The House We Called Home: The magical, laugh out loud summer holiday read from the bestselling Jenny Oliver
'Love, humour, family and hope – the perfect ingredients for a summer read' Debbie Johnson‘Dramatic and fun!’ My WeeklyIrresistible, feel-good summer fiction, from Top 10 bestseller Jenny OliverThe house where Stella and her sister Amy grew up never changes – the red front door, the breath-taking view over the Cornish coast, her parents in their usual spots on the sofa. Except this summer, things feel a little different…Stella’s father is nowhere to be seen, yet her mother – in suspiciously new Per Una jeans – seems curiously unfazed by his absence, and more eager to talk about her mysterious dog-walking buddy Mitch.Stella’s sister Amy has returned home with a new boyfriend she can barely stand and a secret to hide, and Stella’s husband Jack has something he wants to get off his chest too. Even Frank Sinatra, the dog, has a guilty air about him.This summer, change is in the air for the Whitethorns…Warm, funny and gloriously feel-good, this is the perfect summer read for fans of Veronica Henry and Milly Johnson.What readers are saying about Jenny Oliver:'Summer holidays wouldn't be the same without one of Jenny Oliver's lovely books to read.''This was brilliant. I was really sad when it came to an end.''Another great read from Jenny Oliver…Looking forward to reading her next one''well written and hilarious family situations which we can all relate to.''Feel good factor in this book. Will be reading more of this author.'
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JENNY OLIVER wrote her first book on holiday when she was ten years old. Illustrated with cut-out supermodels from her sister’s Vogue, it was an epic, sweeping love story not so loosely based on Dynasty. Since then Jenny has gone on to get an English degree and a job in publishing that’s taught her what it takes to write a novel (without the help of the supermodels).
The Parisian Christmas Bake Off
The Vintage Summer Wedding
The Little Christmas Kitchen
The Sunshine and Biscotti Club
The Summerhouse by the Sea
An imprint of HarperCollins Publishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2018
Copyright © Jenny Oliver 2018
Jenny Oliver asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
Ebook Edition © June 2018 ISBN: 9780008217990
Version: 2018-06-14
‘Brilliantly written, this is packed full of humour… A perfect holiday read.’
The Sun
‘This book made me want to dance on the beach with a glass of sangria in my hand. The perfect summer read.’
Sarah Morgan
‘This is a real treat. A touching story of love, loss and finding out what really matters in life. I love it!’
Julia Williams
‘Jenny Oliver writes contemporary women’s fiction which leaves you with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.’
Books with Bunny
‘Intelligent, delightful and charming! The writing is exquisite.’
What’s Better Than Books
‘A perfect summer read.’
This Price Is Usually Right
‘A sprinkling of festivity, a touch of romance and a glorious amount of mouth-watering baking!’
Rea Book Review
‘…it was everything I enjoy…I couldn’t find a single flaw.’
Afternoon Bookery
‘I didn’t want to put the book down until I had reached the very last word on the last page.’
A Spoonful of Happy Endings
To Emily
Contents
She stood at the cliff edge looking out at the rolling summer surf. The house towering behind her, solid grey stone and slate, bursting pink rhododendrons, white garden furniture that needed a paint. The image, like closing your eyes after glancing at the sun, almost indelible on her retina, beams of light dancing in the dark.
Out ahead, mountains of cloud hovered on the horizon, a windsurfer made painful progress in the non-existent breeze while paddleboarders cruised on water that glistened like a million jumping fish.
Moira balled up her fists. Tight so she could feel her nails in her palms. If she could she would have rattled them like a child throwing a tantrum. If she could she would have screwed her eyes shut and stamped her foot and shouted down at the bloody picture-perfect view, ‘Graham Whitethorn, you goddamn pain in the arse.’
But she couldn’t. Because from inside the hoody of the teenage boy standing beside her she could just glimpse big worried eyes, and see the wipe of snot on his frayed baggy cuffs.
So, instead she took a deep invigorating breath of salty sea air, pushed her hair from her face, and said, ‘Come on then, Sonny. Let’s make some breakfast and call your mother. Tell her what silly old Grandpa’s done.’
They turned back towards the house. The beautiful house. The image on her retina fitting the outline exactly.
‘What do you mean he’s gone missing?’ Stella frowned into her phone, then almost without thinking pointed out of the car window and said to her seven-year-old, ‘Look, Rosie – Stonehenge.’
‘Missing…?’ Jack, her husband, mouthed from the driver’s seat.
Stella made a face, unsure.
Behind her, little Rosie had no interest in Stonehenge, deeply imbedded in YouTube on the iPad, happily powering through their 4G data with her gem-studded headphones on. Usually Stella would have clicked her fingers to get Rosie’s attention and pointed out of the window again to make sure she didn’t miss the view, but the phone call from her mother trumped any tourist attraction. ‘I don’t understand, Mum,’ Stella said. ‘How can Dad be missing? Where is he?’
