The House On Willow Street (62 page)

Thinking of the café made Cashel hungry. A sandwich, he thought; a nice sandwich on rye bread with one of Brian’s Americanos. Yes, that’d be the business. He made his way out into the foyer to find Mara there, along with Rafe, who was taking off his motorbike helmet.

“Cashel, how’s it going?” said Rafe. “I thought you’d be up at the house because of the accident. A wall fell in,” he said, “and Tess—”

“Tess,” said Cashel.
Tess had been at the house and she was hurt.
Fear gripped his heart. Fear so cold and black that he didn’t think he could breathe. “Oh my God, I’ve got to get up there now. Now.”

“No, Cashel, wait,” Rafe was yelling after him. “I was only saying—”

But Cashel was gone, down the stairs, vaulting them at high speed, out onto the street. He had his keys in his pocket but there was no point taking the car, he’d run it faster. He began to sprint. It was cool for an April day, he was in his shirt and trousers, but he didn’t feel the cold. He ran like a man possessed, across the square and up the street. In two minutes, Church Street where Tess had her shop would join up with Willow Street and then he could sprint up the hill.

Tess—he couldn’t bear anything to have happened to her. And what was she doing at the house? Maybe she’d gone in looking at it when she knew he wasn’t there.

He ran faster. He was on Willow Street now. Everything was a blur. People were looking at him as if he was crazy, but he didn’t care. It was a steep hill, but he didn’t care. He ran, unthinking, unaware almost of his breath, his heart pumping. He was nearly there. And suddenly, out of nowhere he could see a figure appearing, walking a dog. It was Tess. He’d know that long-legged, elegant walk anywhere. Tess with that stupid dog of hers. Cashel ran up and the dog threw herself on him in complete joy, muddy paws all over his shirt, and he didn’t care.

“Tess—you’re okay!” he said, grabbing her.

Tess pulled away from him, startled. “Of course, I’m okay,” she said. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“I was in the office, Rafe came in and said the wall had fallen, then he said your name and at that, I rushed off, half-cocked,” Cashel said, panting from his run. “All I could think was that you were buried underneath.”

“You thought I was hurt?” she said quietly.

He nodded as if speech was now beyond him.

“I think a wall came down,” she said. “I’d taken Silkie for a walk up there—I sometimes do that,” she said, as if admitting something shameful. “Just to see. Because I love the house. You know that.”

“I know,” he said, “I know.”

“Nobody was hurt, but it’s a bit of a mess. Freddie is going completely mad. He’s trying to work out who to kill first and they’re all running scared of him.”

Cashel laughed weakly, all he could manage, a laugh more of relief than humor.

“Rafe had come to pick up some papers from the architect for Mara, and I was talking to him, that’s all. I said that if he was talking to Mara, he was to explain that nobody was hurt.”

Cashel took her hands now, one hand clutching Silkie’s lead. The dog was sitting between them, looking up curiously from one to the other.

“You haven’t had a dog for years, I bet,” she said.

“Yeah,” said Cashel. “There are lots of things I haven’t had for years . . . fun, love, happiness.” He didn’t know what it was: the after-effects of the shock, relief at finding her unhurt, or finally being alone with her.

This was his chance to tell her everything, to be honest.

“I bought the house out of vengefulness, spite, some
childish emotion. I’m sorry. I felt so hurt when my mother died, and then I saw you at the funeral. It all turned into this huge rage, rage at my mother dying and you hurting me in the past.”

“But you never let me explain, not at the time, not after,” Tess protested. “Suki got you all riled up because she was angry at me. I’d never have hurt you, Cashel. We simply had different priorities at the time. You were so headstrong, so determined to get out of Avalon and make something of yourself. I knew you thought you had to
be somebody
to marry me—because of Avalon House and my background—and you didn’t.”

He stared down at her.

“That was what hurt most,” she said. “That you could accuse me of that when you should have known better. I loved you with all my heart, but I had to do my duty and take care of my father, especially when he was so ill and needed me. When you couldn’t understand, when it was clear you really didn’t know me . . .” She looked at him sadly. “Well, I decided you weren’t the man I’d thought you were. I told myself that if you truly loved me, Cashel, you’d wait for me. Instead you abandoned me.” Her voice trembled a little, even now. “I waited, you know. I kept waiting for you, but you never came.”

