The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton

by Eleanor Ray

Genres: Family Life; Friendship; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

For fans of The Keeper of Lost Things and Evvie Drake Starts Over comes a “heartwarming and tender…good-humored and uplifting” (BookPage) debut about a reclusive artist whose collection has gotten out of control—but whose unexpected friendship with her new neighbors might be just what she needs to start over.

Amy Ashton once dreamed of becoming an artist and creating beautiful objects. But now she simply collects them. Aquamarine bottles, bright yellow crockery, deep Tuscan red pots (and the odd slow cooker) take up every available inch of space in her house. Having suffered a terrible tragedy—one she staunchly refuses to let herself think about, thank you very much—she’s decided that it’s easier to love things instead of people.

But when a new family moves in next door with two young boys, one of whom has a collection of his own, Amy’s carefully managed life starts to unravel, prompting her to question why she began to close herself off in the first place. As Amy embarks on a journey back into her past, she has to contend with nosy neighbors, a meddlesome government worker, the inept police, and a little boy whose love of bulldozers might just let Amy open up her heart—and her home—again.

Quirky and charming, big-hearted and moving, The Missing Treasures of Amy Ashton proves that it’s never too late to let go of the things that don’t matter...and welcome the people who do.

Release date: June 8, 2021

Publisher: Gallery Books

Print pages: 320

Sample

Chapter One


October 1998

“Who put the Spice Girls on?” asked Amy, looking around the room. The house party was in full swing and no one answered, though she suspected the two girls dressed as cats, busy touching up their whiskers with eyeliner as they peered into a small mirror. Amy shuffled through the CDs and selected the new Garbage album. “Dance?” she suggested, skipping to the second track.

Chantel pulled herself up from the sofa and joined her. Amy lifted her arm and Chantel twirled out and then back again, her black skirt swirling up to reveal her stripy yellow-and-black leggings. It was their signature dance move, so of course it came out at every opportunity, even shoeless on the carpet at this party Seb had thrown for Halloween while his parents were out of town.

“Take a break?” asked Chantel, as the CD came to an end and someone replaced it with the Verve. Her voice was already a little breathless and her face sweaty. “It’s hot work being a bumblebee.”

“Sure,” said Amy, and they both sank back into the sofa. “You must be roasting in those leggings.”

“True, but they’re the best bit of the costume,” said Chantel. “If I take them off, I’d just look like a naff fairy.” She gestured to her small wings, designed for a fairy costume.

“Or a fly for my web,” said Amy, wiggling her fingers at Chantel in a not very convincing spider impression. She was pretty pleased with the costume she’d pulled together. She’d had inspiration from a black vest top she’d had already, with silver cobwebs printed over it. She’d added a black woven skirt, fishnet tights, and as many plastic spiders as she could sew to her clothes.

“I can tell you’re an artist,” said Chantel, surveying the costume. “You’ve got that eye.”

“I can’t wait to start my foundation course.”

“Your costume is freaking me out,” said Chantel. “I keep thinking you’re crawling with real spiders.” She shuddered and passed Amy the plastic Coke bottle they’d topped up with Malibu. Amy took a deep swig and handed it back, feeling the room spin a little. A whiff of cannabis floated through the air. Amy knew that Chantel was bound to sniff it out and befriend whoever’d brought it.

“It would have been better if you’d come as a flower,” said Chantel. “You’d match my costume and you wouldn’t be quite so terrifying.”

“Or a jar of honey,” mused Amy. “Not very Halloween-y though.”

“I smell the good stuff,” interrupted Chantel inevitably, sitting up and eyeing the room like a meerkat. “Want some?”

“No,” said Amy. “I’m fine with the Malibu.”

“Probably a good idea. You’d terrify yourself, wearing those insects stoned.”

“Spiders aren’t insects,” she started, but Chantel was gone. Amy looked around the party. Seb, dressed as a cowboy, was fervently snogging a witch on the sofa. The two girls with cat ears and black noses had put Five on the CD player and had taken her and Chantel’s place dancing. She briefly watched them bouncing up and down while counting to the music on their fingers. She took another swig of her drink.

