Chapter ONE
Lou
NOW
Sixteen Days to Christmas Eve
I hold my lukewarm mug of hot chocolate with both hands and stare up at the azure late afternoon sky, its crescent moon hanging above Jupiter, just over the steeple on Church Island in Lough Beg.
‘A sign of positive decisions, perhaps,’
I ponder, swaying slightly in the cutting winter breeze.
‘I have made the right decision coming back here, haven’t I?’
Maybe the more times I say it, the sooner I’ll end up believing it.
It’s been a bitterly cold day in our village, yet reasonably calm for December, with only the odd drizzle of icy rain now and then. Nana Molly, who is due here any minute, is delighted there’s no snow yet despite the reports, but I can’t help wishing for some proper frosty weather to get us all in the Christmas mood.
More Christmas spirit means more shoppers, which is better for all of us in this tiny corner of the world.
The festive tree is standing proud in the village, there’s a huge crib in the local church and I’ve spent the entire afternoon busting my guts to decorate Buds and Beans, my florist’s-cum-coffee bar, with lights and candles on anything that will hold them. And with only half an hour till Monday’s earlier closing time, I’m already thinking of how I’d murder a foot rub and a glass of something bubbly back at my cosy new cottage as a reward for all my hard labour.
The glass of bubbles I can sort in a heartbeat. The foot rub – well, that part’s a bit trickier to arrange unless I do it myself.
‘You always were a daydreamer, even at school, Lou Doherty.’
The older man’s raspy voice stirs me at first, but I smile as I recognise one of my favourite locals.
‘Caught again,’
I say, feeling a rush of heat go to my cheeks at being discovered waffling aloud, and not for the first time today. I hope Master Campbell didn’t hear more than he needed to. I really should stop talking to myself, at least in public places like the main street of our village where everybody likes to know your business.
‘Are you still open?’
he asks me, his words holding the weight of time in every syllable.
‘I believe there’s a cinnamon latte and a chocolate treat with my name on it if it’s not too late?’
‘I’ll always make time for you, sir,’
I reply to the dapper, recently retired schoolmaster.
‘Isn’t the crescent moon stunning? It looks like it might scoop up the old church ruins on Lough Beg and take her away.’
But Master Campbell doesn’t even glance up to the sky in response. Instead, he steps across the threshold, mumbling to himself about how he thinks it’s now cold enough for snow, and follows me over to the coffee dock.
His tailored, knee-length navy overcoat matches his once sparkling blue eyes, and his voice never fails to bring me back to my days at primary school when my only worry in life was how soon I could press fast forward and get a job in the real world.
And now here I am, right bang in the real world, where I sometimes wish I could go back and start it all over again. Only this time I’d do it very differently, avoiding all the challenges and pitfalls I’ve faced, having just about survived to tell the tale.
Or would I?
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that at the age of forty-one I’d be back in the village I grew up in, serving coffee to faces both familiar and new, soothing weary souls and aiding celebrations of people I don’t even know with a bright bouquet of fresh flowers delivered to their door.
‘This place is becoming more like a church confessional every day,’
Mum likes to remind me at every opportunity, but I know she loves it here at Buds and Beans since she left her job at a local engineering firm to help me out.
‘You must have one of those faces, Lou. You know the type. You don’t even have to utter a word and, within minutes, locals and strangers are spilling their hearts out to you over an oat cappuccino.’
She is spot on with her observations, and Master Campbell is a case in point.
‘I was dreading turning the page on the calendar this morning,’
he says as I serve him his cinnamon-laced drink with his favourite pain au chocolat.
‘Another day closer. Ah, I used to say I hated Christmas, but now I realise how much I loved it when Agnes was with me. What a difference a year makes.’
He puts his head into his hands, so I pull out a chair and sit with him to hear him out, thankful that it’s almost closing time and the place is quiet except for the sounds of Wham’.
‘Last Christmas’
softly lilting in the background.
