The Summer House of Happiness: A delightfully feel-good romantic comedy perfect for holiday!

‘Well, I can’t stand here chatting all day,’ announced Max, striding over to a VW Beetle that looked like it had just driven off the set of a Barbie film, its sugar-pink paintwork dotted with huge white daisies.

As Max leaned over the engine, Gabbie found her eyes drawn to the taut curve of his buttocks. However, she also recognised that her attraction to Max was caused by more than simple physical desire. For one thing, they had a great deal in common; she sensed, too, that beneath the brooding exterior something much more vulnerable lurked and she was keen to find out what.

As she made her way towards the office, another ripple of interest swept through her, and she was flustered by the strength of her reaction to someone she barely knew. Jasmine was right. It really was time she got back on the dating horse.

Chapter Five (#ulink_b91caecf-e335-5d1d-9503-02bbb73e3f34)

Gabbie wove her way through the labyrinth of cardboard boxes and toppling stacks of old car magazines to the office in the far corner of the garage. She reached for the grubby handle and paused. Anxiety gnawed at her abdomen as she wondered what she might discover behind that door.

Well, she wasn’t going to find out by just standing there, was she?

She inhaled a deep breath and went in. It was even worse than she had imagined. The gargantuan mahogany desk that had been in the Andrews family for years was almost unidentifiable – strewn with car manuals, crumpled correspondence, discarded envelopes, pots of pens, used coffee cups. Even the drawers had been wrenched open so that more paperwork could be balanced on top.

The shelves behind the desk were crammed with box files, all higgledy-piggledy and no longer in alphabetical order, and the gun-metal-grey filing cabinet was covered in blisters of rust and, incongruously, missing a drawer. But the thing Gabbie found most disconcerting was the odour of dirty dishcloths and mould. It had always been a standing joke that Andrews Autos was the only garage in the whole of Devon, and perhaps even England, that emitted a faint smell of roses, or lavender, or jasmine, depending on her mother’s mood that week. A mantle of sadness draped its weight over Gabbie’s shoulders at discovering yet another slip in standards since her mother had passed away and she had left Oakley to pursue her dreams in France.

She slumped down into the burgundy captain’s chair and sighed. Why did things have to change? Why couldn’t the garage at least have retained the familiarity she was expecting? After all, nothing had changed for the first twenty-one years she had been there – apart from the Pirelli calendar on the wall. As she ran her eyes over the newspapers scattered over the floor and the overflowing wastepaper basket, she felt as though she wasn’t in Andrews Autos at all, but some other garage belonging to a proprietor who didn’t care about his business, and that thought jerked her out of her melancholy and into action.

She made a start on the in-tray, separating the coffee-stained invoices into those that had been paid and those that required attention before moving on to the filing. By the time she stopped for a break it was after six o’clock and her stomach growled with objection at the lack of attention, but she was on a roll and had no intention of stopping for such mundane necessities. She could now see the leather inlay on the top of the desk and had located the missing drawer from the filing cabinet in the gents’ toilet of all places!

‘Okay, I’m… Oh, my God! What’s going on?’ said Max, appearing at the door. ‘I can hardly recognise the place. I wondered why I hadn’t seen you around this afternoon. Wow, you’ve certainly been busy.’

‘Mum always kept this office so shipshape that it ran like one of your shiny engines. Orderliness is the engine oil of an efficient business, she used to say. Customers would tease her, saying they felt like they should put their cars through a carwash before bringing them for their annual service at Andrews Autos. She secretly loved the thought of that.’

Gabbie flashed a glance through the office window into the workshop, but her view was blocked by the mountain of cardboard. She knew exactly what her next task was going to be.

Max followed her line of sight. ‘The place was like this when I joined at the beginning of summer. I thought this was what it was always like so I just accepted it as normal. There was enough to do sorting out the vehicles without donning an apron and washing down the surfaces. Anyway, it didn’t take me long to discover where everything was and the system sort of works. If I can’t find something, Wil usually knows where to look. Right, I just popped in to tell you I’m finished for the day and if you fancy joining Wil and I for a pint in The Pear Tree later, you’d be very welcome.’

‘Oh, thanks, but I think I’ll finish up here. I could be a while.’ She laughed.

‘No problem. Another time. See you tomorrow.’

Gabbie watched Max snatch up his car keys and stride out of the garage without looking back. She enjoyed the view, the swing of his hips, the denim jacket slung casually over his shoulder, but she wasn’t sure how she would feel if the tables were turned and he’d been watching her retreating backside.

Half an hour later, she paused at the office door, finger on the light switch, surveying her handiwork. She was satisfied with the results and made a decision. She collected the three box files that held that year’s business accounts, locked the door and pocketed the key, determined to have a word with her father about letting the paperwork slide.

Unfortunately, she had forgotten he played archery on a Tuesday evening and the house felt strangely quiet, the joists overhead creaking like arthritic limbs. She dropped the boxes on the kitchen table and decided to make herself a tuna sandwich before settling down to wade through the muddle of documents that made up the financial affairs of Andrews Autos.

