘Good job the rain’s stopped,’ Tom said. ‘People don’t like coming out in the wet. How many tickets have sold?’

‘All of them. Because it’s for charity Gill wouldn’t have let anyone leave the post office without buying one even if they can’t come.’

As Jess went to fetch her pink padded jacket from the hook behind the door, Tom dropped the bags and got there first, holding it so she could push her arms into the sleeves. She felt his hands rest briefly on her shoulders.

Scarred, callused, gentle hands. A man she could trust. But was she ready? Was it too soon? Returning to the village where she had grown up had helped her move on from the shock of Alex’s death and the shattering discovery that he had left her with a re-mortgaged house and no money. She. . .