Chapter FOUR
Lou
NOW
Fourteen Days to Christmas Eve
‘It would be great company, that’s all I’m saying, Lou. A Pomeranian is a good companion, though maybe a little bit yappy. How about a tiny little Yorkie? Oh, imagine a cute little puppy to snuggle up with you every evening.’
My mother is in one of her very persistent moods today. Subject: puppies. Theme: not taking no for an answer.
We are making up ten poinsettia centrepieces for the local Women’s Institute Christmas dinner, while debating the merits of getting me a pet of some sort so that I’m not alone in my beautiful new cottage.
‘That all sounds very tempting indeed,’
I agree.
‘but I don’t think it’s fair to have a dog when I’m at work all day, six days a week. It would break my heart to say goodbye every morning and look at its sad little face as I leave. I couldn’t do it.’
Mum rolls her eyes and hands me a lovely little gold-sprayed pot. I must admit, aside from days like this when she seems to torture her own mind with how she can make my life better, we do work quite well together when it comes to creative combinations for our customers.
‘Get a cat, then,’
she suggests, clipping a piece of gold ribbon to match our beautiful pots at lightning speed.
‘Cats are much more independent. You know, when your father passed away, I was so glad your grandmother came to stay with me. She’s so independent too, coming and going, but it’s nice to have her company as long as I let her have the remote control.’
‘Are you comparing Nana Molly to a cat?’
I tease.
‘What type of cat? I think she’d be a very elegant Persian.’
‘I was thinking more of a cranky old alley cat.’
‘Mum! You’re bad!’
‘I’m joking, but I’ve no doubt you can’t wait to tell her that and sink me right in it,’
says Mum with a smile.
‘Your father used to do it to me all the time. He’d land me in trouble with her at every opportunity, just for fun.’
We go on about our business in comfortable silence, though I can’t help but glance at her once or twice while she stays on autopilot, caught up in the quiet ache of remembering my father, who was taken from us so suddenly, far too cruelly and far too young.
‘Oh, I can’t wait to have Gracie home for a few days over Christmas,’
she whispers, slowly coming back to the present.
‘Has she booked her flight from New York yet, Lou? Imagine the four of us together at Christmas! You, me, Nana and Gracie.’
I feel a familiar knot in my stomach tug tighter and tighter with dread.
‘Having all four of us together at Christmas has never been an easy thing to organise,’
I say as my mind and body go into protectiv.
‘just in case’
mode.
‘What I mean is, I don’t want you to get your hopes up, Mum. I’ve an awful fear Gracie isn’t going to make it. I’ve offered to book her flight, but she always hurries off the call when I mention it.’
‘Nonsense,’
Mum replies, pushing back her latest masterpiece and tilting her head in admiration.
‘She’ll be here. There’s no way we can do Christmas without her. Tell her I said that. Now, are you sure we’ve made the right call with the red and gold combination on these pots? Maybe the ladies would have preferred silver pots instead? Or just plain black may have been nice too?’
‘Gold is prettier,’
I say, pushing my hair out of my eyes, glad of the distraction from chat about Gracie.
‘Yes, I’m sure we made the right call with the gold pots, Mum. I asked Bridie from the WI committee and she said gold is good.’
‘Good as gold,’
Mum whispers, then hums her way through the next pot while I go to fetch a parcel from our delivery man.
‘Good as gold.’
By the time I get across the store, passing our growing collection of festive delights such as velvety red roses and soft silver willow, the regular delivery guy, Declan, whistles and drums his fingers by the coffee dock as if he’s been waiting forever.
‘I could have left this outside in the snow, but I’m a gentleman so wouldn’t do such a thing, Lou,’
he says, holding out a small screen for my signature.
‘Ah, my order of cellophane,’
I declare.
‘Yes! Christmas has come early for me.’
Declan looks like the cat that got the cream, but I’m not exaggerating. A speedy delivery like this for the florist’s makes life so much easier, especially as a Christmas rush is just beginning.
‘Oh, could I get a quick cappuccino to take away, please, Lou?’
Declan asks me, pushing his black glasses back on his nose.
‘Extra cinnamon?’
He jiggles in his pocket for change as I fix up his drink.