There, she’d said it: all the pain she’d kept inside for so long.

“I was stupid,” Cashel said, “stupid and headstrong. My mother always told me so. She knew you were the right woman for me.”

“I’m sorry she’s gone, Cashel,” Tess said, squeezing his hands.

“But you
didn’t
wait for me,” he came back, his face a picture of misery. “I know I was a fool, but I thought when
I returned, you’d be waiting here for me, that you’d be in love with me despite everything . . .” he tailed off, aware how he sounded.

“I waited over a year for you, Cashel Reilly. A year. A year when my world collapsed. You left, Suki went away again, I only had a few months with Dad before he died, and then I was all alone. I had to sell the house. I had to do it all myself. Kevin was kind to me.”

She stopped. She didn’t want to justify herself.

Suddenly she was aware of what a curious tableau they must be presenting: her and Cashel standing, holding hands at the top of Willow Street. Him sweating in a shirt dirty from Silkie’s paws and the dog sitting in between them, totally happy.

“I should go,” Tess said. “I brought Silkie out for a quick lunchtime walk and the shop is closed, I need to get back.”

“No,” said Cashel, “hear me out for one minute.”

She stopped because she didn’t really want to go, but this was all too much. She looked up into that face she’d thought of so many times, the face she’d dreamed of. The only man who’d truly broken her heart.

“I am so sorry,” he said slowly. “I was so childish, convinced that it had to be leave with me or nothing. I can’t believe you had to do all that on your own.”

He remembered his mother trying to tell him about Tess, but he’d refused to listen. He didn’t want to know.

“I’m a different man now. A man who understands what he lost and who mourns for it. Do you think we could try again, Tess, please?”

Tess looked at him. She could see the truth in his eyes. He meant this. “I can’t be hurt again, Cashel. You hurt me so much all those years ago and after what I’ve gone through with Kevin . . .” Her voice tailed off. “That’s been horrendous.
So I can’t be hurt again. Plus I have Zach and Kitty to think about. It’s different now,” she said fiercely. “My children have to come first, do you understand that?”

“I understand that,” he said. “But, please, can we try again knowing all those things, knowing that the children come first, knowing that I’m never going to hurt you again?”

And she nodded, slowly. Cashel watched the smile take over her face and then he kissed her.

Down in Avalon, Mara and Rafe walked hand in hand down the street, Mara chattering and Rafe silently listening, a smile on his face. He loved this town, loved the craziness of it, the way Belle waved to them from the other side of the street, shrewd eyes taking everything in. He loved mad Joe McCreddin with his baler-twine belt, stomping down to his car, a battered pickup truck, talking to himself as he went. He loved the smell coming out of Lorena’s, where coffee mingled with the scent of the red velvet cake Mara loved.

He and Mara had been talking about the man who’d made the beautiful carved wooden animal sculptures. Mara had had that glint in her eye, that dangerous glint.

“I think Danae ought to meet him,” she said, thoughtfully. “He’s a very calming person, Zen-like. Loves animals, nature. He’d be good for Danae.”

“Cici’s right—you are an awful meddler,” Rafe said, smiling down at her with love.

“I’m only saying . . . they could be friends. He looks like the sort of man who doesn’t get out much. They could go for walks on the beach. I think we’ll have to bring her to see him some day, on the pretext of buying something else. She loves her she-wolf.”

“I love my she-wolf,” Rafe said, holding her tightly as
they walked. “Now, important matters. It’s lunch. Soup and sandwiches? Or just sandwiches, so we can leave room for a bit of cake?”

Mara’s wonderful eyes twinkled up at him.

“Let’s leave room for cake, definitely,” she said. “A bit of cake makes everything better.”

I haven’t written acknowledgments for years—it’s so hard. I live in mortal fear of hurting someone by leaving them out and my memory is so bad, this is inevitable. I am the woman who went to New Zealand, met a
dear
friend of my brother’s who came to a reading, meant to email him about it, promised her I would, then totally forgot until nine months later he said he’d got a Christmas card from her talking about how lovely it had been . . . oh, the
guilt.

The people who know me and love me understand. But other people might be offended and I hate that. So acknowledgments equal nightmare and that’s why these are so long.

