The Rose Garden
Authors: Marita Conlon-McKenna
Molly’s perfect life comes crashing down following the unexpected death of her husband David. She is left alone with a big old house to maintain, finances in disarray and her hopes for happiness in a heap. But Molly is a survivor. Despite objections from her two daughters, Molly fears that the only solution will be to sell their beloved home. But as she finds herself drawn to the old neglected and overgrown walled rose garden and the dilapidated gardener’s cottage attached, she suddenly sees a future as she decides to restore them.
As the rose garden takes on a new life and starts to bloom again, Molly finds that she can look to the future with new confidence and hope.
By the number one bestselling author of
Mother of the Bride
and
Three Women
.
Contents
For my father, Patrick J. Conlon –
a man who loved his rose garden.
THANKS TO MY HUSBAND, JAMES, FOR BEING MY ROCK AND
support.
Thanks to my children, Mandy, Laura, Fiona and James, my sons-in-law Michael Hearty and Michael Fahy, and my two pets, Holly and Sam Hearty. You all make my life a joy
Special thanks to my wonderful editor, Linda Evans, for her enthusiasm, dedication and work on my books.
My sincere gratitude to Joanne Williamson, Vivien Garrett, Brenda Updegraff, and everyone at Transworld London for all their work and input on this book and their support and encouragement. And thanks to Sarah Whittaker for the lovely cover.
Grateful thanks also for my agent Caroline Sheldon for her constant belief in my writing and the excitement that working together on every new book brings!
For Eoin McHugh in Transworld Ireland’s Dublin office.
For Simon and Gill Hess, Declan Heaney and Helen Gleed O’Connor and everyone at Gill Hess, Dublin, for making it all seem easy and looking after me and my books so well!
For booksellers everywhere … thanks for bringing my books and readers together.
For bookshops … what would we do without you?
For Sarah Conroy … for all her patience and kindness.
To all the gardeners and gardening writers and columnists that have inspired me over the years … thank you so much.
Arianne Menut … thanks for helping to keep my own garden in shape.
For Sarah Webb, Martina Devlin, Larry O’Loughlin and Don Conroy and all my fellow writers … thanks for just being there!
For my readers … thanks for making writing such a pleasure.
‘To be happy for an hour, have a glass of wine. To be happy for a day, read a book. To be happy for a week, take a wife. To be happy for ever, make a garden.’
– Proverb
MOLLY HENNESSY STOOD IN THE GARDEN OF MOSSBAWN HOUSE
taking in the view.
She loved this old house, standing amidst acres of land made up of gardens and woods and grassy fields only fifteen miles from Kilkenny. As she looked out over the garden, with its large herbaceous borders, lavender walk and lawn, the pond with its wooden bridge, the distant oakwoods and the kitchen garden with her badly neglected vegetable patch, she felt such a strong emotion. She didn’t know how she could ever bear to leave it.
But already the garden was falling into disarray, with weeds and brambles creeping where they shouldn’t be. The neat hedges and paths were now straggly and untidy, the borders overgrown and messy, the lawn and grass far too long.
She was doing her best to maintain the place, but she knew in her heart it wasn’t enough. The size of the garden and grounds of the old country house was proving far too much for her. It was a near impossible task for a woman on her own to manage.
She and David had fallen in love with the place from almost the minute they had seen it – Mossbawn House, a faded photo in an auctioneer’s window. Coming to view the neglected old Georgian house with its large hall, dusty drawing room and library, its run-down orangery with panes of broken or cracked glass, they had both instantly decided that this was the place they wanted to live. David had been determined to make it their home. They had
sunk every penny they had into buying it, taking out a massive mortgage, but David considered it a very good investment and they’d been full of all sorts of plans for the old house, both of them excited about it becoming a perfect family home.
Mossbawn House had welcomed them, and over the years it had filled with family and friends, parties and gatherings. Work on the house was ongoing: over the years they had fixed the roof, then the windows, replaced ancient plumbing and installed gas heating, lovingly restored old plasterwork and woodwork, and eventually even restored the old orangery, so that Mossbawn was once again a beautiful home. There was still work to do, but they were proud of what they had achieved. Restoring the house was more than a project – it was a labour of love and they were both looking forward to spending the rest of their days there together.
