Publication date 1st June 2018
About the book
Be careful what you kiss for...
Esme Posorsky is an enigma. For as long as people can remember, she has been part of community life in the quaint Cornish fishing village of Tremarnock, but does anyone really know her? She is usually to be found working in her pottery studio or at home with her beloved cat, Rasputin. But when an old school friend turns up with a secret from the past, nothing will ever be the same again.
Meanwhile teenager, Rosie, is excited to find a bottle washed up on Tremarnock beach with a message from a former German prisoner of war. While the rest of the village is up in arms about a new housing development, she sets out to find him. Little does she know, however, that her discovery will unleash a shocking chain of events that threatens to blow her family apart.
Tremarnock may look like a cosy backwater, but some of its residents are about to come face-to-face with tough decisions and cold reality...
About the author
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming
a full
time author.
Tremarnock
, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was
published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Follow Emma
Twitter: @EmmaBurstall
Facebook: @emmaburstallauthor
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming
a full
time author.
Tremarnock
, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was
published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Follow Emma
Twitter: @EmmaBurstall
Facebook: @emmaburstallauthor
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming
a full
time author.
Tremarnock
, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was
published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming
a full
time author.
Tremarnock
, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was
published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming
a full
time author.
Tremarnock
, the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was
published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Emma Burstall was a newspaper journalist in Devon and Cornwall before becoming a full time author. Tremarnock, was the first novel in her series set in a delightful Cornish village, was published in 2015 and became a top-10 bestseller.
Twitter - @EmmaBurstall
Facebook - @Emmaburstallauthor
My Review
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Follow Head of Zeus
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Instagram: @headofzeus
I am a huge fan of this little series so it just delighted me when I seen this. This latest instalment did not let me down it had the cosy and familiarity of the little village which made it so easy to read and imagine I was there.
I absolutely adored the character's in this book, they were just so lovely and friendly.
The best thing about this book was all the unexpected twists and turns, they kept me gripped and I couldn't wait to find out what was going to happen next - it was so exciting trying to guess.
Read on for an extract from 'A Cornish Secret'
Chapter One
Rain splattered outside the apartment window, staining the slate-blue dome of the grand Église Saint-Augustin and turning the Paris pavements murky grey. A woman below in a camel-coloured trench coat reached into her bag and pulled out a black umbrella with white spots and a jaunty frill. Caroline found herself thinking of Renoir’s Les Parapluies, which always made her smile because the people in it looked so cheerful.
There was nothing jolly about this lady, however, with her head bent low against the wind, her shoulders hunched, pace quickening with each step as she scurried along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Caroline didn’t blame her for rushing; she wouldn’t choose to be out in this, with or without umbrella, although sometimes the four walls of the apartment felt more like a prison than a haven from the elements.
She turned away from the window back to the sturdy black suitcase on the end of her bed and inspected its contents. Had she packed enough sweaters? The ugly green cagoule would protect her from the rain, but wouldn’t keep her cosy. She wasn’t bound for le Midi, after all. Where she was going, the weather was entirely unpredictable and it was the tail end of summer now, too. There could be thunderstorms, gales and goodness knew what. On the other hand, it might be warm and balmy. Impossible to tell.
Cornwall. She felt a little shiver of excitement. She’d been there only once with her family when she was a child and even then, they’d stayed just a week. She could vaguely remember narrow cobbled streets, rocky beaches and stopping for a cream tea in a farmer’s garden, where her younger brother had been stung by a wasp and had made an appalling racket, much to their mother’s mortification.
Other than that, her knowledge of the county was based largely on books, television programmes and magazine articles. She pictured quaint little fishing villages, handmade pasty shops and ruddy-faced locals with drawling burrs, but it might be quite different now: spoiled, its cute image nothing more than a commercial ploy to lure gullible tourists like her.
No matter, she thought, walking over to the chest of drawers against the wall and pulling out another jumper; she wasn’t intending to do much sightseeing. The point of the trip was to gain an insight into how it might have felt for the Christian pilgrims who trudged along St Michael’s Way in medieval times, right across the peninsula from Lelant, near St Ives, to St Michael’s Mount on the opposite coast, before journeying to France and, ultimately, the grand cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. It was here that the bones of the apostle St James were said to lie, and according to legend, if you completed the whole journey on foot you would leave your burdens behind. How glorious!