‘No problem, Declan. Have it on me,’
I tell him.
‘It’s a cold one out there, so I hope this warms you up. Thanks, Declan.’
His face lights up like a Christmas tree, making me warm and fuzzy inside, but it’s the least I can do. One of the things I adore the most about village life is how everyone pulls together like one big team, and I couldn’t operate my business without someone like Declan.
‘How about a turtle?’
Mum asks me, deadly serious, when Declan leaves.
‘You always wanted one of those as a child.’
I throw my head back, let out a deep sigh and hand her a new bunch of poinsettias.
‘How about accepting that I’m perfectly fine the way I am?’
I tell her, setting down a pair of scissors a little more firmly than I intended, but my mini strop is halted by Declan’s return.
‘Sorry to interrupt. I forgot to ask earlier,’
he says all a fluster and slightly out of breath as if he’s run a marathon.
‘Would you mind displaying one of these in the window, please?’
‘Of course,’
I reply, taking a rolled-up poster from him.
‘Tilda Heaney asked if I’d pass a few of these posters around, when I was dropping off a parcel to her earlier,’
he tells us.
‘Hot off the press, I believe. I wouldn’t usually agree, but I said yes as it’s for charity, plus, let’s face it, the Heaneys are hard to say no to, aren’t they? Such lovely people. I only hope my boss doesn’t find out. I could get the sack for this, so say nothing!’
He laughs, which tells me he’s enjoying his moment of rebellion, but when I unroll the poster and read what it says, I’m certainly not laughing, that’s for sure. And his comment about how it’s hard to say no to the Heaneys is stuck in my gut. Yes, they are lovely people. I know that more than most around here, and there lies the problem.
‘Oh my … so it’s happening, then.’
I feel the colour drain from my face, but I quickly change my expression into a forced smile when I see the look of confusion on Declan’s face.
‘I mean, wow. That’s all. That was quick.’
‘Well, yes, that was quick!’
Mum repeats after me as she leans over my shoulder and reads aloud from the poster.
‘Christmas Eve Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House, Wednesday 24 December 2025 at 12 noon. Admission ￡25. All proceeds to Daffodil Cancer. Everyone welcome.’
‘It’s for an excellent cause,’
Declan sings, as if he’s chief organiser and not just someone delivering posters on the quiet to keep sweet with the Heaneys.
‘Close to my heart like so many others, as my own mother is recovering from cancer.’
‘Ah, Declan, I’m so sorry to hear that. Does it say where we can buy tickets?’
Mum asks as she squints to read the poster again.
‘I imagine this will sell out quickly.’
Declan swiftly points to a QR code on the bottom left-hand side.
‘Very modern for the Heaneys, so they must have someone young helping,’
he says.
‘Thankfully, those of us who are more technically challenged, like me I admit, can get a ticket from the post office in person.’
I scan the QR code, then bury my face in my phone.
‘Christmas Eve is a busy day, so I’m not going to be able to go, unfortunately,’
I mumble as the info on the event pops up on my screen.
‘But I’ll buy tickets. As you said, Declan, we’ve all been affected by cancer in some shape or form. I hope your mum is feeling better these days?’
There, I’ve redeemed myself and my earlier negativity by opening up a conversation about the well-being of his mother, who I’ve never met. But Declan isn’t hanging around this time. In fact, he’s already hotfooting it towards the door.
‘She has good days and bad days, but mostly good, thanks,’
he calls back in our direction.
‘I can’t stop to chat any longer, sorry. I’m on the clock with the boss, but see you again soon.’
‘Bye, Declan!’
I shout with far too much enthusiasm.
‘Yes, see you soon. Love to your mum!’
I look at my mother, who is tutting and shaking her head.
‘What?’
I ask, handing her the poster as if it’s burning my fingers.
‘I said I’d buy tickets, didn’t I? I’m not that hard-hearted.’
Mum licks her lips slowly, staring over her glasses, then shrugs with nonchalance.
‘You seem nervy, Lou. Or jumpy. Or hyper, maybe. What’s going on?’
she asks, with a look that reminds me of when I was in trouble as a child.
‘Is it due to the slight possibility that Ben Heaney might make some magical appearance like Santa Claus on Christmas Eve? Was there something between you two you’ve never told me about? Something deeper? Something more serious?’
