Hiya, welcome to The Book Geek Wears Pajamas and my stop on Evie Gaughan's blog tour for her fabulous book The Mysterious Bakery On Rue De Paris.
After chatting with Evie we decided that I should offer you brilliant readers an excerpt. This is not just any random excerpt mind, this is the actual prologue from the book. How amazing is that hey? I just know after you have read it you will be clicking the link to buy it.
Before we get to that I'd like to share a bit of information about this great author and her great book.
About Evie Gaughan.
At school, Evie often fancied herself as a bit of an Emily Brontë , as Wuthering Heights is one of her all-time favourite novels. However, she decided to take the long way round, which involved getting her diploma in Marketing and Social Studies, travelling abroad to France and Canada as well as the UK, working in some cool places and some not-so-cool places, meeting new people and leaving others behind, until ultimately she found her writing voice and the life experience to tell a story well.
Currently living in her home-town of Galway, Ireland and working as a freelance writer. You can read some of her feature articles on her blog to get a flavour of her style. When not writing, Evie loves to paint, and has many works exhibiting in local galleries and on-line. A self-confessed crafter, her Galway home is full of hand-made designs.
You can get in touch and see what Evie is upto at the following links;
About The Mysterious Bakery On Rue De Paris.
This is the magical tale of Edith Lane, who sets off to find her fortune in the beautiful city of Paris. Fortune, however, is a fickle thing and Edith ends up working in a vintage bakery in the positively antique town of Compiègne. Escaping heartache and singledom in Ireland, Edith discovers that the bakery on Rue De Paris is not exactly what it seems and that some ghosts from the past are harder to escape than others. A heart-warming story that is sure to appeal to all of the senses, The Mysterious Bakery On Rue De Paris is a mouth-watering journey of love, liberty and la vie en rose.
The only thing worse than having a mid-life crisis is finding out about it from your father.
“Apparently the tell-tale signs are looking up ex-boyfriends on Facebook; dyeing your hair to cover the greys and the sudden desire to play a musical instrument,” he rhymed off one morning, reading one of the dailies.
I would have scoffed and brushed it off, except I had been dyeing my hair Cherry Chestnut for some time now and just the other week my cousin and I had stalked my first boyfriend from school on Facebook. Granted, we were drunk, but it was on that same night that I vowed to take up the cello. I just had this ominous feeling that everything was passing me by and I was trying desperately to catch up. Yet it was only as I sat at the bus stop on the end of our road, quietly fidgeting with my handbag in that nervous habit of mine, that the realisation truly hit me. A man around my own age (i.e. the age when wearing comfortable shoes just makes more sense) came walking slowly by with a toddler, determined to make her own clumsy way down the street. I smiled, as if I knew what it must feel like to walk protectively behind your off-spring, and he smiled back, revealing the kind of dimples a girl could swoon over. Yes, swoon. Just then the little girl let her concentration lapse and tumbled helplessly over her own uncooperative feet, resulting in a wail that would wake the dead. I moved to get up, but of course her father had instantly scooped her up into his capable arms, whispering soft reassurances into her red hot ears. They plopped down beside me, their sudden proximity causing me to flush with awkwardness. I had no idea what to do or say – it seemed an intimate moment between father and child – until inspiration struck.
“Would you like a sweetie?” I asked, with all the vintage charm of a fifties housewife.
The crying halted instantly and a shy profile of a protruding lower lip and a curious, moistened eye turned to see what was on offer. I dug into my handbag with a force, and produced the roll of mints I always keep stocked. I could see the thought forming in her young mind… ‘mints? Are you serious lady?’ But she took one all the same; beggars can’t be choosers after all.
“Now what do we say to the nice lady?” Her father prompted.
A muffled ‘ank-u’ ended our meeting and with another dazzling smile, her father swooped her up onto his shoulders and they continued on their merry way. I felt about 100 years old. I was the nice old lady who handed out mints… MINTS… to little children. A spinster who didn’t even have the excuse of putting off having a family for a glittering career. A withering antique, dusty from lack of use and no longer relevant. That was the day I knew something had to change. That was the day I decided to go to Paris.