The House On Willow Street (42 page)

Mara found that she adored December in Avalon, even though the ground was covered with a hard frost and Freddie the builder was forever muttering about how it was going to be a very long time before work on Avalon House could get under way, what with the frost and the rain and the prospect of snow. She loved it. There was a clearness to the air beside the sea, and when you were standing close to the house, with the protective circle of Avalon’s woods all around, you could see down to the curving bay with the golden sands and the white-capped water where waves rocked under the stormy wind.

Her home in Galway had been right beside the sea—the Atlantic, that vast force of nature—and yet she’d never felt as close to it as she felt now. In Galway, she’d lived in an
apartment block, somehow removed from nature. Here, she was in the middle of it.

Her car was not made for negotiating the slippery drive up to Avalon House during the cold snap, so she’d taken to leaving it at Danae’s house and clomping her way up the avenue in her biker boots to meet architects and designers.

It was fun working for Cashel—manic, but fun. He demanded the very best and could afford to pay top dollar, which meant he generally got the best. Of course, these people, brilliant in their own fields, had very firm views. Since day one Lorcan the architect and Freddie the builder had been at war over the plans. The designer and his team were keeping out of it and, wisely, so was Mara.

“Best to let them fight it out among themselves,” she told Danae at night, snug in the beautiful cottage at the end of Willow Street. “He chose all men. Isn’t that interesting? Apart from Judy, the gardener, I’m the only woman on the team.”

“He chose you because you were good,” said Danae. “That’s the simple answer.”

“Yes, well, good and sensible,” said Mara, “and keeping out of any rows. They can slug it out between them until Cashel steps in and decides one way or the other—not me. I’m not going to be living there, after all. Although I do wish I was,” she added wistfully.

The house would be beautiful when it was finished. It was beautiful now, even in its raw, unlived-in, unloved state.

“Imagine what it must have been like to live there hundreds of years ago,” she said, thinking out loud. “It must have been like something from Jane Austen, all beautiful tea gowns and balls and . . .”

“Yes,” Danae finished for her, “and tenants living outside on nothing but potatoes.”

“Don’t ruin my fantasy world,” said Mara. “Okay, we don’t have to go that far back then. I must ask Tess.”

Next day, good as her word, she dropped into Something Old and asked.

For a moment, Tess said nothing, simply exhaled slowly. “I lived there a long time ago,” she said finally. “And I . . . I’d prefer not to talk about it. I’m sorry.”

Anyone else might have left it at that, but not Mara. Fresh from her success with making her aunt open up the pain of the past, Mara decided to press on. She refused to let Tess hide behind the facade of not wanting to talk about it. Bottling things up never helped, so she wheedled away, asking for more and more information until finally Tess gave up.

“All right, I’ll tell you. What do you want to know?” she said.

“Well, first you could be so helpful to me, from the point of view of remembering what it was like in the old days. We don’t have many pictures to go on—apart from a couple of the inside that Lorcan has tracked down—and it would be wonderful to have somebody working with us who knows what the house was really like when it was truly loved and lived in. It would really help Cashel, actually.”

Tess’s laugh was a little harsh. “Mara, one piece of advice: if I give you any information at all, you are not to tell anyone where it came from. Understand?”

“Yes, Girl Guide’s honor,” said Mara.

“Were you a Girl Guide?” Tess asked suspiciously.

“No,” said Mara, “but I can make a fire by rubbing two Boy Scouts together.”

Tess had to laugh. “No, seriously,” she said, “you can’t tell anybody, particularly Cashel. He and I don’t get on. He would be very upset if he knew you were asking me for advice about the house. Is that understood?”

“Loud and clear,” said Mara. “That’s interesting,” she added, giving Tess an arch look.

“Oh, Mara, you’re incorrigible!” Tess said.

“Well, it
is
interesting,” said Mara. “How very mysterious that you and Cashel don’t get on. I’ve never heard you talk of him, and he certainly hasn’t met you since he’s been here, so this must all be in the past.”

“Sometimes,” Tess said, “the past really is better left in the past. Now, I’ll tell you about the house, but do not think you’re going to cross-examine me about my relationship with Cashel Reilly, OK? Plus, I’ve no idea if we get on anymore, because I haven’t seen him for so long.”

Mara knew there was a story there and she was determined to get to the bottom of it.

There was no point asking Cashel; he was far too canny for even her wonderful wiles. And Danae was no help: “I really don’t know,” she said. “It must have been before my time.”

Belle, however, was much more forthcoming. Belle, Danae and Mara were having dinner in the hotel brasserie one evening when Mara broached the question.

“What exactly went on with Cashel and Tess Power? There’s something there, I can feel it.”

“Ah, well,” said Belle, “there’s a long story to that.”

“How do you know all this?” said Danae. “I mean, you moved here around the same time that I did.”

Both Mara and Belle looked at each other in amusement.

“You’re gas, Danae, do you know that?” said Belle fondly. “The difference between you and me is that
I ask.
I have to know what’s going on. When you run a hotel it’s very important. I mean, I need to know who’s fallen out with who, which families are feuding, so that when they all come in for dinner I don’t put them near one another. The last thing I
want is customers grabbing the ceremonial swords off the wall and starting a duel! When you’re running a licensed business, you can’t be too careful. When people get a few glasses under their belt, they’re liable to decide it’s time a long-term grudge gets aired.”