Would she, like the pilgrims of old, experience a spiritual awakening, an unburdening of the soul? She smiled grimly to herself. Sore feet, more like, and aching shins. But it would be interesting, for sure, and, of course, there was Esme…
She felt her stomach lurch and gave herself a mental shake. No point stressing about that. If they didn’t get on, it was only five little days. Anyone could survive five days in another’s company, surely? And they weren’t exactly strangers; they’d been in touch, albeit loosely, for over forty years.
‘I’ve got the keys to the new house.’ Caroline’s husband Philip dragged her back to the present.
She looked across the wide, light room to where he stood displaying a small bunch of keys on a steel ring in the palm of his outstretched hand. He was of medium height, his grey hair cut very short in an attempt to disguise the balding patch on the centre of his head, while his eyebrows, still thick and dark, seemed to belong to someone else. He used to be robust and athletic but was thinner now; his pale blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, hung limply around his chest and waist. Caroline thought that he seemed diminished, shrunken, almost; half the man he once was, or that she’d thought he’d been.
She was reminded of the fake boiled egg gag that the children used to play. They’d turn the egg upside down in the eggcup as if it hadn’t been eaten, then she’d come up and stick her spoon through the shell and exclaim, ‘Oh, you tricked me AGAIN!’
Hadn’t she always known that the egg was empty? Cracked in places, with bits of sticky yolk clinging to the sides? But she’d put on a good show, for sure. She’d even half-believed it herself.
She glanced back to her suitcase on the spotless cream bedspread and sensed her husband flinch, as if her silence had stung him.
‘Won’t you cancel your trip and come and see it with me?’ he asked at last, standing well back as if he knew better than to encroach on the chilly space that surrounded her; a wartime neutral zone. ‘I’ll drive. We can spend a few days exploring the area.’
Caroline swallowed. The boyish hesitancy in his voice stirred something deep within – a maternal echo, perhaps, but she batted it away.
‘I can’t, it’s all booked. You go and enjoy it.’
He seemed about to leave, but changed his mind and hovered for a moment as if plucking up courage. ‘How long are you going to keep this up, Caro?’
He sounded wounded, as if it was all somehow her fault, and she felt her insides harden, like burned sugar at the bottom of a pan. He watched as she moved over to the cabinet on what used to be her side of the bed; she slept on both sides, now, and sometimes sprawled right across the middle. Then she opened the top drawer and pulled out her passport, travel documents and luggage tags, already filled in.
‘I’ll be back in a week.’
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ His deep voice seemed to resonate around the walls before he came to an abrupt halt right at her feet.
‘Me too.’ She swept past him into the hallway towards the cupboard where she’d left her brand-new walking boots, still unopened in their smart white cardboard box.
He followed her just as far as the spare bedroom, then entered it, closing the door softly behind him. She didn’t see him again until the next morning, when she was dragging her suitcase into the lift to take down the two flights of stairs to the waiting taxi.
I absolutely adored the character's in this book, they were just so lovely and friendly.
The best thing about this book was all the unexpected twists and turns, they kept me gripped and I couldn't wait to find out what was going to happen next - it was so exciting trying to guess.
Read on for an extract from 'A Cornish Secret'
Chapter One
Rain splattered outside the apartment window, staining the slate-blue dome of the grand Église Saint-Augustin and turning the Paris pavements murky grey. A woman below in a camel-coloured trench coat reached into her bag and pulled out a black umbrella with white spots and a jaunty frill. Caroline found herself thinking of Renoir’s Les Parapluies, which always made her smile because the people in it looked so cheerful.
There was nothing jolly about this lady, however, with her head bent low against the wind, her shoulders hunched, pace quickening with each step as she scurried along the Boulevard Malesherbes. Caroline didn’t blame her for rushing; she wouldn’t choose to be out in this, with or without umbrella, although sometimes the four walls of the apartment felt more like a prison than a haven from the elements.
She turned away from the window back to the sturdy black suitcase on the end of her bed and inspected its contents. Had she packed enough sweaters? The ugly green cagoule would protect her from the rain, but wouldn’t keep her cosy. She wasn’t bound for le Midi, after all. Where she was going, the weather was entirely unpredictable and it was the tail end of summer now, too. There could be thunderstorms, gales and goodness knew what. On the other hand, it might be warm and balmy. Impossible to tell.
