Chapter 20
SHE REGARDED THE CALENDAR ON THE KITCHEN wall. The first week of July already, the second half of the year underway. Part of Lydia couldn’t wait for it to be over: another part of her didn’t want it to end, but she needed to move on, if only for her daughter’s sake.
She heard the shower cutting off. When Brona appeared, her hair was swaddled in a towel, and she wore the flowery kimono Lydia knew well. ‘Hi – hope you slept.’
‘I always have great sleeps here – must be the sea air.’ Brona stretched like a cat. ‘Can you bear the smell of my coffee?’
‘Just about. I have sourdough rolls from Greta.’
‘Remind me who she is.’
‘The German woman who owns the café.’
‘The one that’s never open?’
‘Only when she feels like it.’
‘Love it.’
Brona had raved about the house when Lydia had shown her around the previous day. The perfect small hotel, she’d said, in the perfect location. Plenty of room for an infinity pool in a corner of that garden – and the yoga studio would make a cosy little bar. You’ll have no problem selling.
We’ll see.
The ad had gone online two days ago, with a price tag of roughly twice what Lydia and Damien had paid for it.
Deborah had rung to let her know it was live.
I’d expect it to make considerably more than the asking price, she’d said.
This is just to pull potential buyers in.
It looks great, she’d added, and maybe it did, but Lydia hadn’t looked. Couldn’t look.
Over breakfast she and Brona scrolled through apartments for sale in Dublin.
Prices had continued to climb steadily since Lydia had sold hers.
‘That won’t be a worry for you,’ Brona said.
‘You’ll make a packet on this house. Here’s my favourite, Wellington Road – and it’s ground floor. Look at those sash windows.’
‘Lovely.’ She tried to sound enthusiastic. It would be better when she saw places in reality, when she could walk through the rooms and see how the light fell. ‘I’d like one with a garden,’ she said. She couldn’t imagine living without a green space now.
After breakfast Brona drove to their favourite beach, with a walk that began where the sand ended and followed a headland for a mile or so.
They zipped up fleeces as the wind pushed in from the water, every so often pattering their faces with spray – or had a drizzle begun? So much for July weather.
‘I forgot to tell you,’ Lydia said. ‘I’ve decided to learn to drive. I’m having my first lesson tomorrow morning.’
‘Here? But aren’t you coming back in a few weeks?’
‘I thought I’d have a few here, to get me started. It might be easier on quieter roads.’
‘I’m surprised the village has a driving instructor.’
‘It doesn’t – he’s the butcher.’
Brona found this highly amusing. ‘Not the one who took your wedding photos?’
‘He’s the only butcher around here.’
‘This place is hilarious. Everyone seems to have at least two jobs. Careful he doesn’t try to convert you – if he offers you shepherd’s pie, resist.’
An intervention flashed through Lydia’s head. She thought of the chicken soup, and how mortified he’d been. ‘That won’t happen. You have no idea how kind people are around here, Bro.’
‘I know. I’m only kidding.’
Andrew would teach you, Susan had said, when Lydia had asked her to recommend someone. He taught me. He’s very patient. He has an old banger besides the van – it wouldn’t matter if you put a dent in it.
I could do weekday mornings, eight o’clock for half an hour, he’d said when Lydia had called into the shop.
That would be great. You don’t mind me asking?
I don’t mind. See you Monday.
He probably thought her daft, looking for driving lessons just before returning to Dublin, not to mention in her seventh month of pregnancy, but if he did, he kept it to himself.
‘Mind yourself,’ Brona said, as she was leaving. Earlier than she usually left, trying to get home before traffic built up for a Coldplay concert that Lydia would have dragged Damien along to, pregnant or not. ‘I’m so looking forward to the flat-hunting – I love poking into other people’s places.’
She smelt of the Tom Ford scent she’d worn for years. Lydia hadn’t used perfume since Damien’s death, her Jo Malone bottle gathering dust on the dressing table. She’d get into it again in Dublin.
As she filled a small vase with sweet peas, the doorbell of the main house rang. Odd: the only people who used that door were her yoga students.
‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ the man said. American or Canadian, she could never tell. ‘I hope I’m not interrupting anything.’
There was a silver car in the driveway. Was he selling something? Unlikely: he didn’t have ID hung around his neck, wasn’t holding a clipboard or toting a bag filled with his own paintings or books of poetry. Anyway, salespeople never called to Chance House. They probably didn’t know it existed.
‘Name’s Tim O’Donoghue,’ he went on. ‘From California.’
He looked perfectly respectable, well dressed in beige trousers and tweed jacket. Her father’s age. Pale brown hair, face tanned and creased, nose a little bulbous. Muscular. Worked out in a gym, or lifted weights in a basement.