Mara patted her aunt affectionately, “You missed out on the gossip gene, Danae. Unlike me and Belle.”

“I do not have the gossip gene,” Belle said haughtily. “I have the mother of all gossip genes.” And she began to explain what she knew about Tess and Cashel. “It’s all a bit mysterious and nobody knows exactly what went on, but things looked very serious between Tess and Cashel for a time. Then suddenly it was a case of one minute they were engaged—and the next minute he was gone.”

Mara recalled the way Cashel had looked at her with narrowed eyes, heavy brows beetling, when she’d idly mentioned having worked in Something Old.

“Tess Power’s shop?” he said.

For the first time, Mara had a sense of what it must be like to be an underling who had displeased Cashel Reilly by doing something terribly wrong. She hadn’t done anything wrong, and what’s more she wasn’t afraid of him.

“Yes, I work for her occasionally. Lovely woman, very beautiful,” Mara said innocently. “It’s sad too, because she and her husband have split up. I think she’s lonely, you know . . .”

“Can we stop talking about this and get on with our work,” Cashel had rasped out.

So it wouldn’t be entirely true if she were to tell Tess that Cashel had evinced an interest in visiting Something Old. On the other hand, he hadn’t said he
didn’t
want to visit the shop either. The path of true love never did run smooth.

For a second, Mara thought of what Cici would say if she could see her.

“You’re meddling, you mad thing,” Cici would say.

Mara didn’t see it as meddling. It seemed wrong to stand by and do nothing while two people who’d once loved each other were leading sad and lonely lives apart, especially when it was obvious that they’d be just perfect together. She wished she had a magic wand to fix all past broken romances. But then, if she had a wand, she might have fixed her own.

Danae had found herself changing lately. She’d begun to talk to the people who came to the post office; like the Nigerian priest, who’d come in shivering from the cold despite being a strapping lad with huge muscles. Father Olumbuko was a recent arrival, and he was a joy. He spoke English like an Oxford graduate and had the kindest face. It soon became apparent to Danae that he understood people and felt great affection for them. The previous curate had been inclined to take the high moral ground on all occasions. From what Danae could see, Father Olumbuko appeared to share her view that there wasn’t enough oxygen for sensible people up there on the high moral ground.

He’d given a blessing to a young couple who were marrying in the registry office because of an early, ill-fated marriage and divorce. Danae wasn’t supposed to know about it, but she did.

Father Olumbuko wasn’t supposed to know she knew, but he did.

“You are the eyes of Avalon,” he said to Danae when he came into the post office to buy stamps for his Christmas cards.

“As are you, Father.” Danae smiled at him from behind her plexiglass.

“But there is much to learn here,” he went on. “Father Liam is a busy man.”

Father Liam was juggling a huge parish, dwindling resources and four crumbling churches.

“We have so many areas of pastoral concern,” Father Olumbuko went on.

He had the warmest eyes, Danae thought: like great, wise lights in that open face.

“Unemployment among local men has gone up,” Danae said thoughtfully, aware that, a month or so ago, she wouldn’t have ventured an opinion at all. “Women are better at facing it than men. I read somewhere about working on allotments being a great idea for men who are retired or unemployed. They feel better when they’re doing something.”

Father Olumbuko’s eyes lit up even more. He was a thinker, Danae could see. Once delivered, an idea wouldn’t leave that clever mind until a solution had been reached.

“These wintry months are not good times for gardening in this country,” he said, with a small shiver. “But perhaps, before we work on allotments, we could work on the common areas in the town.”

“The ground around the high cross is a bit raggy at the moment,” Danae agreed. “There’s no money in the public purse for flowers, but we could plant bulbs for the New Year.”

“Crocuses and snowdrops,” said Father Olumbuko dreamily.

“Lovely,” agreed Danae.

She’d never have had a conversation like that with Father Liam, whose mind occupied a more cerebral plane when he wasn’t worrying about parish finances. Give him a glass of sherry, and Father Liam could spend hours discussing angels dancing on pins.

Father Olumbuko’s eyes suddenly focused on hers. “Why are you not on our pastoral committee, Miss Rahill?”

“I’m not a joiner,” Danae replied simply. She’d used that phrase many times over the past eighteen years. It kept people at a distance, while saying nothing about her. But perhaps it was time to be a joiner, after all. Perhaps in the New Year she might consider getting involved in some of the local groups. “And you may call me Danae.”

“Ah, the Greek princess who gave birth to Perseus, a child fathered by Zeus himself,” he said, then added ruefully: “The benefits of a classical education.”

Danae was impressed. “My mother loved the Greek myths,” she said. “If I’d been a boy, I was to be Ulysses. Since you know my name, what is yours?”

“Edgar.” He bowed formally, and Danae found herself thinking that it was a shame Catholic priests were destined to a life of celibacy. This kind, interesting man would have made some young woman a lovely husband. Mara came to mind. But Mara kept insisting that she was off men for good, determined to obliterate the past. The young liked to run away from the past until they grew older and realized the past was always with you.

“We’ll talk again, Edgar,” Danae said. “Off with your stamps, now. I need a cup of tea.”

She must tell Mara all about it. Mara would be thrilled. Even if Danae had put her foot down over going to see a therapist—“I had quite enough of them when I was in the hospital, Mara. I couldn’t bear to see another one . . .”—she was venturing out into the world so much more.

But of course, tonight was Mara’s date night with the New Zealand man. So much for being off men!