“I’ve always liked spiders,” said a boy wearing a bright-orange T-shirt and black jeans. “And Garbage.” Amy felt he was slightly familiar, but she didn’t think she’d spoken to him before. He had an apologetic slope to his shoulders typical of the very tall and a Noel Gallagher haircut, and he was, Amy realized, excessively handsome. “Mind if I join you?”

“Sure,” said Amy, trying to sound nonchalant. Foggily she felt as if he were someone she’d admired at one time. Perhaps he’d been a couple of years above her in school. Or maybe he’d even been on telly.

“What’s that?” she exclaimed, the admiration dissipating as she caught sight of something orange and mushy hanging from his earlobe.

“Damn, is there more?” he said, his hand reaching for his ear. “I thought I’d got it all.”

“What on earth…?”

“I’ve blown my cool, haven’t I?” he said with a grimace. “Maybe this will help explain.” He rummaged through a plastic bag, the ubiquitous royal-blue kind that came from every corner shop. Amy heard a bottle clink against something; then he produced a shard of pumpkin and a small hammer. Amy took the pumpkin piece, turning it over in her hand. It was wet and sticky.

“I was trying to be authentic,” he said. “But instead I’m just pumpkin-flavored.”

“Smashing Pumpkins,” said Amy. “That’s who you’ve come as.”

He grinned back at her. “You’re the first person to get that. Turns out it was a terrible idea.”

Amy laughed. “Plastic spiders seem like genius now,” she said. He smiled back at her, and Amy noticed his eyes crinkling in the corners. “I know you from somewhere.”

He bit his lip. “I am famous round these parts.”

“Really?”

“No,” he said with a laugh. “But my band did have our first-ever gig last week, even if it was in the back room of a pub.” He sounded proud and a little embarrassed all at once.

“Of course,” said Amy, the pieces falling into place like a reassembled pumpkin. “You played at the Firkin!”

His mouth fell open. “You saw us?” he asked. “Maybe I’m more famous than I think.”

Amy laughed again. “You did have to tell me before I recognized you.” She paused. “You were pretty good though.”

“You’re my first groupie!” he declared. “You can be my Yoko.”

Amy felt herself coloring a little. The band had been good. Really good. She’d loved them.

“I don’t suppose you have a corkscrew?” he asked. He lifted a bottle of wine from his bag. “I think we should celebrate.”

“Sorry,” said Amy, wishing desperately that she did have a corkscrew. Suddenly her plastic bottle of Malibu and Coke seemed terribly uncool. She gave it a gentle flick with her heel, and it rolled under the sofa out of sight. She glanced around the room. A few boys were gulping from beer cans, and a bottle of overproof rum was doing the rounds. “I don’t think anyone else here is drinking wine,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’ll check the kitchen.”

“I’m too sophisticated for my own good,” he said.

Amy laughed. “That would be more convincing if you didn’t have butternut squash in your ear.”

“Pumpkin,” he corrected. “Give me some credit.” He followed her into the kitchen. “Listen,” he said. “If we can’t find a corkscrew here, how about we take a walk and try to hunt one down? I could do with the fresh air.”

Quietly Amy opened a drawer and pushed away the corkscrew she’d just found. She closed it again.

“Nothing here,” she said, knowing she was a terrible liar. “We’ll have to.”

“Great.” He smiled at her, and she smiled back.

“I’ll just let Chantel know.…” She looked around the party and saw Chantel kissing Dean Chapman again, who she insisted was not her boyfriend but who she always snogged when she’d had a couple of drinks. “Oh,” said Amy. “She’s busy.”

“I’ll get my coat,” he said. “My name’s Tim, by the way.”

“I’m Amy,” she told him. “Amy Ashton.”

