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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faintly. Unless there was a gun, blood and a body lying in the gutter, it would take more than ‘arguing’ to make her happy. In fact, the only way she’d be happy was if Jack had been seen dragging himself to the train station, bleating ‘Mara, I must see her, she’s the love of my life, I made a huge mistake, if only she’ll forgive me and have me back …’ while Tawhnee screeched ‘No!’ while clinging on to him and somehow looking much less beautiful in the process. In fact, Mara decided, Tawhnee had become Scrawnee. Her boob job had flopped and she was no longer skinny with a huge bust but skinny with a droopy bust …
‘Yeah, he was smoking and she was shouting at him, saying he was supposed to have stopped.’
‘And you could hear all this?’ For a moment, Mara wondered if Cici had gone insane with a type of single-white-female stalker thing.
‘They were shouting.’
Mara was surprised. She and Jack had never shouted at each other, he wasn’t that sort of man. Raised voices weren’t in Jack’s repertoire. When he wanted his own way, he played the trump card of flashing his charming smile and Mara fell in with what he wanted. His other trick was to shrug and go missing for a day, which sent Mara into spirals of despair, thinking he’d left her because of her demands – not that she’d ever demanded much. When he’d eventually saunter back in, she’d apologize for anything – the sinking of the Titanic, the Icelandic volcanic eruption, anything – because she was so relieved to have him back.
‘It looked to me as though not everything’s rosy in Jack’s world,’ Cici said smugly.
‘Oh, it doesn’t mean anything, Cici. I’m not surprised he’s back on the fags. She’ll get used to it. Women will get used to anything for Jack.’
She had.
‘But, you know, it proves they’re not happy …’ began Cici.
‘It proves they argue,’ Mara said quietly. ‘Couples do.’
‘You should come back,’ Cici said. ‘The city’s boring without you and I miss you.’
‘Miss you too, but I need some time away,’ Mara said.
She couldn’t tell Cici that she didn’t know if she’d ever be able to live in Galway again, to revel in an atmosphere that was at once both medieval and very, very modern. Galway was where she’d finally found love, only to discover that it hadn’t been love after all, not for him at least.
It wasn’t exactly female warrior behaviour, to run away from the scene of the pain, but she felt a peace living in Avalon that she knew she wouldn’t feel in Galway.
And she was healing in Avalon. Healing took time. So did her job, which she loved.
A delivery truck began to back out of a parking space ahead of her and Mara grinned. It was a sign. Parking spaces that became vacant as you drove by were always a sign.
She hopped out of the car, paid the meter fee and marched off to Lorena’s with a spring in her step.
Avalon had embraced the festive season with what Danae described as its usual exuberance. There wasn’t an eave that hadn’t been adorned with Austrian-ski-village-style fairy lights, and a Hollywood producer doing a remake of A Christmas Carol would not have been let down by the amount of red and white adorning every shopfront.
Mara smiled as she passed Reagan’s bar, which stuck out like a sore thumb with its single limp gold star stuck to the door, looking as if it needed a dose of decorative Viagra to perk it up.
‘Billy Reagan hates Christmas,’ Danae had explained to Mara. ‘Christmas Day is one of two days in the year when he has to shut. If he could get a couple of beds into the back snug and pretend the place was a hotel, so he could have a hotel licence and serve drink, he’d be in heaven. The only reason he’s hung that gold star is as a concession to Belle – our lady mayoress sent all the local businesses a memo on the importance of Christmas decorations.’
There was no queue at Lorena’s this morning, but the café was jammed and Mara pulled off her ugly but warm frontier-style hat with the two floppy ear flaps. A girl could only take being a slave to fashion so far when it was a degree above freezing. Shaking her mane of flaming hair, she looked around for a seat. There was one left at a table for four, where two women sat opposite each other and chatted, while on the third chair sat a man, head bent, engrossed in his magazine. Perfect.
Brian behind the counter mumbled ‘hello’, which was the equivalent of an effusive greeting from him. He was so painfully shy that Mara felt sorry for him, therefore she always did all the talking for the two of them.
‘Morning, Brian. Isn’t it a lovely day? I love the low December sun when it comes. Lifts your spirits, doesn’t it?’
Brian mumbled something in reply and Mara’s eyes spotted the Swedish cinnamon buns that Lorena, Brian’s mother, had recently begun selling. Giving up Danish pastries didn’t mean she couldn’t try Swedish buns, did it?
‘I think I’d like one of those buns, too, Brian,’ Mara went on. ‘Very bad for me, I’m sure. Or is that the low-calorie version?’
Mara’s eyes twinkled as she looked up at Brian, and he smiled nervously back, then hurriedly turned away to busy himself with the coffee machine.
‘I’ll grab that empty seat before anyone else gets it,’ Mara added, and wriggled through the crowded café to the single vacant spot.
‘Is there anybody sitting here?’ she asked.
‘No – sit away,’ said one of the two women, before turning back to her friend to resume their conversation.
The person opposite lowered the motorbike magazine he was reading as Mara plonked her bag on the seat and began removing her winter parka, a giant duvet-like garment that looked ugly but felt snug. From out of nowhere, a big masculine hand reached across to help her wriggle out of the coat.
She blinked as she saw who it was. The flirtatious Kiwi cowboy. He wasn’t wearing his ridiculous hat today, which was why she hadn’t spotted him first.
The idea of having her elevenses snack as a takeaway suddenly appealed, but Mara decided she wouldn’t be run out of the café on account of a man. She’d had enough of fleeing the vagaries of men, thank you very much.
‘I can manage to get my coat off,’ she snapped, and did some more struggling with the parka.
The café was so full with tables jammed next to each other that the long duvet coat thwacked at least three people at nearby tables before Mara had it under control.
Crossly, she stuffed it on to the seat and marched off to get her coffee, looking all the while for another place to free up.
At the counter, she paid Brian, smiled thanks and took her small tray grudgingly back to the table.
She sorted herself out and was about to take a bite of cinnamon bun, when the two women decided they were leaving. Mara and the Kiwi Cowboy were alone at the table.
He put his magazine down and smiled at her.
‘Hi, Red,’ he said, in that velvety Southern hemisphere accent.
Honestly, she thought, was he ever going to take the hint? She was Off Men.
‘Don’t bother,’ she snapped.
‘Do you hate all men or is it just me?’ he asked engagingly.
Mara was about to snap, It’s just you, but held her tongue. Ignoring him, she concentrated instead on checking the sugariness of her chocolate.
Cici would definitely like him, Mara decided. He was much more her style. Mara liked the lean, elegant types like Jack, men who wore nice suits and had an aura of elegance about them even when they wore casual clothes. Cici had always gone for the macho guys with big muscles; the type of men who exuded animal magnetism and probably played