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Lisa Hobman – A Year of Finding Happiness

About the book

Unlike lightening, it seems heartbreak can strike twice...the only cure is the healing power of time, and someone else who understand exactly what you're going through. A Year of Finding Happiness is a heart-warming romance, perfect to curl up with. 

Poignant, heart-warming and gorgeously romantic, this is a love-story with pure, unadulterated happiness at its heart. A Year of Finding Happiness shows you that the little things in life can make you smile, even when you think you might never laugh again…

Happiness doesn’t factor on the deliciously rugged but utterly heartbroken Greg’s radar much these days. Only his beloved Labrador Angus seems to understand his search for a way to make sense of tragedy, until he meets new neighbour Mallory Westerman…

Instantly they know that the other understands how they feel, and over time, as romance blossoms, they dare to wonder if they might, one day, be truly happy again…

There are two sides to every story, and A Year of Finding Happiness is Greg's journey back from the darkest depths to happiness... 

A Year of Finding Happiness was previously published as Bridge of Hope.

'Heartwarming and uplifting' HEIDI SWAIN

Buy now links:

Amazon: mybook.to/AYOFH

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Google play: http://bit.ly/2yblfJy

EXTRACT

A Year of Finding Happiness

Present Day

I untangled myself from the sheets and stumbled into the bathroom. I hardly recognised the gaunt man staring back at me. The dark circles around my eyes aged me beyond my thirty-seven years and the smattering of grey in my beard was becoming more obvious.

I turned the shower on and let it run until I was enveloped in a steamy cocoon. Once under the water I closed my eyes and tried to blank out thoughts of Mairi and the times we’d made love in the very same place. As the water tumbled down my tired muscles, I ran through the list of jobs I had planned for the day.

After climbing out of the shower, I dried, dressed, and then called to Angus. The yellow Labrador crossbreed came bounding up to me, and we set out for our morning walk. The air was chilled and my breath vaporised as soon as it left my body, forcing me to pull my zip up as far as it’d go.

We aimed for the main village of Clachan and set off on our favourite route, which included a brief pause on the bridge over the Atlantic. The views of the estuary and out to sea were stunning from there. The water was framed on one side by a row of whitewashed stone cottages and on the other by the trees of mainland Scotland and, in my opinion, it was a tough view to beat. The bridge has been there linking Clachan to mainland since 1793 and these days it’s become quite a tourist attraction. I can understand why. It really is beautiful. And people usually think it’s a gimmick that we say it crosses the Atlantic. But it really does. Check it out on a map for yourself.

Ron, the old guy from up the road, was walking towards me, his newspaper tucked under his arm. ‘Hello there, Gregory. Have you heard the news?’

I stopped in my tracks and waited to hear the latest gossip from the village know-it-all. ‘What news would that be?’

‘You know James McLaughlan’s old place, Sealladh-mara Cottage? It’s sold.’

‘Really? He will be pleased. Any idea who bought it?’

He scowled and shook his head. ‘Therein lays the issue, Gregory. Apparently, it’s some young executive couple who are using it as a weekend and holiday home.’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Oh, great. This place’ll have no bloody locals left at this rate.’

Ron wagged a wizened finger. ‘Aye. That’s exactly what I said. The last thing we need is more damned weekend interlopers who don’t contribute to the village.’

‘Well, Ron. Not a lot we can do about it really, I suppose. Did you see them?’

‘I caught a wee glimpse last week when they were here with the estate agent. He looked all businesslike and she was… well… she was a bonny lass, actually. Lovely long hair and very smiley.’ He shook his head as if trying to remind himself how pissed off he was. ‘Anyway, I’m not happy.’

I huffed out a breath. ‘Well, let’s just hope they at least spend some of their executive pay-cheque money in the pub when they’re here on weekends, eh?’

‘Aye, we can hope, young man. We can hope.’ He went on his way back home and I smiled to myself and continued walking my dog.

Young man. When you get to thirty-seven you don’t think of yourself as particularly young anymore; but I supposed to someone Ron’s age, however old that might’ve been, I still was.

James McLaughlan was a nice old guy. He’d moved farther north to be with his family up above Inverness, and he’d been heartbroken when he left the wee cottage down by the bridge. As Angus and I stopped at the centre of the arched stone structure I glanced over to James’s old place. Maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing really, getting new blood into the village.

Most of the people here had stayed at Clachan Seil all their lives, and when they’d passed away or moved on to be with family, tourists had cottoned on to how beautiful it was. I was an interloper myself. I’d only moved to the village after splitting up with my wife and leaving my old life behind. But I’d felt at home right away. Stella at the pub and Ron, bless his heart, had taken me under their wings. Despite my antisocial nature and lack of people skills, Stella had given me a job in the pub and I became one of the locals.

Standing there on the bridge, I remembered back to when Mairi and I used to stand in the same spot, looking out over the Atlantic, and a lump formed in my throat. I’d considered moving away after she was declared dead in August the previous year – seeing as there was a memory of her around every sodding corner – but I’d never belong anywhere like I did in Clachan.

Never.

About the author

Lisa’s debut novel was shortlisted in the 2014 RNA. Her stories centre around believable, yet down to earth characters and the places in Scotland she has visited and fallen in love with. She is a happily married mum of one with two energetic dogs. 

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Website: http://www.lisajhobman.com/

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