Runaway Wife

Praise for Rowan Coleman’s novels

Lessons in Laughing Out Loud

“An engaging tale of a woman’s unexpected journey to self-discovery. . . . The unpredictable outcome is immensely rich and satisfying, as is the heroine’s transformation.”

—
RT Book Reviews

“[Rowan Coleman has] a wonderful combination of imagination, acute real-world social observation, and an elegant way with words. . . .
Lessons in Laughing Out Loud
sweeps you into its world with faultless ease. A truly loveable central character, a secret you really want to uncover, and a huge cast of people from wildly different worlds who mesh and work together with impressive ease.”

—Serena Mackesy, author of
Hold My Hand
and
The Temp

“The wit woven throughout the book will surely win over any reader.”

—
Tulsa Book Review

“One of those quotable books . . . [that] offers up so much good advice and humorous as well as serious dialogue that the reader will have a hard time forgetting even a small scene.”

—
Fresh Fiction

The Home for Broken Hearts

“Coleman displays her usual charm and wit as she creates genuine characters and explores love, life, and sisterhood.”

—
Booklist

“A mature, thoughtful story [that] successfully juggles a large cast of characters and creates men and women alike with balance and humor. . . . An engaging cast and heartwarming story.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Will make you laugh, cry, and look at your sister in a whole new light.”

—
The Daily Record

“Paced to perfection, it’s hard not to get emotionally involved.”

—
News of the World

“Well-written, emotionally satisfying, and engaging.”

—
Daily Mail

The Accidental Family

“Winning . . . turns up the heat on Coleman’s trademark humor.”

—
Booklist

“A tale of romance and love that is fast-paced and sure to keep you speculating.”

—
Fresh Fiction

“Great escapism, with a good mix of humor and tension.”

—
Candis

“I could read about Sophie, Louis, Bella, Izzy, and all, all day long.”

—
Chick Lit Reviews

Mommy by Mistake

“Entertaining . . . will have readers laughing and crying.”

—
Booklist

“A lovely book, a gentle read with lots of romcom factors.”

—
Trashionista

“Everyone who is a mother will recognize all the emotional highs and lows that the characters in this book experience after having a baby. . . . A poignant story.”

—
Hertfordshire Life

“Comic and easy to read.”

—
In the Know

The Accidental Mother

“Fun, poignant.”

—
OK! magazine

“A disarmingly sweet tale of motherhood and reluctant love.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“Witty and endearing characters . . . an exceptional and touching read.”

—
Booklist

“A charming tale . . . sophisticated chick lit.”

—
Heat magazine

For Stanley Edward and Aubrey John,
born April 10, 2012

Dearest Rose,

Our meeting, though brief, has stayed with me and I wanted to write and thank you for your hospitality when I came to see you a few days ago. You didn’t have to be so kind to a stranger turning up unannounced, but you were and I am so grateful. Although you were not able to help me find the painting, everything you told me about your father was both fascinating and heartbreaking. Why is it, I wonder, that artists are so often capable of creating such beauty whilst doing such harm to themselves and others? I hope that one day you will perhaps be able to reconcile with him and find the answers to all of your questions.

I hope you will forgive me when I write that you are a remarkable woman and you deserve all the happiness, contentment, and love in the world. I, for one, know that I have never met anyone quite like you.

Yours,

Frasier

“D
o you know what time it is?” An irritated woman’s muffled voice was just about audible from the other side of the door.

“I . . . I know, but this is a B and B, isn’t it?” Rose asked. Her seven-year-old daughter, Maddie, snuggled into her neck, weighing heavily on her hip as she shivered against the cold. Despite it being the height of summer, fine needles of icy rain were driving down into the tops of their heads, and Rose had forgotten to bring Maddie a coat. There hadn’t been time to think about coats; there hadn’t been time to do anything but leave, grabbing a few damp and muddled items from the wash basket in the kitchen, and one oddly wrapped package, bundled up and secreted long ago, perhaps waiting for just this moment.

“Doors are locked at nine p.m. sharp!” the voice called back. “It’s in all the literature. It’s three o’clock in the morning. I’ve got a good mind to call the police.”

Rose gasped in a ragged breath, determined not to cry. She’d made it this far without crying; she wasn’t going to let this disembodied voice break her when nothing else had.

“I know, but, please, I’ve come a long way and I’ve got a
little girl with me. We just need a place to stay. I would have booked ahead, but I didn’t know I was coming.”