‘God, no!’
I exclaim, cursing myself for telling my mother a white lie, but I have my reasons. The main one being I still can’t bear to think about it, never mind talk about it.
‘I’d hardly recognise him if he walked through the door.’
OK, that was more than a white lie. In fact, it was veering much closer to an out-and-out black lie, if there’s such an expression. I’d know Ben Heaney from a thousand miles away. I’d pick him out of a line-up in a heartbeat.
‘I can’t help but think you’re being negative about something extremely positive in our community because of an old boyfriend,’
she mumbles.
‘Really, Lou. I do expect better from you on this occasion.’
Now, that stung. Both of those statements stung.
‘Mum, he was never my real boyfriend.’
‘Your lover, then,’ she says.
‘He wasn’t only my lover either.’
Oh, my heart. Oh, how he was so much more than that.
‘You’re very close and intimate friend, then,’
she says in exasperation.
‘Deny all you want, but I’ve a hunch that you two had something very strong going on, whatever you want to call it. But it was a long time ago, so it’s probably a good idea to be a lot more mature if you can manage it at all.’
My stomach twists and turns. My throat goes dry.
‘Mum, we were no more than kids back then, so of course it isn’t about Ben Heaney,’
I say, wishing we didn’t have to talk about this.
‘Now, pass me those scissors, please. Bridie from the Women’s Institute is picking up her centrepieces in less than half an hour. We’ve been held back and distracted for far too long as it is this morning.’
It’s almost walking distance to the village from my house, but it’s a very busy road and since I’ve been known to take copious amounts of foliage and flowers home with me to keep me busy in the evenings, and since the weather here isn’t exactly tropical in summer, never mind in December, it’s much more sensible for me to drive back and forth.
That’s not to mention the personal bouquet deliveries, which was intentionally part of the service I brought to Buds and Beans since I opened in the summer, straight out of a very creative world in New York City, thinking all my dreams would come true when I finally got back home. There’s nothing to beat seeing someone’s face light up when an unexpected bunch of flowers is delivered to their door and into their hands.
A surprise birthday gift, a way to say Congratulations, or I’m sorry, or I love you. A bunch of flowers can brighten up anyone’s day, and it’s an honour for me to witness it on an almost daily basis.
But what are the dreams I’m chasing by coming back here? I often wonder. What am I searching for? Is my mother right? Do I want company? Do I need something or someone to go home to in the evenings?
Should I get a puppy?
No, I don’t need an animal to comfort me. I don’t need anyone or anything. I’ve always been more than happy with my own company, and I’m well used to that by now, even in New York when Gracie moved across the state to study English three years ago. My small business here is ticking along enough to keep the wolf from my door, and I’ve the most beautiful home I could ever have imagined, tucked away in a rural haven with my mother and grandmother close by.
But I miss my daughter. God, I miss her so much.
I don’t have a definite date yet, but I’m counting down the days until I see her for Christmas.
If I see her for Christmas.
The sight of Katie’s Cottage coming into view lifts my heart like it always does, and I feel a tiny bit better by the time I’ve pulled up outside my bright yellow gates and left the engine still running and the lights on so I can see where to open the latch.
No matter how many times I’ve done so, this place never fails to excite me when I get back here. It was never expected to reach the market, having stayed in the same family for generations, so to say it was a catch is an understatement. Gracie wanted to show her boyfriend, Sam, where she originally came from before we escaped to New York when she was a toddler. Up popped Katie’s Cottage for sale, as if it was meant to be. I thought she was winding me up at first when she called me over to come and see it on her laptop.
‘It’s like something from a chocolate box, Mom,’
she cried out with delight.
‘Look at the thatched roof, oh wow! And it dates way back to 1820. Imagine how steeped in history it must be. Aww, it’s like stepping back in time. I love it. I really do!’
And I love it too. There was no need for Gracie to tell me its history. I’d been waiting on this moment to arrive since I was a young girl.
Katie’s Cottage is my very own little slice of heaven. It’s a rustic blend of old and new, with whitewashed walls, terracotta-tiled floors and even a fully functioning fireplace in my bedroom, which could be highly romantic in the right circumstances. For me, though, there’s simply nothing more I love than slipping into my most comfortable clothes, putting a match to the fire in the sitting room and reading a good book in the old-fashioned floral armchair left for me by the former owners.
