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Someone had put a rolling pin in the works of this pie contest . . .
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The mini digger we hired was bright yellow. It sounded like a bus and belched out black smoke. Phil, looking like he sat upon a child’s toy, aimed it down the garden after the hire company unloaded it
VENITA FITZALAN-BLAKE had never liked dancing. And after treading the length and breadth of Bond Street, Mayfair and Piccadilly, fruitlessly seeking employment, she had good cause to remember why. If
Helen Harris always enjoyed her afternoon tea with Martha Evert, and as she knocked on the door carrying a treat of two chocolate muffins, she looked forward to an hour or two of catching up with her
G av drove home, glancing up at the ...
Mae pulled her car in close to the curb, directly opposite the small two-bedroom bungalow belonging to her grandmother. She paused for a moment. Mae made a conscious effort to visit at least once a we
