Season of Second Chances: an uplifting novel of moving away and starting over

by Aimee Alexander

  She touches her hair. “Ah, just making a bit of an effort for a change.”

  “Oh, it’s not just the effort, Myra. You’ve got a glint in your eyes, girl.” Something about the way he says it reminds Grace of Alan.

  Myra lowers her eyes.

  “Could there be love in the air?” Seamus asks.

  “Go on outta that, Seamus, you old codger.”

  The more she stays in Killrowan, the more fond of everyone Grace is becoming.

  To his relief, Des catches Theresa Dempsey at lunchtime. Her secretary messaged ahead to say he’d be calling. Sweetheart that she is. After a brief catch up, Des outlines the crisis that his “patient” is experiencing. Theresa listens in silence.

  “My first question is, can the father appeal?” Des asks.

  “Yes, he can. It would be de novo, an entirely new case, going through all the evidence again. He’d be entitled to introduce new evidence.”

  Des closes his eyes. “What about the perjury situation?”

  “Well, firstly, the fact that the medical records don’t show physical evidence of abuse is not itself evidence of perjury. The child would have to make an admission under oath that he or she had lied for it to be perjury. Otherwise, it is not foreseeable that a court would deem it perjury. The court may seek to punish a parent if it is established that she put the child up to lying.”

  “It seems to have been the other way around.”

  “In that case, the court would not seek to punish the child.”

  “So, your advice would be not to give in to his blackmail?”

  “One could assume from his approach that he doesn’t have confidence in an appeal.”

  “That’s very encouraging. Thanks so much, Theresa,” Des says in relief. He was right not to worry Grace with this. If Simon does appeal, the worst-case scenario is he gets access. Why give it to him on a plate now? “You’ve been a great help. How much do I owe you?”

  “A drink, if you’re ever up in Cork,” she says with a smile in her voice.

  “Ah, you’re a star. Thank you.” He’ll send her some flowers.

  “As are you. I hope it works out.”

  “Me too. Thanks again.” Des replaces the receiver and stares at the phone, deep in thought. Simon will probably appeal. But there is nothing Grace can do now to help her case. And her solicitor has proven herself more than capable. The best thing for Des to do is say nothing. The less the man is in her head the better.

  His mobile rings.

  “You’re not going to believe it!” Grace says.

  “What?” he asks cautiously, though she sounds over the moon.

  “He’s paid the maintenance! I can’t believe it. What’s got into him?”

  Des knows exactly what’s got into him – an appeal.

  “Oh, that’s great, love.”

  “I can pay you back some of the money!”

  God love her, he thinks. That is the least of her worries.

  Grace throws a hoodie on over Holly’s leggings and finds “The Eye of the Tiger” on Spotify. Maybe a Rocky vibe will get her through the ordeal that lies ahead.

  “Don’t laugh,” she tells Myra on her way past reception.

  Myra pumps the air but her words are drowned out by Survivor.

  Grace better start running before the song is over and she loses momentum.

  The jog down to the pier is doable – “down” being the operative word.

  Birdsong fills the air. And the sky is everywhere.

  Out past the pier, Grace runs, jumping over cow pats and slowing as she goes, her breath already a pant. She shoves up her sleeves and starts to blow out each breath, though she knows that’s not right. When the path stops so does she. She could cut up through the graveyard and get out onto the road….

  Tackling what she thought was a gentle incline, she starts to really feel the pull on her leg muscles. It’s like she’s lifting lead. She opens her coat and welcomes the cool air on her chest. She knows she should be breathing through her nose but she just can’t get enough air.

  Head down, teeth gritted, she pushes, pushes, pushes, herself until finally, she slows to a stop, bending over, hands on her thighs. She takes off her hoodie and ties the sleeves around her waist, her breath a burning pant, her mouth parched.

  Recovered somewhat, she begins to walk, telling herself that at least she’s doing something.

  At the top of the incline, she stops and turns, hands on hips, taking a moment to look out over the sea, sparkling in the sun like flash photography. She could be in the South of France. She understands why West Cork attracts so many artists. She wishes she could paint. Instead she fishes her phone out of the sneaky pocket inside the waistband of Holly’s leggings and does her best to capture the beauty of this place with a click.

  Feeling the pull of the surgery, Grace turns around and starts to retrace her steps. Downhill now, she remembers to kick out her legs with every stride like she learned, years ago, in junior athletics. The bigger the stride, the less work to be done. She tilts her head back and enjoys the feeling of her shoulders loosening as her arms pump. And, just for a little while, running feels like freedom.

  50

  After a particularly long day at the surgery, which included diagnosing a young mum with cancer, Grace is not feeling up to Wayne Hills’ book launch. She just wants to get home and collapse. Locking the door to her office, she remembers his many arguments for not going. She rolls her shoulders. Did he even want her there in the first place? No. It was she who brought it up. She’ll ring Yvonne and bow out. Her friend will still have Alan for company. The three of them had planned to go together.

