Extract from The Bookshop of Second Chances by Jackie Fraser

Today it's my pleasure to be kicking off the blog tour for Jackie Fraser's debut novel The Bookshop of Second Chances by sharing an extract from Chapter One. 

Thea’s having a bad month. Not only has she been made redundant, she’s also discovered her husband of nearly twenty years is sleeping with one of her friends. And he’s not sorry – he’s leaving. 

Bewildered and lost, Thea doesn’t know what to do. But, when she learns the great-uncle she barely knew has died and left her his huge collection of second-hand books and a house in the Scottish Lowlands, she seems to have been offered a second chance. 

Running away to a little town where no one knows her seems like exactly what Thea needs. But when she meets the aristocratic Maltravers brothers – grumpy bookshop owner Edward and his estranged brother Charles, Lord Hollinshaw – her new life quickly becomes just as complicated as the life she was running from... 

I can’t look at him, or not full on. I keep glancing sideways at him, just catching glimpses. Our eyes never meet.

‘Yes. It’s all right. Or no, it isn’t, it’s . . . but I know you didn’t exactly do it on purpose.’

‘No. I really didn’t.’ He looks knackered, almost as bad as I feel.

‘Anyway, I’d better go.’

He nods, and then says, ‘Oh, wait. There’s a letter.’

‘A letter?’

‘It only came yesterday. I thought, as I was going to see you . . . Hang on,’ he says, and disappears for a moment into the study. ‘Here. A solicitor’s letter, I think. Have you—’

‘Not my solicitors,’ I say, taking the envelope from him. I hesitate and then tear it open, rapidly scanning the contents. ‘Oh, weird.’

‘What is it?’ says Xanthe.

‘It’s Uncle Andrew.’ I look at Chris. ‘Great-uncle Andrew, I should say.’

‘The one who died?’

I nod. Great-uncle Andrew died last year. I didn’t go to the funeral; he lives – lived – in Scotland, and I’d only met him a few times. My grandfather’s eldest brother, he’d outlived Grandad by a good fifteen years and made it to ninety-three.

‘And?’

‘He’s left me his house,’ I say, rather stunned.

‘Ooh, really? Where is it?’ asks Xanthe. ‘Somewhere glamorous?’

‘It’s about an hour west of Dumfries,’ I tell her, and laugh at her disappointed expression. ‘I’ve never been there. It’s the arse end of nowhere.’

‘That’s useful,’ says Chris. ‘I mean, so you’ll be able to sell it, hopefully, and buy somewhere better. Than if you just had the money for this.’

I can see he’s relieved; it will make him feel better, if I can afford something reasonable.

‘I suppose so,’ I say. The letter mentions some money as well, but I don’t say anything about that. It’s quite a substantial sum. I’m suddenly aware that the mostly low-level but occasionally serious anxiety I’ve been feeling about my job, or lack of, has dropped away. It’s not enough to live on for ever or anything, but it’s certainly a relief.

‘How come he’s left it to you? No kids?’ asks Xanthe. ‘He had a daughter. Dad’s cousin. But she died, years and years ago.’ I try to remember what happened. ‘I think she drowned? Or something. It’s weird he didn’t leave it to Dad though, or Auntie Claire.’

‘How exciting,’ she says. ‘So do you have to go and pack all his stuff? I guess you’re in the right mood to sort through more boxes?’

This makes us all laugh, a release of tension.

‘I hadn’t thought of that. I suppose so.’ I look at the letter again. ‘Apparently it’s all gone through and everything, so this bloke’ – I turn the letter over – ‘Alastair Gordon, of Smith, Gordon and Macleod, has the keys for me and some paperwork. “Let me know when is convenient for you to take possession of the property. I’ll be delighted to take you to the house and etc.” And yes, it says “contents” and it says,’ I continue, reading again more carefully, ‘he collected books and the library – ha, library – was valued a couple of years ago, but should probably be revalued, and should be sold through a reputable dealer if I decide I don’t want it.’

‘Wow,’ says Xanthe. ‘Does the house have an actual library?’ ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think it’s very big. West Lodge, it’s called. Anyway, we can look it up later. Poor Uncle Andrew.

I feel bad now that I didn’t go to the funeral.’

‘Is that the will?’ asks Chris, as I unfold a fat photocopy.

‘Yeah. Oh look, he explains – “and to my great-niece Althea Lucy Mottram née Hamilton blah blah whom I have only met on four occasions, but who each time was intent on reading, rather than talking, which has always been my own preference.” Oh bless. Well there you go, Mother, so much for saying no good will come of it.’

Make sure you pop back to the blog next Tuesday, 31st August, when I'll be sharing Emma's review as part of the blog tour.