Seven Summers - Softcover

Toon, Paige

Softcover

ISBN 10: 0593544358 ISBN 13: 9780593544358

Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

“This book wrecked me in the best possible way.”—CARLEY FORTUNE, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Every Summer After

“Shatters your heart in pieces, then puts it together again and again.”—ABBY JIMENEZ, #1 New York Times bestselling author of Just for the Summer

SIX SUMMERS TO FALL IN LOVE. ONE SUMMER TO CHANGE IT ALL.

Liv and Finn meet six summers ago working in a bar on the rugged Cornish coastline, their futures full of promise. When a night of passion ends in devastating tragedy they are bound together inextricably. But Finn’s life is in LA with his band, and Liv’s is in Cornwall with her family – so they make a promise. Finn will return every year, and if they are single they will spend the summer together.

This summer Liv crosses paths with Tom – a mysterious new arrival in her hometown. As the wildflowers and heather come into bloom, they find themselves falling for one another. For the first time Liv can imagine a world where her heart isn’t broken every autumn. Now Liv must make an impossible choice. And when she discovers the shocking reason that Tom has left home, she’ll need to trust her heart even more . . .

Über diesen Titel

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Paige Toon grew up between England, Australia, and America and has been writing emotional love stories since 2007. She has published fifteen novels, a three-part spin-off series for young adults, and a collection of short stories. Her books have sold nearly 2 million copies worldwide. She lives in Cambridgeshire, England, with her husband and their two children. Only Love Can Hurt Like This is her first novel published in the US.

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1

Perfume emanates from the purple and white wildflowers growing on the grassy banks, and the morning air is crisp and still as I set off to Seaglass, the restaurant-cum-bar on the beach where I work. On either side of me, the hills seem to climb higher and higher as the road cuts down through the valley, and in the far distance, the Atlantic Ocean comes into view, a deep blue where it hits the horizon. I follow the curve of the road past whitewashed cottages, the pub, and the Surf Life-Saving Club before Trevaunance Cove appears in full. The tide is halfway in and the curling, clear aquamarine waves are lapping gently against the creamy-white sand.

Summer has landed and Cornwall is radiant. I feel the hope of it in my bones, as though I might finally be ready to step out of the cold shadow that has lingered over me lately.

My new hair is helping too. I've worn my dark hair long ever since I can remember, but yesterday I went to the hairdresser and told her to do whatever she wanted.

Now it swings in waves just shy of my shoulders and I love it. I feel like a whole new person, which is exactly what I need.

My thoughts turn to Finn and my mood takes a nosedive, but then a breeze catches my hair and blows it back off my face, almost as though Mother Nature herself is reminding me that it's time for a fresh start.

As I head up the external staircase to Seaglass, my attention is caught by something unusual down on the beach below. The stream that leads to the ocean has carved myriad tracks out of the sand and someone has dug a number of the rivulets deeper by several inches so that now they look like tree branches forking outward from a trunk.

I pause so I can better study the art etched into the sand. The tree is leafless, which makes me think of winter. I wonder if it's winter in the artist's imagination too. What tools did he or she use to create the work? As a sculptor, I'm interested.

A wave collapses onto the shore and licks over the highest branches. It won't be long before the tide wipes the canvas clean, and I hate the thought of something so beautiful being stolen away before others have had time to appreciate it.

An idea comes to me and I take out my phone and click off a few shots, posting the best of them to Seaglass's Instagram page, along with the caption How about a little sand art with your brunch?

I'm an artist, not a wordsmith, so that will have to do.

Checking my email, I see that I have a new message from Tom Thornton:

Hi Liv,

Just dropping you a line on the off chance that the cottage will be available earlier than 4-I'm already in Cornwall.

Thanks,

Tom

I sigh. My guests are always trying to secure earlier check-ins.

I type back:

Hi Tom,

You're welcome to park your car on the drive, but I haven't had time to clean the place yet, as my last guests have only just left. I'm at work so I doubt it will be ready before 4.

Cheers,

Liv

I feel guilty when I see that he sent the message two hours ago. The rules are clear on the website, but I'm so grateful that he booked the cottage for the whole month of June after a last-minute cancellation that I'm thinking maybe I should make an exception for him. I was stressed about how I would fill four weeks outside of the school holidays and then this Tom guy swooped in and saved the day.