  “Ready?”

  Grace turns and sees Yvonne, looking stunning in a black swing dress, her hair up and glitter on her cheekbones.

  “What are you doing here?” Grace asks. “The launch isn’t till seven.”

  “I texted you. Thought we could nip to Ahern’s for a quick one, get us in the mood.

  Yvonne’s energy is exhausting.

  “It’s been a really long day, Vonnie.”

  Yvonne immediately links her arm. “You are not backing out of this. Come on! There’s nothing to do in this town.”

  “There’s recovering from a long day.”

  “Don’t go boring on me.” As an afterthought, Yvonne adds, “There’ll be free wine!”

  “You don’t even like wine.”

  “And it’ll probably be plonk but I have to show up. I’m the village librarian,” she says, sounding suddenly responsible. “And you’re the GP. We’d be conspicuous in our absence.”

  Grace sighs. She did say she’d… gatecrash. Maybe he’ll be expecting her. He is her patient. But the real reason Grace gives in is the glitter on her friend’s cheeks. She just can’t let her down. Not with that glitter.

  “Alright but I need to get food first.”

  “Ahern’s do a gorgeous toastie.”

  “I might nip home, though. And change.”

  “You are not denying me a beer with my grub. You look grand.”

  “I look manky. He’s my patient–”

  “Lucky you.”

  Grace rolls her eyes. “I’m just saying I should make an effort if I’m going to go. And look at you. You’re gorgeous.”

  “You’re gorgeous anyway.”

  Suddenly, Grace couldn’t be bothered arguing. Or actually changing. She looks at her glittery friend. “Okay, okay. You win. As always.”

  Yvonne grins. “I do. Don’t I?”

  “Don’t tempt me.”

  It’s six when Jack is leaving the school with his hurling coach. After training, Mr. Lyons took him aside to give him an extended one-on-one session to familiarise him with the rules of the game and to show him some tricks. Coming through the school gates, the thin, balding, track-suited man turns to Jack.

  “So, what position would you see yourself playing, Jack?” he asks in a thick Cork accent.

  Jack stops walking. “Wait. You think I
’m good enough for the team?”

  “You’re a natural athlete. And you’ve taken to it like a duck to water. You’d have to start as a sub though, prove yourself to the lads.”

  Jack is speechless. He didn’t think he could do it, pick up a whole new sport at sixteen and make a team – potentially. He loved it, yeah. Never expected to be good enough.

  “I’ve been watching your form. Personally, I think you’d make a good forward,” Mr. Lyons says. “You have the hunger.”

  It’s true that Jack’s natural instinct is to shoot for goal. With hurling, he’d have two options, goal or over the bar. Whack the living daylights out of the ball wherever’s handiest.

  “I’d love centre forward.” But Ginge plays centre. And it was Ginge who encouraged him to play. “Maybe right corner-forward? Or left.”

  The coach smiles and pats his shoulder. “Forward it is. We’ll figure out the details as we go along. Right, d’you need a lift?”

  “I’m only up the road. Thanks.”

  “See you tomorrow, so.”

  Jack grins. “See you tomorrow.” He feels like actually skipping.

  “And Jack?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Well, done, son.”

  Jack is grinning again.

  Mr. Lyons flings his sports bag into his VW Golf and himself in after it. Jack waits till he pulls away, raising his hand like a local. What’s he talking about? He is a local. Now.

  “Wow,” he says aloud. He turns for home. And stops dead, his stomach contracting to a point. “What are you doing here?” he asks his father, the words coming out slowly in disbelief. Emotions swamp him, guilt at the lies he told, fear of what his father will do and an overriding desire to protect his mum.

  “Waiting for you to come out. Luckily, I’m a patient man. What were you doing in there?” His father smiles. “And who’s your man?” he jokes dismissively.

  Jack’s mind is racing. Should he text his mum, warn her? Or should he see what his dad wants? Maybe Jack can handle this himself. Get him to leave – without trouble. “Training.”

  His father makes a point at looking at the hurl in Jack’s hand. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

  Jack just shrugs.

  “I’ve missed you,” he says, looking into his son’s eyes.

  Jack bows his head. He’s missed his father too – just doesn’t want him to know it.

  “Why did you lie?”

  Jack looks up in sudden panic. Could he be wearing a wire? He tells himself not to be ridiculous. This is Ireland. Stuff like that doesn’t happen here. Taping someone probably isn’t admissible in court anyway. Entrapment or something. Still he’s not going to admit to a lie. So, he just sighs.

  “I’m sorry,” his father says. “About everything. I made a lot of mistakes. Can we go for coffee? Just one coffee?”