My Celtic harp, a gift to me from my late father on my sixteenth birthday, sits proudly in a corner by the window, though I don’t play it at all these days. I used to find such solace in playing music, but these days it’s more like an ornament than an instrument, which makes my lip tremble if I think about it too much.
‘Your dad used to say his heart lifted higher than he even knew possible when you played the harp,’
Mum told me while we wallpapered the living room together in the summer. I chose a subtle violet and cream design which turned out nicer than I could have hoped for.
‘Maybe you’ll find your mojo again one day soon, even if in his memory.’
I know I will. I don’t know when, but I’ll play it very soon. I know I will.
Gracie FaceTimes me before bedtime. I’ve cleansed and moisturised my face, I’ve lit an organic cedar candle, and I’m convincing myself that I’m positively peaceful after a very strange day.
I don’t need a puppy or a cat or a turtle. I’m fine.
‘So, after all that, praise the Lord we got the pots all finished and delivered, but not before Declan came back to deliver a poster for the revived Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House,’
I tell Gracie.
‘That’s the big fancy house you worked at when you were younger?’
she asks me.
‘That’s the one, yes.’
She is on her lunch break at university and eats a sandwich while we catch up, as we try to do a few times a week.
‘It was one of those days when I couldn’t catch my breath at all. I was running around in circles, but we got all the orders out, then I delivered a birthday bouquet to a local lady who turned one hundred years old today. Now, that was special, especially when I gave her a hug and her old eyes glistened with delight. But I really wasn’t expecting to hear about events at Ballyheaney House, was I? I mean, I’d enough chat about that with Nana Molly on Monday when she first heard it on the grapevine. As if I’m going to that, charity or not.’
I imagine Gracie is only half listening as I rant and rave about a place she doesn’t really know an awful lot about, apart from what I’ve told her and what she’s learned through brief holidays here throughout her twenty years.
‘I don’t get it,’
she says, scrunching up her perfect face. With her freckled nose and almond-shaped eyes framed with dark, wavy hair a mirror image of mine, she is my past, present and future all rolled into one, yet we can be as different as chalk and cheese on a lot of things too.
‘The lovely old birthday lady with tears in her eyes is beautiful. I get that. But what’s the big deal with the charity thing? Who cares if you go or if you don’t?’
I hold up my mug of tea as if it’s a shield, already in a state of defence.
‘You’re absolutely right, Gracie. Who cares about it? It’s no big deal whatsoever,’
I reply, wondering too why I’d felt the need to mention the party to my daughter who lives on the other side of the Atlantic.
‘Well, you do, it seems.’
‘Erm, well, I guess it was … yeah, I suppose I was being nostalgic, that’s all. Ballyheaney House and the Christmas Eve party was once a big part of my late teenage years,’
I say, doing my best to explain without explaining the whole truth.
‘It was a coming-of-age thing, I suppose, and quite a treat back in the day. Maybe you could go with your gran, eh? That might be nice for you both. I don’t think it’s Nana Molly’s thing, but your Nana Liz wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
I’m rambling as I always do when I’m either nervous or trying to paper over the cracks of a conversation.
My daughter pushes her face closer to her phone screen in a comical way that makes me only able to see one of her huge brown eyes. She slowly pulls back again, her eyebrow arching and her lips pursing tight.
‘So, you’re not going?’ she asks.
‘No,’ I reply.
‘And it’s no big deal?’
‘Right.’
‘Yet you felt the need to tell me about it not once but twice this week,’
she reminds me.
‘And you think I might like it?’
‘Maybe?’
‘So, why don’t you go too?’
Jeez, I sometimes forget how my own daughter can read me like a book even through a tiny screen when she’s thousands of miles away. I wonder how she manages to tell exactly what I’m thinking just from my face, my tone of voice, or some totally unrelatable piece of useless information about a charity event in a tiny village in Ireland which has absolutely nothing to do with either of us.
‘Forget I even mentioned it.’
It’s the best I can come up with, other than give her a complete history lesson on happenings from before she was born.