There was some more muttering, a man’s voice too, Rose thought, drawing Maddie even nearer into her body, trying to suppress the child’s shivers with her embrace. As she did so, she tightened her arm on her other, less precious package, which was tucked underneath it: a smallish rectangular object that Rose had hurriedly wrapped in a blanket.

“A child?” The woman’s voice came again.

“Yes, she’s only seven.”

With a mixture of fear and trepidation, Rose waited as she heard bolts being drawn back and locks being released. Finally the heavy-looking, thickly painted wooden door drew back to let a slant of yellow light cut through the rain, making the drops dazzle and glitter. A woman of indeterminate age peered through the gap at the sodden pair, and then after a moment took a step back and opened the door wider.

“This is really most irregular,” she told Rose as she hurried into the hallway. “Knocking on the front door at all hours of the day and night. I’ve got my other guests to think of.”

“There
are
no other guests.” The owner of the male voice, a well-built bearded man in his late fifties, sporting a vest and jogging bottoms, smiled at Rose. “Don’t you fret about it, love. It’s no bother. I’m Brian and this is my wife, Jenny. Jenny, you take them up, give them towels, and I’ll bring you both up a nice warm drink. Hot chocolate do you, little one?”

Maddie drove her face deeper into Rose’s chest, her frozen fingers clinging on for all they were worth. Maddie was not a child who settled easily into strange surroundings, particularly when the circumstances that had brought them here had already been so traumatic.

“That really is so kind,” Rose said gratefully. “We’d love a hot chocolate, wouldn’t we, Maddie?”

“Like I said, no bother.” Brian smiled. “Now, got any luggage you want me to bring in for you?”

“I . . . don’t. No. There’s no luggage.” Rose smiled weakly, lifting one elbow awkwardly to reveal her oddly wrapped package. “Just us and this.”

Jenny raised a skeptical brow, and clearly saw that nothing good could come of her latest and only guest. “I usually ask for cash up front, twenty-five a night. Presumably you’ve got cash?”

“Yes, I . . .” Rose attempted to reach into her pocket while still cradling Maddie and the package.

“For God’s sakes, woman,” Brian said, shaking his head, “let the lass be. We’ll sort the payment in the morning. Right, now . . . ?” He looked at her questioningly.

“Oh, I’m Rose, Rose Pritchard, and this is Maddie.”

“Right then, well, Rose here needs to get little Maddie into bed!”

“For all you know she might be an axe murderer,” Jenny muttered not entirely under her breath.

“Well, if she is, I’ll wager she’s too tired to chop us up tonight. Now stop going on and get up them stairs.”

It was only as Rose followed Jenny’s considerable behind up the narrow stairs that she realized her landlady was wearing a rather risqué pink negligee, which floated above her on the steep incline like a jellyfish, showing flashes of her ample dimpled thighs. Dimly it occurred to Rose that perhaps Jenny and Brian were the axe murderers, but she was so tired, her body exhausted by the hours of driving and her mind reeling from everything that had happened, that if they were, she didn’t think she could be bothered to run away twice in one day. After all, it had taken her most of her life to find the courage to make this first escape. Millthwaite, without any particular renown or importance, lost deep in the heart of the
Lake District, was a village very few people had heard of. Except it was here, in a place that could perhaps most accurately be described as the middle of nowhere, that Rose was hoping against hope to find her second chance.

Jenny opened the door on a room at the top of the house, flicking on the light. It was a neat, clean little room, with narrow twin beds set about a foot apart, covered with pink candlewick bedspreads. The small rose pattern on the wallpaper was repeated on the curtains and on the swags that hung over them, a style that had been fashionable about thirty years earlier.

“I’ve put you in here because it’s got its own loo,” Jenny said as Rose sat down on a bed, still holding Maddie tightly as she laid her package down beside her. “There’s clean towels there, and I’ll put the immersion on, I suppose, if you want a shower.”

“Really, all I want to do is sleep,” Rose said, closing her eyes for a moment.

“And you’ve got no luggage but that thing?” Jenny asked her, standing in the doorway, her nightie floating around her with a life of its own. “Where have you come from again?”

“Broadstairs, in Kent,” Rose said, easing Maddie onto the bed and taking one of the folded towels from the pillow to rub her wet hair. Rolling onto her tummy, Maddie refused to show her face to the strange woman, or even the strange room.

“All that way and not even an overnight bag?” Jenny asked, her curiosity almost as naked as her considerable cleavage.

“No,” Rose said, hoping she was making it clear that she would not be drawn on the subject.

“Well, then, as you’ve ruined my and Brian’s special night, anyway, I’ll go and find you something to wear . . .”