She flicked through the TV channels, but she hadn’t watched a British television programme in years. She selected an apple from the fruit bowl she had replenished in the hope of tempting her father with a healthy snack rather than a packet of crisps, and checked her watch. The archery shoot usually finished around eight when the light started to fade, and he would then retire with his fellow archer, Mike Sanderson, to The Pear Tree for a few pints and a discussion about their respective scores – that meant she had a couple of hours to kill.

Gabbie wondered briefly whether she should call Clara instead of spending her evening hunched over rows and rows of figures. The longer she put it off, the harder it would be to explain to her friend why she hadn’t told her she was home. She yearned to hear Clara’s soft West Country burr that had caused tears of homesickness to fall in the early days as she had struggled to settle into her tiny studio in Grasse. Over the two years she had been away, their phone calls had dwindled, yet every time they spoke, Gabbie felt as though she’d just seen her yesterday. A sharp spasm of guilt shot through her when she realised that, because of the recent frenzied work schedule at House of Gasnier, she hadn’t spoken to her childhood partner-in-crime for a couple of months.

She sauntered over to the kitchen sink. Through the window she inadvertently caught a glimpse of the summerhouse and sadness seeped into her veins. She knew that unless she kept herself busy she would be overcome by an avalanche of painful memories. If she didn’t yet have the courage to ring Clara and spill out every detail of what had happened over the last few weeks, she would need to find something else to occupy her thoughts.

She returned to the garage workshop, so calm and peaceful in the evening. A perfect image of that room had been imprinted on the inside of her eyelids, an image she could call up whenever she craved a slice of home. But the picture was now totally distorted by the jumble of random objects scattered everywhere, not least the huge pyramid of cardboard blocking the office window. She reached up to remove the box balanced precariously on the top and was surprised to find it was empty.

That was the start of it. By the time she saw the headlights of her father’s ancient Volvo swing onto the driveway in front of the house, the garage looked exactly like it always had; clean, uncluttered and, more to the point, smelling amazing, even if the chosen bouquet did include a top note of disinfectant.

Gabbie decided the makeover would have greater impact if she revealed it in all its glory the next morning, so she hustled out of the garage, locked the connecting door and slid into a kitchen chair, feigning nonchalance as the front door opened.

‘Hi, Dad! How was Mike?’

‘Fine, fine. He sends his love.’

‘And how was the meeting at the bank this afternoon?’

‘Oh, that was fine too,’ Jeff said far too breezily as he hung his coat on the peg, his back to Gabbie for just a second longer than necessary.

Gabbie knew immediately he was avoiding the subject.

‘Dad…’

‘Not now, sweetheart. I’m shattered, what with the trip to town, the shoot tonight and our favourite seats in the Pear being commandeered by a bunch of inebriated tourists down from London for a week of team building! I think I’ll grab an early night, if you don’t mind? New day tomorrow, though, so how about I take you with me to see an MG one of Mike’s friends is looking to offload? It’s a V8. You’ll love it.’

Gabbie was about to press him on the outcome of the bank visit but his haggard expression and the weary slump of his shoulders forced her to agree that getting some rest was a priority.

‘Sounds great. I’d love to come with you. Night, Dad. I love you.’

She hugged him a little tighter than she usually did, enjoying the affectionate squeeze he gave her in return, before stomping up the stairs behind him and surrendering to the safe hands of sleep as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Chapter Six (#ulink_2ac16e50-6092-5046-baf5-dacfaa385a71)

‘For God’s sake! Where is she?’

Gabbie heard the angry exclamation clearly from the workshop, followed by a sharp rap on the connecting door as she was busy spooning instant coffee into a mug.

‘Come in. Do you want a…’

‘What the hell’s the matter with you? What were you thinking? Okay, sort out the office – I get that. But the garage? Where are all my tools? My own personal belongings that I saved up to buy with my hard-earned cash? I told you yesterday, the place might be a little disorganised, messy even, but I know where everything is. Wil and I have a system. You might not recognise it, or approve of it, but it is our system and it works for us. I’ve come in extra early this morning to work on the Jag and I can’t find anything. It’s all hidden away…’

‘Max…’

‘And what on earth is that smell?’

Gabbie abandoned the coffee and followed Max onto the forecourt, unsure how to deal with the onslaught of indignation. She had assumed he would be grateful for her intervention in the car chaos.

‘It’s elderflower and passionfruit.’

‘Passionfruit? Passionfruit?’ Max ran his fingers through the quiff at his forehead, his eyes skimming every corner of the garage. ‘In case you haven’t noticed, Andrews Autos is a car-maintenance garage, not a French tart’s boudoir. What on earth possessed you? What made you think you could march in and organise our lives in accordance with your own vision? You might be the proprietor’s fragrantly doused daughter, but you don’t work here – Wil and I do, and we can’t do our jobs when all our tools are filed away in alphabetical order! Every day would be like embarking on a treasure hunt. I thought you understood how busy we were?’

‘Hey, wind back a bit. You might not know this but Andrews Autos has been in business for three generations and throughout that time we have prided ourselves on efficient repairs at a fair price, timely MOTs and services, but also on providing a spotless, and safe, working environment…’

‘Arggh!’

Gabbie swung her eyes over her shoulder towards a silver Peugeot behind which the sharp grunt of agony had come, followed by a clattering of metal tools falling to the floor and spinning in all directions.

‘What was that?’

‘Not sure.’