The Little Village Bakery: A feel good romantic comedy with plenty of cake (Honeybourne Book 1)

O
n the hottest
day of the year so far, the sprinklers on the green of the tiny village of Honeybourne made miniature rainbows in the shimmering air. Jasmine Green’s triplets, Rebecca, Rachel and Reuben, squealed as they raced backwards and forwards through the water, while Jasmine folded the last of the bunting from her stall of homemade crafts and furnishings.

‘It’s been a fabulous day for it,’ she commented cheerily to the vicar as he wandered over.

‘Certainly has,’ he agreed, looking round at the other stalls lined up around the perimeter of the green, their owners also packing away. ‘I love the fête, the one day of the summer when the whole village comes together to have fun.’

‘The children have certainly enjoyed it this year.’ She looked fondly over at her offspring, now soaked through but grinning all over their faces.

‘Some of the adults have had a good time too,’ he replied, angling his head to where Jasmine’s husband, Rich, was sitting on a deckchair looking distinctly sunburnt despite his dark hair and complexion, grinning drunkenly and staring into space.

She blew a ringlet the colour of candyfloss from her damp forehead and giggled. ‘I told him to be careful with Frank Stephenson’s scrumpy.’

‘Who’s got scrumpy?’ Rich asked, now squinting up at them.

‘No more for you today,’ Jasmine scolded, but only half-heartedly. He pouted like a little boy and she smiled indulgently. ‘If you can manage to walk in a straight line, how about you gather the kids up and help me get this stock back to the van?’ She folded her arms. ‘I suppose I’m driving home too as you’ve lost the ability to coordinate your limbs properly?’

He pushed himself up from the chair and made a move to take her into his arms. ‘Who can’t coordinate his limbs? You wait till later, my gorgeous little hippy chick,’ he said, wrapping her in his strong embrace. ‘I’ll show you how to coordinate limbs.’

‘
Richard Green
, the vicar is standing right there!’ Jasmine giggled.

‘Don’t mind me,’ the vicar said amiably, ‘I’ll just peruse the lovely items you have left on your stall here. Honestly, this metalwork is quite spectacular.’ He picked up a pendant and turned it over in his fingers. ‘You have lots of special things here, Mrs Green, but in the main a remarkable talent for making unusual jewellery.’

‘Take something home for Mrs Vicar,’ Rich said with a grin. ‘Pretty trinkets always work on the missus.’

‘Not when the missus has made them herself, they don’t,’ Jasmine said with a mock scowl.

‘Fair point.’ Rich hiccupped. He was a good foot taller than Jasmine and she had to stretch up to kiss him.

‘Go and get your children, there’s a good boy,’ she laughed.

He let go of her and staggered off. But when Jasmine looked up again, he was chasing the children through the sprinklers, making monster noises as he went, sending them scattering and squealing with delight. Some of the other villagers had joined in with their children. Jasmine stopped her packing for a moment and watched them all play their elaborate game.

‘You know, Vicar,’ she said in a voice full of lazy contentment, ‘I really don’t think there is a happier place to live on Earth than here.’

I
n her kitchen
, a hundred miles to the north of where Jasmine Green was ushering her reluctant family into a van, Millicent Hopkin – Millie to the handful of people who dared get close enough – was sobbing. It felt like she did little else these days, though she was always careful to save it for when she was alone. Some would take great satisfaction in her pain. She probably deserved it, but that still didn’t give anyone the right to victimise her.

The car had been the last straw. She’d spent the last three hours trying to scrub away the vile words. Whoever wrote the old rhyme about sticks and stones was wrong. The smashed windows, the faeces shoved through her letterbox, the mysterious taxis and pizza deliveries in the early hours that she had ended up having to pay for when they insisted she’d ordered them – she’d borne it all with a quiet fortitude. But the words… Words had magic, they had power – the power to heal, to hurt, to make things happen, and the ones she’d failed to remove from her car, even though she’d rubbed and rubbed until her hands were raw, had hurt her as much as any stick or stone could. She’d had enough.