‘Mom?’
‘Gracie?’
I’m ready for her to pry and quiz me some more, but instead, when I look at her properly, I’m almost sure I can see tears well up in her eyes. My daughter may be able to read me well, but I will always be able to read her better.
‘Oh my gosh, what’s wrong, baby?’
I ask her as I set my mug of tea on the coffee table. I swoop my phone into my hand from where it was balancing.
‘Was it something I said? What’s going on, love? Are you in some sort of trouble?’
She looks away and rolls her sleeve over her hand, then holds it up to her face.
‘No, it’s nothing you said, and I’m not in trouble. I wasn’t even going to tell you today but now I feel I should,’
she says without looking at the camera. I swallow hard, hoping that whatever comes next isn’t as serious as she thinks.
‘Mom, I’m so torn. I don’t know what to do.’
‘Oh, Gracie.’
‘I know how much this Christmas means to you,’
she says.
‘especially with it being your first one in Ireland, but if I leave Dad then I’ll feel so guilty too because the little ones want me there and they’re growing up so fast. They’re so excited for Santa.’
My heart bleeds for her while a wave of mum guilt rips through my veins.
‘I haven’t booked a flight yet because I am torn between Nana Molly getting older, and being with you of course, but then Charlie and Lily are at a magical age that won’t last forever either,’
she continues.
‘They really want me to stay, Mom. I don’t know what to do.’
As upset as I know this is going to make me when it all sinks in, I can breathe again knowing my daughter isn’t in any sort of danger, that she isn’t sick and that she isn’t going to come to any harm.
‘Gracie, darling, you don’t need to cry, honey,’
I whisper, shaking my head as I try to reassure her.
‘I totally understand how hard this must be for you, but if it’s upsetting you this much then just go with what your gut tells you and stick with it.’
‘But, Mom.’
‘There are no buts in all of this,’
I tell her, even though my insides are brewing up an earthquake of disappointment. It’s something I’m going to have to discuss with her dad so we can both ensure she doesn’t feel she has to be split down the middle between us at any time of the year.
‘You are an adult now, and you are entitled to make up your own mind with every decision that comes your way. But at the same time, sometimes being an adult sucks, and we have to make decisions we don’t really want to.’
‘It sucks big time,’
she says, looking relieved already.
‘As long as you know that I’m always here for advice or to brainstorm any problem you ever have,’
I tell her.
‘And never forget I’ll support you every step of the way. Whatever you decide, me and your dad will run with it. End of story.’
I can almost see the stress lift from Gracie’s face when I finish, which makes me happy even though deep down I am engulfed with sadness. I’m not mad with her, I’m sad at the situation we’re now in. A situation I created by upping sticks and moving so far away from her, even though she was the one who convinced me to make it all happen.
‘You’re the best, Mom,’
she tells me.
‘I know, I know,’
I say, hoping it will raise a smile.
‘What can I say? I’m fully schooled in matters of the heart, and I may as well be a guru when it comes to parenting. I learned it all on the job, with no formal training whatsoever, but that doesn’t matter because I know everything.’
She laughs and rolls her eyes on hearing a phrase I’ve said to her many times, especially throughout her teenage years when I used to remind her how it’s my first time on this planet too, yet I’m always only ever going to do my best for her even when I’m winging it.
‘I have to go now,’
she says, sounding like a weight has been lifted off her young shoulders.
‘I’ve a lecture on Linguistics for two whole hours, but I’ll be able to concentrate on it a bit more now we’ve had this conversation. I’ll make a proper decision really soon. Love you!’
‘I love you too, Gracie,’
I reply, before we wave like maniacs and debate over who will hang up first, just for fun.
But there’s nothing fun about the possibility of facing Christmas in a different country, far from your only daughter, is there? And I must understand that as much as I could jump on the phone now and ask John if he’s been stirring things up, his family has a right to want to spend Christmas with her too.
So I’ll just have to take it on the chin if she decides to stay stateside this year, something which is much easier said than done. I love my gorgeous cottage and my wonderful job, and being so close to my mum and my grandmother is the best in so many ways, but there are still times like this when I ask the universe why it brought me back here after all these years.
Or why the hell I ever chose to listen to it in the first place.