To my family, my husband John and our beautiful, wise and kind sons, Dylan and Murray. We are blessed. To Dinky, Licky and Scamp who give me such pleasure as they sit around me—or on me—being adoring, lovable and a never-ending source of joy. To Mum, who works so tirelessly for charity with good humor and her customary love; to my big brother, Francis, who is kind, funny and loving, not to mention a genius; to my darling sister Lucy, who does so much for other people and who is an earth angel with a light that shines from her. To Dave, such a gentle, kind brother-in-law; to Anne, who works so hard and has raised such wonderful girls; to my nieces Laura, Naomi and Emer—I am SO proud
to be your aunt. To Robert, a gentleman. To the animals: Dexter and Jasper. To Margaret, definitely a sister in another life. To Maggie. To Sarah Conroy—what did I ever do till I met you? Thanks to Ted and to Joana.

To Emma, soul sister who always has my back and I have yours, darling. To Fiona, another soul sister. To Marian, another sister—I love you. To darling Judy, for everything. To the angels on earth who are Patricia Scanlan; Aisling Carroll; Martina Garner; Aidan Story; Kelly Callaghan (there’s a Rudi & Madison shop in this book); Maureen Hassett; Beccy Cameron; Suzy McMullen; Kate Thompson; Terry Prone; Alyson Stanley; Lola Simpson; Sheila O’Flanagan; Alex Barclay and Mary Canavan for the journey.

Enormous thanks—there isn’t enough room on the page to list how good he is—to Jonathan Lloyd: a kinder, more debonair man never existed. He has a heart of gold. To everyone at Curtis Brown—to Lucia, Willow, Melissa, Felicity, Sheila, Jonny,
everyone
in CB. Thanks to my HarperCollins family, starting with the Irish branch, so first thanks to the wonderful Moira Reilly and Tony Purdue. In London, a mammoth thanks to Lynne Drew, Kate Elton, Rachel Hore, Anne O’Brien, Belinda Budge, Vicky Barnsley, Liz Dawson, Thalia Suzuma, Damon Greeney, Oli Malcolm, Lucy Upton, Louise Swannell, to Alice Moore for the fabulous new covers.

In HarperCollins Australia, a huge thanks to Christine Farmer who is a legend; to Karen-Maree Griffiths, an angel; Michael Moynahan; to Shona Martin, and everyone else on the team who works so hard on my behalf. In HC New Zealand thanks to Tony Fisk, Sandra Noakes, Lise Taylor and everyone who works so hard on my behalf there; thanks to the lovely people at HC Canada, especially David Kent, Leo McDonald, and gorgeous Charidy Johnston and Cory Beatty for the loveliest tour and for introducing me to
Twitter! Thanks to lovely Deborah Schneider in New York and to Carolyn Reidy and all at Simon & Schuster U.S., including Karen Kosztolnyik and Heather Hunt. Thanks to Louise Paige and Ailsa MacAllister. Thanks to my UNICEF Ireland family, especially Julianne Savage, and thanks to former UNICEF ladies, Thora Mackey and Grace Kelly for continuing friendship.

Thanks to the wonderful publishers around the world who bring my books everywhere. I appreciate it so much! A toast to you all. Slainte.

To all my Saturday morning yoga girls who face the word with laughter, strength and love. To Eva Berg, AnneMarie Casey O’Connor, Eleanor Stoney, Ella Griffin, Sinead Moriarty, AnneMarie Scanlon, LisaMarie Redmond, to artists extraordinaire Carole Shubotham, Fiona Rahill and Kimberley Rogers. To the twin mommy federation of Barbara Stack and Susan Zaidan; to Thelma O Reilly for minding my princesses; to the friends who are always there: Barbara Durkan, Bernie Murphy, Mary Begley, Claire O’Donovan, Dara Byrne, Felicity Carney, Pauline Moroney, Patte O’Reilly, Trish Morrissey, Louise Stanley, and anyone I’ve forgotten. To Jim Hatton, Claire Darmody, Stevie Holly and Janet Barnes: to the Santina’s crew Santina, Andrew, Martha, Paula, Margaret, Annette, and anyone I’ve left out. To John O’Brien, owner of Enniskerry’s glorious antique shop, Aladdin’s Cave, who gave me advice and marvelous stories.