‘Agnes would have to drag me around town to shop for the grandchildren,’
he tells me, wiping his nose on a freshly pressed handkerchief.
‘Bless her, she’d panic-buy for the two of them then send me to the post office that very same day, making sure we didn’t leave it too late so the parcels would get to our Eamonn and the wee ones in New Zealand on time. I complained far too much, but I secretly enjoyed it, especially when we’d hear the gifts had arrived on the other side of the world.’
He pauses to gather his thoughts.
‘If it’s any consolation, my dad used to moan about Christmas shopping more than the government and that was a lot,’
I tell him, feeling a pang in my own gut for days gone by when my father’s one-liners were legendary.
‘Some people don’t enjoy this time of year, and that’s fine, sir. I have to say I can think of a million things I’d rather do than bump into strangers while we all spend more money than we can afford to.’
But Master Campbell is still silent, lost in his own trip down memory lane.
My heart breaks for him, but just when I’m about to attempt to offer some more unsolicited advice, he takes a second crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, dabs his eyes and sits up straight.
‘Anyhow, that’s enough of my maudlin,’
he declares, sniffing and wiping his nose.
‘I’m sure you’ve got far more important things to be doing than listening to an old man like me yearn for times past.’
‘You can always find an ear here with me,’
I tell him.
He smiles, his bushy white eyebrows meeting like two thick caterpillars in the middle. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but his eyes look brighter already.
‘We’re all so very lucky to have you back in the village where you belong,’
he replies, tucking the hankie back in his pocket.
‘That’s nice to hear,’
I say quietly.
‘Even if I still doubt if I’ve made the right call by leaving New York.’
‘You have made the right call,’
says my mother gliding past, broom in hand.
‘It’s still early days, Lou. Be patient.’
I only wish I had her confidence in my decision. There’s so much I love about being back here on my home turf, but the loneliness engulfs me sometimes when I think of my daughter so far away.
‘Ah, Christmas will be different for both of us this year, that’s all,’
says Master Campbell.
‘Is Gracie coming over from New York to see you? That’s something to look forward to.’
I meet my mother’s eye, wondering if she is thinking what I’m thinking.
‘Yes … Gracie will be here for Christmas,’
I reply, but my voice is tinged with uncertainty.
‘At least, I’m hoping so. At twenty years old, my daughter doesn’t believe in laying down roots yet. She has the travel bug well and truly alive and kicking inside her, but who am I to argue with that?’
Master Campbell nods with a smile.
‘Like mother, like daughter,’
he says with a hearty chuckle.
‘And travel far you did, and brave and buoyant you were, Lou, but more like the swallow than the swift. I knew you’d one day find your way home.’
‘I think you know me too well, sir,’
I reply, patting his hand.
‘A teacher knows his pupils for life,’
he responds, delighted to have said his piece.
‘Your Gracie will come home for Christmas, just you wait and see.’
‘I only hope you’re right,’ I mumble.
It’s been six long months since I left New York and everything I’d built there within a leading interior design company, and not long after, Gracie set off for her final year at college. For months before I’d been pondering my decision to move back home to Bellaghy, the tiny Irish village I’d grown up in, but when the gorgeous Katie’s Cottage came up for sale, my mind was made up instantly.
‘Well, look who it is!’
I hear from the front door as the bell rings at the arrival of my always charming Nana Molly.
‘Good afternoon, handsome Edward. Now don’t you cut a fine vision on this December day. Oh, and Lou, I simply adore your decorations. I’m glad you took my advice on the coloured lights instead of those boring plain white or gold ones. The whole place is so cosy and festive. Well done!’
Nana Molly, as usual, is like a ray of sunshine from the moment she enters the room, even on this chilly afternoon. At almost eighty, she defies her age, living her life with zest and energy – and sometimes against doctor’s orders.
Her secret? A shot of brandy every night and her daily walks around Longpoint Wood by Lough Beg.