Drying her tears, she tried to concentrate on the task in front of her. The only constant in her life now was her creativity, and baking was the one creative thing she could still do that brought pleasure to others. Although these days she didn’t know who she could share this one with when the people she had once called friends had all turned against her. She had tried to be a good person, to set things right, but in the end it had meant nothing. Turning her attention to the mixing bowl in front of her, she added ingredients to the mix – cinnamon and nutmeg, vanilla, a pound of dried fruit, a sprinkle of heartsease, her unintentional tears – and thought about how she needed a new start, somewhere far away where people didn’t know her. Somewhere people wouldn’t judge her or hurt her or blame her for everything that had gone before.

She focused on the thought, on the photo of a tumbledown old building on a property website that had captured her imagination, four walls in an adorably named village that might just be the new start she’d been searching for. She closed her eyes, pictured the bakery – 
her
bakery – and tried to imagine the sweet smells, the bright colours of the cakes, the chatter of customers, opening the shutters on every new day and welcoming it in; she tried to remember what happiness felt like, how it was to want to live. She longed for it with every fibre of her being. In less than a week, if the universe was finally smiling on her, maybe she would find out.

When the mix was done, she poured it into a tin and whispered a last wish before she put it into the oven. She needed a new start. Perhaps the cake would make it so.

‘
W
ho’s that
?’ Rich nudged Jasmine as he watched a woman stagger into the old bakery under the weight of a huge box she had just pulled from the back of a van bearing the name ‘Countrywide Vehicle Hire’. She was slim and looked to be in her late twenties to early thirties, with sleek black hair cut into a cute bob and a feline beauty that made you want to stare.

At least, it was making Rich stare.

‘Perhaps,’ Jasmine replied, giving her husband a wry smile, ‘you might want to roll your tongue in and ask her if she needs any help…’

‘I could,’ he said, ‘but I don’t want to make you jealous.’

‘I think I’ll survive,’ she replied, raising her eyes heavenward as he walked backwards across the deserted road, grinning at her all the while.

‘Hello!’ Rich whipped himself back round and called to the woman as she emerged from the shop door, wiping a hand across her brow. ‘Are you moving in?’

The woman looked at him. There was something wary in her eyes and he faltered for a moment. ‘I’m Rich,’ he said, collecting himself and sticking out a friendly hand.

The woman took it in a loose grip and shook. ‘Millicent…’

‘You’re taking over the bakery?’ he asked, nodding at the building. Before Millicent could reply, Jasmine had joined them, slipping an arm through her husband’s. ‘Oh, this is my wife, Jasmine.’

Millicent’s smile for Jasmine was warmer. ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said.

‘And you… Millicent did you say?’

‘Call me Millie. Millicent makes me sound like someone’s great-aunt.’

‘Are you doing all this alone?’ Jasmine asked, glancing at the open doors of the van.

‘Sadly, yes.’

‘We’d be happy to help. Rich and I have a couple of hours to spare before we go to get the terrors from school.’

‘Terrors?’ Millie asked.

Rich grinned. ‘Otherwise known as the Green children. They’re probably not as bad as people tell us, but the teachers have all been given standard-issue canisters of tear gas and riot gear, just in case.’

Jasmine elbowed him in the ribs with a giggle.

‘Help would be most welcome, in that case,’ Millie said, relaxing into a smile. ‘When I started to pack all this stuff, it didn’t look like much. It’s not until you’re on your twentieth box with no sign of stopping that you realise just how much you own.’

‘We found that when we moved from our tiny cottage into where we live now. You wouldn’t believe what you can fit into a one-bedroom house.’ Jasmine pushed a stray curl back from her forehead. ‘And we still have boxes in the loft that we’ve never unpacked, even years later.’

‘Just goes to show how much we needed the stuff,’ Rich grinned.

‘Or how lazy you are,’ Jasmine replied with a smirk.

‘Hey, I have a highly demanding job!’

‘Don’t listen to a word he says,’ Jasmine said to Millie in a loud stage whisper. ‘He sits on his backside all day tinkering in a home recording studio and he calls that work.’

‘You’re a musician?’ Millie asked, looking at Rich with obvious awe.

‘Some might argue that point,’ he laughed, ‘but that’s how I make my living.’

‘So… you’re taking on the old bakery?’ Jasmine asked.

‘It’s going to take a lot of work, I know,’ Millie said, resting her hands on her hips as she turned her gaze to the building. ‘But I hope to get it back to its former glory and trading again.’

‘The village could certainly do with it,’ Jasmine said. ‘It used to be a lovely place to meet people and stop for something yummy. We have the supermarket about five miles away, and a general store that sells allsorts, but it’s not the same as a proper cake shop.’