I decide to duck out at some point this morning and get the place ready early. I owe him that.

The familiar scent of stale beer and sea-damp mustiness washes over me as I enter Seaglass. I'm the first to arrive, but our chefs, bar staff, and waitstaff won't be far behind. We run food out of the kitchen and restaurant upstairs, the lower-ground floor is the cellar, and this middle level is all about the chilled bar vibe. On the left are French doors that open on to a balcony and face straight out to sea. And on the right is a dark-wood-paneled bar that takes up about half the length of the wall, with space for a winding open staircase and the bathrooms at the far end. A little along from the main door, perpendicular to the bar, is a performance stage.

My stomach pinches as I stare at this small raised platform, and for a moment I'm back in the past and Finn is at the mic, his lips cocked in a half smile, his gaze tangled up with mine.

Will he come back this summer?

Enough.

Behind me, the door clangs open, making me jump. I turn around, expecting to see staff, and instead find a stranger: a tall, broad man carrying a large black rucksack, his hands jammed into the pockets of a dark gray hoodie with the hood pulled up over his head.

"Sorry, we're not open yet," I call.

He comes to an abrupt stop, looking thoroughly fed up. "What time do you open?" he asks shortly.

"Ten a.m."

It's only a quarter past nine.

He under his breath as he turns on his heel and walks straight out again, leaving the door wide open.

Rude!

I go over to shut the door and glance down at the beach in time to see another wave crash onto the sand, erasing a whole section of tree. Despite my determination to stay upbeat today, I can't help but feel a little melancholic as I get on with opening up.


There’s no car parked on the drive when I return to Beach Cottage, the aptly named house that has been my home since the age of thirteen. A few years ago, I had it converted into two separate apartments, but from the outside it looks like a two-story cottage. It’s built of gray stone with a central door and four symmetrical windows with pale blue frames. Peeking above the high wall enclosing the property are the spiky heads of three fat palm trees. Along the front runs a bubbling stream, which is hugged by a waist-high stone wall with so much lush moss and foliage packed into its cracks and crevices that it looks half-alive. Two bridges, only a meter and a half long, allow access to the driveway and my front door.

I cross the tiny bridge to the main door and let myself into the hall before unlocking the downstairs apartment. My previous guests didn't have children and Tom is coming on his own, so there's little to do in the bunk room and its adjoining bathroom.

Wandering through to the cozy living room, I look around, smiling at the perfectly plumped sofa cushions. The open-plan kitchen and dining area at the back of the cottage are equally spotless. If only all guests were this thoughtful.

Satisfied that I'll have the place ready in no time, I tap out a quick email to Tom, letting him know that he can let himself in at midday. Hopefully, the news will make him happy.


The next morning, when I get out of bed, I go straight to the window and pull back the curtains. Still no car on the drive! Did this Tom guy even check in? I haven’t seen or heard him and he didn’t reply to my email.

An hour later, all thoughts of my wayward houseguest are forgotten as I stand on the balcony outside Seaglass and stare in stationary silence at the two trees now etched into the beach.

The first, on the left, stretches outward from the stream in the same style as yesterday's, a span of leafless, elegant branches.

The second has been sketched directly onto the sand in the center of the beach, a tall, slim, spire-shaped conifer that makes me think of the Italian cypress trees I once saw lining the paths of the Boboli Gardens in Florence.

The memory makes me feel hollow.

I find myself being drawn down to the beach and, up close, I notice how the edges of the cypress feather in a way that looks realistic. I think they might have been created with a rake, but the tree that is emerging from the stream seems to have been scored into the sand with a sharper object. I'd wondered if it had been imagined in winter, but next to the tall, strong...

Details zur Ausgabe

• Verlag: G.P. Putnam's Sons
• Erscheinungsdatum: 2024
• Sprache: Englisch
• ISBN 10: 0593544358
• ISBN 13: 9780593544358
• Einband: Taschenbuch
• Anzahl der Seiten: 438
• Kontakt zum Hersteller: Nicht verfügbar
• Verantwortliche Person: Nicht verfügbar