‘Seeing you all has made my day,’
chuckles my old schoolmaster, almost dizzied at the sight of Nana Molly. My late grandfather used to joke how he felt invisible in her company. I can easily see why.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’
Nana Molly says with a cheeky wink as she pats Master Campbell’s shoulder.
‘Once a charmer, always a charmer. We need more of that round here. Thank you, kind sir.’
I catch a fleeting glance of the former schoolmaster, whose solemn frown now suggests he might feel he has said too much, but soon he is smiling again as Nana Molly keeps everyone’s spirits up.
She lifts a mug and taps it with a long teaspoon.
‘So, I have news,’
she announces.
She makes her way behind the counter, helps herself to a coffee and pops a few pound coins into my cash box as she does so. A statement like this, especially from her, is enough to make all of us sit up and listen.
‘Is it gossip or news?’
I tease.
‘There is a difference, so be careful, darling grandmother.’
Nana Molly ponders my question for a few seconds.
‘Both,’
she replies with an almost wicked smile.
‘Oh, you’re not going to believe this. This is big news. This is very big news.’
Master Campbell is all eyes and ears as Nana holds up one hand theatrically. She is wearing a faux-fur beige coat, a bright yellow polo-neck jumper and a pair of flared light blue jeans that belong back in the seventies, where they probably came from. A blinding, potentially awful combination, yet it suits her to a tee with her slim little figure and short, curly, dark brown dyed hair with a tinge of red.
We wait with bated breath.
‘The village Christmas Fayre will have to be cancelled this year due to venue constraints,’
she announces.
‘And the lead sponsor pulled the pin, so they’re completely screwed. With just over two weeks to go, they don’t have the time or the contacts to make it happen.’
‘Ah, now that’s a crying shame,’
says Master Campbell.
My mother, who takes off her green apron and reaches for her coat, is much less sympathetic.
‘Is that it?’
she cries.
‘Is that the news?’
Nana raises her pencilled eyebrows.
‘What do you mean, is that it?’
‘The Christmas Fayre is cancelled?’
says Mum, in mock fluster.
‘Is that it? Sure, we can go to the one in the next village, or the next, or the next. I thought it was going to be something more exciting, that’s all.’
‘Well, I hadn’t finished my news,’
says Nana Molly with her hand on her hip and her lips pursed tight.
‘Honestly, it’s hard to have a conversation with you two declaring disappointment and interrupting me constantly. At least you’ve the grace to pretend to look disappointed, Master Campbell.’
My old schoolmaster shifts in his seat, doing his best not to laugh out loud.
‘I haven’t said a word!’ I plea.
‘Tell the truth, Lou. You don’t give a toss either,’
Mum says, doing her best not to give in to a fit of the giggles.
Master Campbell chuckles in his chair by the window. I’m so happy to see him smile.
‘OK, so what’s the punchline, Nana Moll?’
I ask as I dry up some cups and place them on the wooden shelf on the wall.
‘The Christmas Fayre is cancelled and …?’
She lets out a deep sigh.
‘The punchline is that Mrs Quinn from the Christmas Fayre committee has written a pleading letter to Tilda Heaney.’
She pauses for effect, knowing our mouths have now dropped to the floor, including Master Campbell’s.
‘Tilda Heaney?’
asks Mum, puzzled.
‘Why on earth would she write to Tilda Heaney?’
Nana can’t help but smile at the look on our faces now she’s got the reaction she expected.
‘She has written to ask the Heaney family to help raise spirits within our community this year by bringing back …’
‘No,’
I whisper.
‘The Christmas Eve Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House.’
‘You’re joking!’ says Mum.
‘I’m not,’
Nana replies.
My stomach goes to my throat. I grip the small counter, feeling faint. I might be sick. My eyes glaze over.
‘Can you believe it?’
Nana continues, her voice now shrill in my ear.
