Cathy Kelly 3-Book Collection 2: The House on Willow Street, The Honey Queen, Christmas Magic, plus bonus short story: The Perfect Holiday. Cathy Kelly
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needed a refill, Rafe downed his coffee and followed her.
She even smelled good, he decided as he stood behind her: something cinnamon? Did they make perfume with cinnamon in it? She was a small girl, and he liked that too, not being overly tall himself. He liked everything about her.
‘Hi,’ he said.
She whirled around, stared up, and he got a blast of those eyes. Viridian green, he decided, and flashing with anger.
The angry eyes said: Don’t talk to me, stranger.
She turned away with a flick of the dark red curls and gave the cakes on the counter further consideration.
Rafe was wildly entertained. He loved this. He hadn’t met a girl this sassy since he’d left New Zealand.
‘I said hi,’ he said.
The curls jiggled and she stared at him again. The green eyes raked him and she ignored him again.
‘Nice day,’ he went on.
This time, she turned round slowly.
‘Honey,’ she said, the glare ongoing, the eyes staring up at him, ‘I am Not. In. The. Mood. OK? Capisce?’ Her gaze swept over him again, taking in the worn work jumper and the stockman’s overalls. ‘Whatever “no” is in your language, cowboy.’
‘Vulcan,’ he murmured.
‘What?’
‘Vulcan, that’s my language.’
The eyes narrowed. ‘Like Dr Spock?’
‘No, Mr Spock. “Live long and conquer” sort of thing,’ he said. ‘Dr Spock gave baby advice.’
‘If it’s advice you’re after, I’ve got some for you: leave me alone,’ she said with a smile that could strip paint from a door.
‘Yes, miss, can I help you?’ said the guy behind the counter, carefully ignoring the atmosphere.
‘Large take-away cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso, please,’ she said politely.
Rafe approved even more. None of this ‘skinny cappuccino’ rubbish.
‘Are you a tourist?’ he asked. He had never seen her before, he was sure of that.
‘No,’ she said, ‘I’m an outreach worker with a care in the community centre and we’re rounding up all the local weirdos with a particular emphasis on ones who chat up women in cafés.’
‘Would you need handcuffs for that?’ Rafe said conversationally.
The freckled girl didn’t bat an eyelid. ‘I’m packing heat,’ she said, patting her hip as if a gun nestled under her coat. ‘And if that doesn’t work, I’ve got a staple gun in my handbag. Few men are immune to the staple gun.
‘Ouch.’
‘You bet.’
She whirled back again and paid for her coffee, purposefully ignoring Rafe.
‘Isn’t she something else, Brian,’ sighed Rafe, watching her shimmy over to the door, coffee in one hand. ‘I could eat her all up.’
‘It would be like eating a piranha,’ said Brian, who’d never had any luck with women.
‘Ah, Brian, she said no. Inside, she was interested, I can tell.’
‘Don’t know how you can tell,’ said Brian. ‘I’ve never had a clue what women are saying. It’s all in code.’
Mara stomped out with her coffee in her hand, irritated by the man in the café. She was fed up with the male of the species: always on the hunt, even if it was only for fun. Pity Cici wasn’t here though, he was precisely her type: all scratchy designer stubble, messy hair and, if that cow-minding outfit was anything to go by, not the sort of man who’d worry about his clothes too much. Jack had been a regular fashion hound, keen to have the hottest jeans, the now watch. The guy in the café probably chose his clothes of a morning by sniffing things from the laundry basket to see what would do. Still …
She angled her head as she got into the car to see if he was watching her. He was. He was something, there was no doubt about it. Probably had the local girls eating out of his hand with his flirty remarks. Not her. She’d had it up to her teeth with men.
She gave him one last filthy look.
I am not interested, she said telepathically. The next man who gets close to me will end up with terminal injuries. OK?
She turned on the ignition, let the talking book she’d got from the library switch on, and headed for Dublin.
Mara’s home was a two up two down in a quiet Dublin city street. The end of Furlong Hill where the Wilsons lived was home to families who’d lived there for donkey’s years, while the other end was lined with shops, bars, and the chip shop Mara had adored when she was a youngster. Even now, she judged fish and chips by the standards of Rizzoli’s and the velvety taste of Mrs Rizzoli’s battered onions. Nobody else could compete. And curry sauce for the chips. It was funny how many of her early dates had taken place in Rizzoli’s. The lads in her secondary school hadn’t been too adventurous when it came to dating. It was either the pub – difficult to get into when they were under-age – or Rizzoli’s, where you could sit at a table nursing a Fanta and sharing a single plate of chips and sausages for hours on end and Mrs Rizzoli wouldn’t throw you out. She’d understood young love.
Mara felt the pangs of hunger as she drove past Rizzoli’s. Listening to Becky Sharpe’s adventures in Vanity Fair had taken her mind off both Jack and the fact that she’d only had a coffee and that bun for breakfast. For a second she thought of the man she’d met in the coffee shop. He had been cute, she had to admit, but she was off men.
Mara parked outside her family home, switched off Vanity Fair and smiled, as she always did, at the stone cladding her parents had scrimped and saved for months to install on the front of the house. It was pale grey and ‘classy’, as Mara’s mother like to say. Not like the O’Brien’s cladding, which was a yellow colour and entirely unsuited to Furlong Hill in Elsie Wilson’s opinion.
‘They’re copying us,’ Elsie had been saying for years.
Mara’s dad simply patted her arm and said, ‘Ah, now, Elsie, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. You have great taste, that’s all. God love the O’Briens. What would they do if they didn’t have you to look up to?’
Mara’s mother had never been entirely convinced by this line of thought. The latest addition to the Wilson frontispiece were a couple of bay trees in pots. Elsie had got her husband to nail down the pots, just to be on the safe side. Then she had watched through narrowed eyes as the O’Briens suddenly decided that bay trees were the fashion.
Grabbing her handbag, Mara wriggled out of the car.
Number 71 was as gloriously unchanged and comforting as ever. The moment you were inside the door, there was the aroma of something cooking. In the hall was a pretty arrangement of crimson winter roses on the small hall table that Elsie had carefully covered with decoupage many years before. Mara knew her mother would have got the roses cheap from a flower seller in town at the end of the day, but she’d arranged them beautifully with bits of greenery from her own garden. Not having any money had never stood in the way of Elsie making their home beautiful. For a second, Mara wanted to cry. Standing here in her childhood home, the pain of Jack’s defection and wedding hit her anew.
Home was where you came to cry.
Mara had never told her parents that she and Jack were going to be married. But she’d been so sure that they would end up together, and that sureness had seeped into every conversation she’d had with her parents over the past year or so.
Jack had been to 71 Furlong Hill to meet her parents and little brother. They’d even slept together in Mara’s old