‘Fact is, my great-grandmother on my mother’s side was one of the Chances from this house. I have an interest in genealogy, and I’ve researched the family tree. Since I happened to be in Ireland on vacation, I was curious to see where she came from.’
A tourist looking for his roots. Better than someone trying to convert her, or persuade her to change her service provider.
‘I’d have called ahead,’ he went on, ‘if I’d had your number. I didn’t really like turning up unannounced. I hope you don’t think it too forward of me.’
What could she say? She could ask him for ID, but that would only prove his name was what he said it was. He’d still be a complete stranger.
‘Full disclosure,’ he said. ‘I’m aware that it’s up for sale, and I may be interested. I like the idea of closing the circle.’
Lydia thought of its hefty price tag. Even with the renovation cost factored in, it was a good return for their investment – and Deborah had said she expected it to make more than the asking.
This is just to pull potential buyers in, she’d said, and here was a potential buyer.
It wouldn’t kill her to let him see it, especially if he really did have family connections. She’d have to take that part on faith.
‘I could show you around, if you like.’
‘That would be great, if you’re sure I’m not imposing, Miss . . .’
‘Cotter,’ she said. ‘Mrs Cotter.’ She didn’t offer a hand to shake. Keeping her distance, until he proved she didn’t have to.
‘Good to meet you, Mrs Cotter. I take it you’re the owner.’
‘I am.’
In the hall she told him it had just been renovated, but due to changing circumstances she was moving on.
He asked no questions, just nodded. He spoke very little as she led him through the main house, apart from a murmured ‘Excellent’ as he stood looking out at the upstairs view.
The view alone will sell it, Deborah had said.
‘There’s a small private beach at the end of the garden,’ Lydia told him. She would have brought him down if he’d expressed a wish to see it but that just got a nod. Maybe he wasn’t a swimmer, or a fan of beaches.
Back downstairs she indicated the door that led to the apartment, and told him about its two bedrooms, and the rest. She didn’t offer to show it, and he didn’t ask. Let Deborah bring him back, if he wanted to see more.
‘It’s great,’ he said. ‘I think it might be just what I’m looking for.’
Wait till Deborah heard. Lydia hoped she wouldn’t mind that she’d shown it to him.
‘I’d be happy,’ he went on, ‘to put an offer in right away.’
Lydia was astounded. He was prepared to bid on a house he’d barely seen, just like that? Was that the American way? ‘You’d have to—’
‘Name your price,’ he said.
She stared at him.
He smiled. ‘Sorry – that came out a little strong. Allow me to explain: I’m in the business of property acquisition, and when I see a place I like, I go for it.’
Property acquisition. She wasn’t sure what that meant, but it seemed to imply that he went around buying up houses. ‘You said you were interested in this house because of a family connection.’
‘Well, sure, that’s all part of it – but also I can appreciate a house of quality when I see one, and this is a real beauty.’
She wanted to ask what he planned to do with it.
She wanted to know if he looked on it as a business opportunity or a possible home – but she had no right to ask.
It was none of her affair what the next owner did with Chance House.
Whoever bought it would have their own ideas, and they might well involve changes Lydia would prefer not to see.
She would have to stop being so sentimental.
And wouldn’t a quick sale be good? It would speed everything else up. She’d be able to buy as soon as she found the right property in Dublin. She and the baby could be installed by the end of the year, if not sooner.
‘You’ll need to contact the estate agent,’ she said.
‘I certainly will, thank you kindly.’ He put out a hand; she took it wordlessly. ‘Thanks so much, Mrs Cotter. A pleasure to meet you, and best of luck – I see you have a little one on the way. You have a good evening now.’
Before she could reply he was gone, walking smartly to his car. She closed the front door and leant against it, listening to the sound of his departure.
Name your price.
She hadn’t taken to him. Property acquisition sounded soulless.
She fed the cat and assembled a salad for dinner. A text came in from Brona as she ate. Got back before the concert rush, thankfully. Best of luck with the driving lessons. Keep your eyes on the road and your hands on the wheel – and remember, say no to any offers of meat!
She debated telling her of the American’s visit, but decided to say nothing. He might not follow through. He might decide, having slept on it, that he wasn’t interested after all, family connection or not.
For the first time in a long time, she set an alarm to wake her in the morning. Chances were she’d be awake well before eight, but just in case. She found herself looking forward to the driving lesson. She felt Andrew would be a good teacher.
She got into bed and turned on to her side, and felt her baby bumping against the wall of her womb.
‘Shh,’ she said softly. ‘We’re going to sleep now.’