Cornwall. She felt a little shiver of excitement. She’d been there only once with her family when she was a child and even then, they’d stayed just a week. She could vaguely remember narrow cobbled streets, rocky beaches and stopping for a cream tea in a farmer’s garden, where her younger brother had been stung by a wasp and had made an appalling racket, much to their mother’s mortification.
Other than that, her knowledge of the county was based largely on books, television programmes and magazine articles. She pictured quaint little fishing villages, handmade pasty shops and ruddy-faced locals with drawling burrs, but it might be quite different now: spoiled, its cute image nothing more than a commercial ploy to lure gullible tourists like her.
No matter, she thought, walking over to the chest of drawers against the wall and pulling out another jumper; she wasn’t intending to do much sightseeing. The point of the trip was to gain an insight into how it might have felt for the Christian pilgrims who trudged along St Michael’s Way in medieval times, right across the peninsula from Lelant, near St Ives, to St Michael’s Mount on the opposite coast, before journeying to France and, ultimately, the grand cathedral of Santiago de Compostela in northern Spain. It was here that the bones of the apostle St James were said to lie, and according to legend, if you completed the whole journey on foot you would leave your burdens behind. How glorious!
Would she, like the pilgrims of old, experience a spiritual awakening, an unburdening of the soul? She smiled grimly to herself. Sore feet, more like, and aching shins. But it would be interesting, for sure, and, of course, there was Esme…
She felt her stomach lurch and gave herself a mental shake. No point stressing about that. If they didn’t get on, it was only five little days. Anyone could survive five days in another’s company, surely? And they weren’t exactly strangers; they’d been in touch, albeit loosely, for over forty years.
‘I’ve got the keys to the new house.’ Caroline’s husband Philip dragged her back to the present.
She looked across the wide, light room to where he stood displaying a small bunch of keys on a steel ring in the palm of his outstretched hand. He was of medium height, his grey hair cut very short in an attempt to disguise the balding patch on the centre of his head, while his eyebrows, still thick and dark, seemed to belong to someone else. He used to be robust and athletic but was thinner now; his pale blue shirt, rolled up at the sleeves, hung limply around his chest and waist. Caroline thought that he seemed diminished, shrunken, almost; half the man he once was, or that she’d thought he’d been.
She was reminded of the fake boiled egg gag that the children used to play. They’d turn the egg upside down in the eggcup as if it hadn’t been eaten, then she’d come up and stick her spoon through the shell and exclaim, ‘Oh, you tricked me AGAIN!’
Hadn’t she always known that the egg was empty? Cracked in places, with bits of sticky yolk clinging to the sides? But she’d put on a good show, for sure. She’d even half-believed it herself.
She glanced back to her suitcase on the spotless cream bedspread and sensed her husband flinch, as if her silence had stung him.
‘Won’t you cancel your trip and come and see it with me?’ he asked at last, standing well back as if he knew better than to encroach on the chilly space that surrounded her; a wartime neutral zone. ‘I’ll drive. We can spend a few days exploring the area.’
Caroline swallowed. The boyish hesitancy in his voice stirred something deep within – a maternal echo, perhaps, but she batted it away.
‘I can’t, it’s all booked. You go and enjoy it.’
He seemed about to leave, but changed his mind and hovered for a moment as if plucking up courage. ‘How long are you going to keep this up, Caro?’
He sounded wounded, as if it was all somehow her fault, and she felt her insides harden, like burned sugar at the bottom of a pan. He watched as she moved over to the cabinet on what used to be her side of the bed; she slept on both sides, now, and sometimes sprawled right across the middle. Then she opened the top drawer and pulled out her passport, travel documents and luggage tags, already filled in.
‘I’ll be back in a week.’
‘I hope you find what you’re looking for.’ His deep voice seemed to resonate around the walls before he came to an abrupt halt right at her feet.
‘Me too.’ She swept past him into the hallway towards the cupboard where she’d left her brand-new walking boots, still unopened in their smart white cardboard box.
He followed her just as far as the spare bedroom, then entered it, closing the door softly behind him. She didn’t see him again until the next morning, when she was dragging her suitcase into the lift to take down the two flights of stairs to the waiting taxi.
Buy links:
Amazon:
Kobo:
iBooks:
Google Play:
Buy links:
Amazon:
Kobo:
iBooks:
Google Play:
Buy links:
Amazon:
Kobo:
iBooks:
Google Play:
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