It’s possibly testament to how quickly I’ve written this book that I partly want to acknowledge all the snacks that have got me through. Rest assured, reader, I have consumed enough chocolate and gin samples to make ensure the Christmas spirit was added to this story. I have not had a mince pie, though, and despite it being September as I write this, I must rectify this immediately.

      My thanks have to go especially to my agent, Hattie Grunewald, and all the team at Blake Friedmann Literary Agency. Your belief in Olive and the Gin Shack has given me more OMG moments than I could ever have hoped for.

      A big thanks to Clio Cornish, the editor who originally encouraged me to write this series and who I’ve had the pleasure of working with for this second book. I’m looking forward to celebrating with a Christmas cocktail soon.

      Last, I would like to thank the Olives (and Randys) in my life. I do honestly believe we all have a bit of Olive within us and I am so lucky to have had the love and support of so many beautiful woman like her. The last few months would have been so much harder without them… Mum, Nan, Amber, Eden, Brian, Sarah, Kat, Chrissie, Laura, Barbara, Pat, Lesley, Rosie, Jen, Wendy, Bea, The Romaniacs (Sue, Laura, Lucie, Debbie, Celia, Jan, Vanessa), Stacey, Steve, Gemma, Michelle, Abi, Leah, Diane.

      The list could go on and on, but as I’m bound to miss names, I also want to give thanks to some of the groups that I’m lucky enough to be involved with: Twin mums, Southampton Competition Club, SW friends, Mumsnet Get Published FB group, Romantic Novelists’ Association, and all the supportive bloggers and readers. I feel very blessed to have so many wonderful people in my life. I really wish I could magic them on to the same beach and have a wonderful Christmas knees-up.

Prologue

      There was something beautiful about traditions. They were rituals that brought comfort in their routine. Olive’s tradition had always been to toast her late husband, John, and their daughter, Jane, with a G&T at the end of the day. She’d lost them way too early and had spent far too much time trying to recover, especially the relationship with her son, Richard.

      For many years that tradition had been followed at her beach hut. It had been a private affair without guests. A quiet moment of acknowledging what they’d had and what could have been. It was a ritual; a chance for her to reflect on the past and an opportunity to try new varieties of gin in the hope of finding the perfect combination.

      Little had she realised that a lifetime of keeping things to herself was not the way forward. The way forward had been swinging open her beach-hut doors and inviting people in to join her quest. The way forward had been to talk to her son and celebrate life. It was focusing on what she was capable of, not on the limits the world thought she should conform to.

      The small Gin Shack Club that had started at her beach hut as a once-weekly affair had soon escalated when it turned out Olive wasn’t the only person interested in discovering the perfect G&T. Never in a million years would she have thought the Gin Shack would become an actual bar, but an entire community pulling together, with her beach-hut neighbour Tony at the helm, meant it had happened with bells on.

      And because of the number of places her heart now belonged to, it meant traditions had grown. In the same way some traditions might evolve from generation to generation, Olive’s was changing with the seasons.

      As summer turned to autumn, Olive found sitting alone in her beach hut no longer held the same charm it once had. The appeal hadn’t disappeared, but it was hard to ignore the lure of spending time with friends at the Gin Shack or Oakley West so that she was in company when she had her nightly G&T and said her toast to those past and present.

      Something else had changed as well. Her son was no longer not available to spend time with his mother. Richard made time every weekend to come and stay at the Gin Shack and help Tony out if needed. He’d also given up his teetotaller status and started to enjoy the occasional drink. So, they’d started their own ritual.

      It was fitting that it took place at the memorial bench that lived in the Sunken Gardens on the clifftop of Westbrook Bay. It had been put there for her son’s benefit when he’d been a boy. He’d needed a permanent reminder of the man they’d both loved. Still loved. There was something very pleasing about meeting at a place that brought together the past and the present.

      ‘Beginning to get a bit nippy for meeting outside, don’t you think?’ Richard joined her on the bench.

      ‘Son, remind me who is the eighty-four-year-old?’ Olive wondered if it was too early to resort to getting her son slippers and a blanket for Christmas. He definitely had an old soul whereas Olive did not. Her body, on the other hand, was another matter.

      ‘I just don’t want you getting a chill.’ There was a chance Richard would never give up being the concerned son, but at least Olive knew it was always with her interests at heart, even if it had caused her much frustration in the past.

      ‘I’ve got three layers on, Richard. I’m hardly likely to perish. It’s October in Westbrook. We’re hardly facing an arctic freeze.’ Olive’s uniform of kaftan and linen trousers was finished off with a waterfall cardigan and bright pink fleece. She’d wrapped herself adequately enough to house fifteen bottles of gin if she’d chosen to. There was plenty of insulation to be keeping her warm.

      ‘Maybe it’s me that needs to layer up then. I should maybe practise what I preach.’ Richard was in a shirt and trousers. Less casual than he’d managed in the days when he always wore a business suit, but still not casual enough to lay testament to the fact that he’d in any way learned the art of relaxation. It was progress, though, at least.

      ‘What’s on the menu this week then?’ Richard said, their new weekly ritual already set in stone.

      ‘We can’t start until Tony gets here. You know that.’ Olive undid her fleece. Okay, so there weren’t nineteen gin bottles in there, but the internal pockets served very well for thermos flasks.

      ‘One day I’ll get a sneak preview before he does.’

      ‘Now we can’t go breaking with tradition and, as Tony runs the Gin Shack, it does seem fitting that he should get to taste the menu he’s going to be serving.’

      Sourcing and trying new gins had always been Olive’s “thing”. It was rather lovely that her hobby had become so much more, and yet she was still able to indulge in her love of exploring upcoming varieties. Even though it had been Tony’s idea to turn the Gin Shack into an actual bar, he’d been happy to leave Olive to the sourcing.

      Olive did it from her room at Oakley West Retirement Quarters with the help of fellow residents Veronica and Randy. The trio tried the new gins out, choosing what to pair them with, before Olive presented them to Tony and Richard on a Sunday morning.

      They met before all the beach-hut neighbours had their weekly group picnic. It was the day the Gin Shack didn’t open until the evening, so it gave them a chance to all get together and catch up.

      The menu was always changed on a Monday and they worked a week in advance, so if the two gins Olive had today were met with approval, then Tony would put in a bulk order ready for the coming week. No gin selections had been rejected to date.

      Olive loved that her main role was as gin taster. It was a hard job, but someone had to shoulder the responsibility. She felt, at her age, it was about the level