‘Where did you say you’d moved from?’ Rich asked, shoving his hands into his pockets with an amiable smile.

‘I didn’t.’ Millie’s expression suddenly darkened. Rich threw an uncertain glance at Jasmine, but the moment quickly passed.

‘Ignore him,’ Jasmine said. ‘No concept of social boundaries – size elevens straight in every time.’

‘Well,’ Rich said with a self-conscious laugh. ‘I suppose you could tell us where you want these boxes and we’ll crack on.’

‘I can always get the kids myself if we don’t finish here,’ Jasmine told Rich. ‘And you could carry on moving Millie’s stuff.’

‘I can’t ask you to drop everything and carry my boxes all afternoon,’ Millie said, looking mortified by the idea. ‘I’m sure you must have plans.’

‘Nothing that can’t wait,’ Jasmine said with a smile. ‘And as we both work for ourselves, the bosses are pretty lenient about time off.’

‘You write music too?’

‘God no! I have a craft business. I make jewellery and homey knick-knacks.’

‘Is that one of your pieces?’ Millie glanced appreciatively at a burnished silver pendant hanging around Jasmine’s neck.

‘Oh yes,’ Jasmine said, running a hand over the piece to remind herself which one it was.

‘It’s beautiful.’ Millie stepped forward and took it gently in her fingers. She looked up at Jasmine with a bright smile. ‘You know this is a Celtic symbol?’

‘Is it?’ Jasmine laughed. ‘I got it out of a book.’

‘Yes, a very apt one too, in your case. It’s the symbol for inspiration and creativity.’

‘Wow. You seem to know a lot about it,’ Rich said.

Millie shrugged and let the pendant go, the darkness crossing her features again. ‘A little. I read a lot of mythology.’ She turned to Jasmine again, the storm clearing from her eyes as quickly as it had come. ‘Your hair looks amazing too. I noticed as soon as I saw you across the road.’

‘It’s kind of hard to miss, I suppose.’ Jasmine twisted a pink ringlet self-consciously. Her hair was pinned up, an explosion of sugary curls piled on her head, the odd corkscrew escaping to frame her face.

‘I wish I was brave enough to colour my hair like that.’

‘Why would you do that? Yours is glorious as it is.’

‘But sometimes you just feel like you need a huge change, do something completely different… you know what I mean?’

Their conversation was interrupted by Rich clearing his throat. ‘I suppose we really should get these boxes in.’

‘You’re right,’ said Millie. ‘The van will have to go back soon.’

‘In that case we’re at your service.’ Rich saluted. ‘So tell us where you want everything.’

‘
S
he seems nice
,’ Jasmine commented as she shook salad from a bag onto five plates. The sun was still intense outside the open window despite it being early evening, the scent of newly cut grass drifting into the kitchen over the smell of roasted chicken. Jasmine was bare-foot, and had discarded her long summer dress for a pair of denim cut-offs and a lightweight smock top embroidered with Indian designs. Jasmine had never been self-conscious about her curves, and that confidence in her own body seemed to shine from her, making her all the more attractive, despite the little extra padding here and there.

‘Who?’ Rich licked his fingers.

‘Hey,’ Jasmine frowned. ‘What have I told you about that when you’re carving? Lick your fingers after, not during.’

‘Sorry, Miss,’ Rich said with a pout. ‘I forgot.’

‘You’re a disgusting pig.’

Rich sidled over and hooked an arm around Jasmine’s waist, pulling her close. ‘I know; that’s why you married me…’

Jasmine slapped him playfully on the arm. ‘Not now! We have three starving children in there,’ she angled her head at the door to the conservatory where their triplets were playing with an enormous box of Lego. ‘Your naughtiness is the reason
why
we have three starving children in there.’

‘It takes two to be naughty, Miss.’

‘Quite. Which is why you can keep your chicken-lickin’ hands to yourself and go and make some drinks for the kids before you tempt me into making more trouble.’

Rich grinned and kissed her lightly on the nose. ‘Don’t think I won’t try again later.’

‘You can try, but it doesn’t mean you’ll succeed.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Rich said as he padded over to the fridge, ‘come nine o’clock I’ll be too knackered to do anything more than snore.’

‘Hmm, it must be so tiring pushing buttons on a Yamaha keyboard all day.’