Everything is Beautiful by Eleanor Ray (best classic romance novels txt) 📕

She had to start somewhere. With a sigh, Amy pulled a box down from one of the piles and opened it. Ashtrays. She hesitated. She wasn’t a smoker, but Chantel was. She’d need one when she visited. Amy’s hands hovered over the box. She could keep one ashtray, she decided. But which? They were all so lovely. Perhaps she might take up smoking one day, she thought. Then she’d be justified in keeping the lighters too. Her mind went back to the only time she’d tried a cigarette, leaning out of Chantel’s bedroom window. She’d coughed so much she was almost sick.

Maybe she wouldn’t take up smoking, she decided. But once the house was clear she was planning to invite people to visit her again. Simon perhaps. What if he were there at the same time as Chantel and they were sitting far away from each other? She’d need to choose another ashtray to keep.

Or did she? Amy had always hated people smoking in her house. She thought again of Charles. She wanted him, his brother and his father to visit more than anyone and, of course, they didn’t need ashtrays. Quickly, Amy peeled a yellow sticker from the paper and stuck it to the box. The whole lot could go to the charity shop.

Amy took a deep breath, and pulled down the next box.

It revealed her mantelpiece, long hidden. Amy looked at it and smiled. She would put a single clock up there, she decided. One that worked. Perhaps a new painting. And one vase, for fresh flowers.

She opened the box and an array of bubble-wrapped vases peered back. Amy opened the top one, unable to resist the satisfaction of popping a bubble in the process. The vase was iridescent glass, probably Bohemian. The colour of a sunrise. She had to keep that one.

The next was a sturdier construction, terracotta with a deep purple glaze. Gorgeous. The following vase was Waterford Crystal. She could still remember her joy at discovering it in a charity shop.

Amy took her last green sticker and placed it on the box of vases, then turned her attention to another box full of clocks.

She heard a soft knocking sound on the living-room door, and Richard poked his head round.

‘How’s it going?’ he asked.

‘I’ve run out of green stickers,’ said Amy. ‘There’s a lot I don’t want to let go of.’

‘I know,’ said Richard. ‘In fact, I thought you might be feeling the house was a bit empty.’ He smiled. ‘So I brought you something.’

‘I’m not sure that’s a good idea,’ said Amy. ‘More stuff is the last thing I need.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Richard replied. ‘I got you something you can’t keep.’

‘You’d be surprised what I can hold on to,’ said Amy. But she laughed a little, already feeling lighter.

He produced a bouquet of flowers from behind his back. Bright, messy and wild. Daisies and buddleia and long trails of ivy. And honeysuckle. Lots of it.

Amy gasped.

‘It’s nothing fancy,’ said Richard. ‘The boys helped me pick it from the garden. Mrs Hill had quite the green fingers, didn’t she?’

‘Honeysuckle,’ said Amy, disbelieving.

‘We used lots of that,’ said Richard. ‘I know you like it.’

‘I do,’ said Amy. ‘Very much.’ She smiled back at him. ‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I’ll put them in water.’ She walked over to her vases, selected the iridescent one that reminded her of a sunrise and took it to the kitchen to fill with water. She put the flowers inside and breathed in deeply.

She needed to make room for people. For a new man who brought her flowers. For little boys who understood her better than she did herself and threaded sticky little fingers through her own.

Amy went back to the living room and put the flowers on the mantlepiece. Then she unpeeled the green sticker from the box of vases, crumpled it up into a tiny ball and put it in her pocket. She placed a yellow sticker in its place. The rest of the vases could go to the charity shop and find new homes.

‘There,’ she said. ‘One less box.’

Amy tried to smile, already feeling the loss. But she could feel the gain as well. She looked at the honeysuckle, the creamy flowers with their sweet scent and memories of the past. Then she looked at the daisies with brilliant white petals soft as a blanket, and the buddleia, tiny, modest blossoms coming together en masse to be quite spectacular. Honeysuckle, yes, but so much more besides.

Amy looked to Richard. ‘You’ve done brilliantly today, Amy,’ he said. ‘You’ve let go of so much.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps . . . ’ He hesitated. ‘Perhaps there’s more space now,’ he added. ‘In your life.’

‘Yes,’ said Amy. She hesitated too. ‘There is.’

‘I thought . . . ’ continued Richard. ‘That maybe you’ll have room for us. For me and the boys, I mean.’

‘I hope so,’ replied Amy. She did. She knew the truth of what had happened now. It was time to look to the future.

‘And for me, especially?’ asked Richard.

It seemed the most natural thing in the world to kiss him.

She did.

The kiss was warm and wonderful, scented of a summer’s garden.

Amy broke away. ‘Are you sure? I still come with boxes of clocks, more cookbooks than I’ll ever use and flocks of china birds.’

‘I’ll take you with or without the china birds, Amy Ashton,’ he said, reaching for her hand. Amy felt his skin against her own. Warm and soft. ‘No one travels lightly through life any more.’

Just as Amy collects bottles, I have collected an array of wonderful people who have helped with this novel.

My mother Susan, who has read this book so many times and has given brilliant ideas and valuable feedback with each read. She’s amazing.

Philippa Pride, my insightful and kind mentor, and the members of the Next Chapter writing group. Thanks for the feedback and friendship.

Thank you to my agent, Euan Thorneycroft, and the team at A.M. Heath for the