‘I mean, talk about setting yourself up for a fall! Christmas Eve Afternoon Tea with the Heaneys! As if that’s what we need, and as if that family would ever dream of bringing it back. Sure, there’s only Tilda and eccentric old Eric left. Well, I know I won’t be going, that’s for sure.’
I glance at my mother, who seems to have drifted off to another planet. She certainly isn’t on the same one I’m on right now.
‘Gosh … wow!’
she says at last, clasping her hands together.
‘I think that would be just what we all need. Oh, I can’t help but picture it all. Their home is so beautiful. This is wonderful news! A party at Ballyheaney House on Christmas Eve is something to look forward to.’
‘I totally agree, Liz,’
says Master Campbell, who is rubbing his hands and grinning, but I don’t respond. I can’t. And I’m glad that none of them have noticed how my cheeks are burning, or how beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I look around for a place to hide.
I fear I might be sick.
‘Wonderful? Why exactly?’
exclaims Nana.
‘Wonderful and exciting and everything else along those lines,’
says Mum with glee as she dances around the florist’s with a tea towel as her partner.
‘Oh, those really were the good old days in this village, right up until it all came to a very abrupt ending with no reason, rhyme or explanation.’
Master Campbell clears his throat.
‘Wasn’t it because Mr Heaney died?’
he suggests.
‘He was a dead weight for years before that,’
says Nana Molly.
‘Nana!’
I cry. As much as I’m in a state of shock, there’s no need for that.
‘Mr Heaney died years after the last Christmas Eve party, so it was nothing to do with him.’
I’m glad they don’t quiz me any further, knowing I probably have inside information from those days.
‘Ah, the exquisite live music,’
continues Mum.
‘The fairy lights on the trees, the delicious food in the blue ballroom, like a banquet. The fashion sense of Tilda Heaney and her gorgeous family. The glitz and the glamour … not to mention the money raised for charity. I can see it all happening! I can feel it already! Am I there yet? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Master Campbell pipes up from behind his coffee cup.
‘I wonder would the son and daughter come home for it if it did happen?’
he ponders.
I fear I might choke.
‘Now, wouldn’t that be something else?’
says Mum.
‘Our Lou and Ben had quite a thing back in the day.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘He hasn’t been seen much in this village for ages,’
Master Campbell continues.
‘And his sister lives in Spain, I believe? Or is it Portugal? I often wonder about them both. It would be a fine homecoming for them too.’
‘Do you think they would?’
I ask, unable to hide the tremor in my voice.
‘Do you think they’d come back?’
My legs are playing a blinder by still managing to hold me up now the conversation has got this far.
‘Wouldn’t that be crazy seeing him again after all these years,’
says Mum.
‘Your old sparring partner, Lou! You used to live for your days at Ballyheaney House. Wasn’t it so incredibly sad what happened to Ben’s poor—’
‘Mum, please stop,’
I say, finally showing my face from behind the coffee machine.
My mother’s mouth drops open.
‘You two were never that serious, though?’ she says.
‘No,’
I mumble.
‘No, we weren’t serious at all.’
I feel bad for lying and for cutting her off mid-sentence, but I can’t disguise my fears as the past comes back to haunt me all over again. Serious? We were very serious until it all came crashing down, but Mum and Nana don’t know the half of it. I couldn’t bear to talk about it for a very long time.
But now, all I can see with such clarity and beauty, and all I can feel from the deep clench of my gut, is the face of the man I loved more than anyone I’ve ever known.
He was the man who broke my heart the worst. The man I really did think I’d marry one day, in so much more than just a young girl’s dream. The man who said he’d never marry another, and that he’d wait for me, even if it took forever.
I knew deep down that by moving back here our paths might cross again one day, but I’d blanked it out as highly unlikely and carried on with setting up my new home and my new business, saying I’d cross that bridge if or when I came to it.
And now the bridge is being built as we speak.
The highly unlikely is sounding quite likely, and with even a whisper of it happening, I already want to run away back to New York and never show my face around here again.