IT FELT COLD but fresh outside after the smoky haze of the party, and Amy breathed in deeply. “It’s good to be outdoors,” said Tim, as if reading her mind. “But you must be cold.” He took off his jacket, a heavy leather affair, and draped it round her shoulders. Amy had seen guys do that in the movies, but it had never happened to her in her seventeen years. The boys at school were not that gentlemanly, and she suddenly felt as if she were in a proper love story. With a rock star. She shivered a little.

“If you’re still too cold, we can head back inside?” he said.

“No,” she said quickly, pulling the coat closer round her. “I’m fine.” She smiled at him. “Thank you.”

“I hope there’s no pumpkin on that,” he said.

“Me too,” she agreed. “Spiders hate pumpkins.”

“Really?”

“I’ve no idea,” she confessed. They both laughed, and walked on. This bit of Amy’s hometown was new, sprung up in response to the railway extension that suddenly made it possible to live here and commute to work in London. The houses were almost identical for miles, and it was easy to get lost or think you were walking in circles.

“So are you a full-time rock star?” teased Amy.

“Sort of,” said Tim. “I finished my A levels last year and my dad wanted to pack me off to university to study law, but I’m taking a break instead to try to make a go of the band.”

“A rebel,” said Amy, calculating that he must be two years older than her, itself rather exciting. “Very rock and roll.”

“Yes,” said Tim. He paused. “So you liked the band,” he prompted.

“It was awesome,” said Amy honestly. “I loved that song about missed sunsets.”

“?‘Already Dark’?” exclaimed Tim. “I wrote that.” Amy noticed his back was a little straighter. She was tall, but he towered above her. He must be well over six feet. And handsome and funny and talented and his leather jacket smelled like her favorite chair at her grandmother’s house.

“It was very sad,” said Amy. “And very beautiful.” Amy felt Tim’s fingers interlace her own at her words. Her heart felt as if it had grown larger, swollen by the warm hand embracing her palm.

“It’s about my mother,” he said. He bit his lip. “She died when I was ten.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Amy, feeling awkward. She wanted to say something that would help, that would provide comfort. But she had nothing. She squeezed his hand instead.

Tim squeezed back. “I haven’t told anyone else that’s what the song’s about.”

He turned to her and Amy found herself staring into eyes the color of chestnuts.

“I feel like I can trust you,” he said. “Already.” Tim released her hand and wrapped his arms around her back.

“You can,” said Amy. She felt the bottle he was holding brush against her as she closed her eyes and leaned in.

“Zombie alert!” shouted someone. Tim quickly released the embrace as a drunken crowd of Halloween revelers stumbled by, pulling scary faces at the two of them and laughing.

They watched them go, then walked on themselves, the moment gone. His hand found hers again. “I think there’s a corner shop up here,” said Amy. “They probably sell corkscrews.”

“We don’t really need one,” said Tim. “I’m afraid I got you alone on false pretenses.”

“Oh,” said Amy. He must have seen her hide the corkscrew in the kitchen. She let go of his hand, feeling embarrassed.

“It’s nothing sinister,” he added quickly. “Although, lying to get a pretty girl on her own in the cold, dark night surrounded by zombies… maybe it does sound a little on the creepy side.”

“Lying?” queried Amy, although inside she was busy being delighted about the “pretty” comment.

He sheepishly held up the bottle. “Screw top.”

Amy laughed. “There was a bottle opener in the kitchen,” she confessed.

“I know.” He smiled. “Is that a little park?” he asked. “It looks nice.”

“That’s a bit of grass in the middle of a roundabout,” said Amy.

“Care to join me for a swig of cheap red wine from my screw-top bottle in the middle of a roundabout?” he offered with a small bow, proffering his hand.

Amy took the hand and smiled again. “That’s the sort of offer I don’t get every day,” she said. “At least not from a rock star with pumpkin in his ears.”

“And wine,” he replied, twisting open the bottle as they sat on the rough grass. “Don’t forget the bottle of wine.” He handed the bottle to Amy. It felt cold in her hand, but the wine warmed her throat. She passed the bottle back to him and watched as he drank. The bottle caught the moonlight and glowed a deep, beautiful green.