That was the plan – well, the dream. But David’s death a few months ago had utterly changed everything. Devastated, Molly tried to cope with his loss, struggling to keep herself going, let alone the old house.
The girls too were distraught at the sudden loss of their beloved dad. They were both in college, Grace in Dublin and Emma at Galway University. They tried to come home at weekends to help and be supportive, but more and more Molly was left rattling around the place on her own.
When David was alive everything had seemed perfect. He had loved the garden and the house and ensured that everything was kept running smoothly. Year after year they had enjoyed family life in this beautiful place, but now Molly was unsure of the future.
Keeping the old house was an expensive business. The bank had contacted her again and again; she had tried to ignore them, but knew that she could no longer put off meeting with them. Without David’s income to help with the constant bills she had no idea how she was going to survive … Her family and friends were advising her to be sensible: sell up, downsize and move to a smaller home in Kilfinn, or move back to the city. Perhaps they were right, but she
couldn’t imagine leaving Mossbawn behind and trying to make a fresh start.
She had absolutely no idea how she was ever going to keep this beautiful old house, but looking around her at the garden and grounds Molly was determined somehow to hold on to Mossbawn, the home she and David loved so much.
MOLLY SPREAD SOME HONEY ON A SLICE OF BROWN BREAD AS SHE
listened to the radio. More doom and gloom on the morning news. Was it any wonder that the people were downhearted?
Having breakfast like this, sitting alone in the kitchen, was something she still found hard to get used to. She missed having David to talk to. Now the only one to listen to her was her little Jack Russell, Daisy.
She was up early this morning, as she was driving to Dublin for a meeting with the bank, something she was absolutely dreading. Her neighbour, Rena, had offered to take Daisy and she would drop her off there en route.
Later, leaving Kilfinn and heading up on to the motorway, Molly had to admit she was looking forward to a few days in Dublin, with the chance to see her twenty-year-old daughter Grace and to catch up with a few of her old friends. Roz had insisted that she stay with her in Donnybrook.
Over the past few days she had gone through all her bank statements and accounts, with everything spread out on the big dining-room table as she tried to make some sense of the debits and credits and establish the exact financial position she was in. Following David’s death their remaining mortgage had been cleared by their mortgage protection insurance policy, and another life insurance policy had also kicked in, but Molly was still struggling to pay off the various other loans they had taken out to do essential repairs on Mossbawn.
Going over it and over it again, she realized that, except for the life insurance payout, she had absolutely no income of her own. They had virtually no savings and she’d no idea what the pension portfolio the bank had recommended for when David retired was worth now. They had barely made a dent in some of the loans they had taken out for running repairs and renovations, but David hadn’t worried about it as he had taken the view that he was generating an income and they were looking after their home. Like every other legal firm, Coleman Quinn, where David had worked as a partner, had seen its business affected by the downturn. Although David had always maintained that they were financially secure, now, without his earnings, Molly had no idea how she would survive. She was dreading her midday meeting with the bank manager. Her brother-in-law Bill, an accountant, had offered to come with her to the meeting, but she had declined and arranged to see him afterwards when she could go through things with him.
As she neared Dublin, she began mentally to run through possible questions that she had for the bank. It had started to rain and the traffic was terrible as she wound her way through the city streets towards the bank’s head office. Molly prayed that she would find a car park. She felt flustered enough about meeting the bank manager without the ordeal of not being able to park.
‘It’s good to see you, Molly,’ said Dermot Brennan, the manager, welcoming her to his third-floor office. ‘I’m so sorry about David. It must be very hard for you and your daughters.’
Molly nodded, not trusting herself to speak. David’s death had been so sudden. A strong, fit man like David having a massive brain aneurysm and never even regaining consciousness … it still shocked her.
Dermot ordered coffee for them both and she was glad – caffeine was just what she needed. Dermot had been looking after their accounts for years. Sitting across from him, she could see that he looked tense, as if he was going to be the bearer of bad news. Molly braced herself as he began to produce facts and figures,
and she listened in dismay at the decline in value of David’s pension fund.