  There’ll be people at The Coffee Cove; he won’t be able to do anything. Maybe if Jack goes with him, gives him his time, he can persuade him to go, do the right thing. He can’t think of a better plan. So, he nods.

  “Okay.”

  “I saw a place called the Coffee Cove. Is that it in this town?”

  Jack nods. He doesn’t remind his father that it’s actually a village.

  “Incredible.”

  Jack knows what his father is doing. Trying to make him miss Dublin.

  “Let’s go,” Jack says, taking control. He hopes that no one from his family comes along, not Holly, not Des and especially not his mum. He can do this. He knows he can.

  Alan is driving home from a job, half a donut in his hand and sugar on his lips. He has plenty of time before the book launch. Not that he’s in a rush. What he’s looking forward to, this evening, is catching up with Grace and Yvonne when all the hoo-ha is over. It’ll be like old times.

  Almost at the school, he squints at two people coming towards him on the path. They have the same walk, heads tipped down, posture identical. It’s Grace’s kid, Jack, with…. Wait. Alarm bells go off in Alan’s head. Des clearly didn’t want his son-in-law around. Could he have been the reason for the security? But why security for Grace’s ex? Alan’s hands grip the wheel as an option strikes, an option that doesn’t bear thinking about. If he touched her, if he harmed her, if he’s back for more…. Heart racing, Alan slows and, a hundred yards beyond father and son, pulls in. He takes out his phone to call Des but remembers that his battery died half-an-hour ago. He hurries out of his overalls, watching them in the rear-view mirror. He jumps from the van. And follows at a distance.

  “The house is so empty without you,” Simon says to Jack as they round the corner onto the main street.

  Jack thinks of his old room. Then every room in the house.

  He grew up there. It was home.

  “You guys made a lot of noise!” his father smiles with a sadness that seems, not just real, but apologetic. “Now, it’s like a cemetery. Almost spooky.” He sighs deeply. “It’s like someone has stolen my family.”

  If this goes on much longer, Jack will have to walk away.

  “So! How are you?” he asks, more cheerfully.

  Jack’s not telling him anything. Because that would be giving him ammo. “Grand.”

  “Happy?”

  Jack nods.

  “Good, good.” He looks around the village, as if he has no idea how anyone could be happy here. Reaching the Coffee Cove, he holds the door open for his son. “The usual?” he asks once they’re inside.

  Spotting Nicky at the counter, Jack avoids eye contact. Maybe this was a bad idea. “I’ll have a Coke. And a chocolate chip cookie,” he says like a vote for his mum.

  Simon nods and heads to the counter.

  Jack takes a seat far from the window. He checks his watch. Half past six. His father will have to hit the road soon or he’ll never get home. Jack wonders, again, if he should text a warning to his mum. Once more, he decides against it. She’d just try and come to his rescue. When she’s the one who needs rescuing. Maybe that’s what his father wants, for Jack to lure her to him. His stomach cramps. He has to stay calm.

  At the next table, Jack overhears Matthew’s mum, (Jacinta?) and his dad (who dropped a load of meat off at the house) talking about the book launch Jack’s mum is going to. He leans over.

  “What time’s the book launch?” he asks realising that he has to get his dad out of town before then.

  “Oh! Seven,” Jacinta says, excitedly. “Are you going?”

  He shakes his head. “Not my scene. Just wondered.”

  “Probably just as well. It’ll be mobbed. Wait, you’re Young Dr. Sullivan’s son! Jack isn’t it?”

  He nods.

  “How is she?”

  Oh, oh. “Fine, thanks.”

  “We’ll be forever grateful.”

  Jack produces a smile. “How’s Matthew?”

  “Oh wonderful. Truly wonderful. At home eating ice cream with his auntie. We thought we’d get out for the night after the week that was in it.” Jacinta glances at her husband. “We should probably go on over soon, Tom, to get a spot near the front.”

  He checks his watch. “Plenty of time.”

  Jack panics. What if Jacinta meets his mum at the launch and tells her he’s at The Coffee Cove with his dad?

  “Is that your dad?” she asks now, watching him carrying a tray their way. “Fine looking man.”

  “My uncle,” he lies and takes out his phone to kill all further conversation.

  Jack’s dad reaches the table. Jacinta and her husband return his smile, Jacinta curiously. Jack knows what they see: Respectable. Intelligent. Handsome. Well-dressed. Charming. His dad ticks all the boxes for a good guy. Jack wishes he could magically suck out that one bad thing. How easy everything would have been then. Would still be.

  He unloads the tray and goes up to return it. Watching Nicky smile at him turns Jack’s stomach. He wants his father out, away, gone. He reminds himself that the best way to do that is to play this game, do this dance, match every ste
p his father takes with a counter-step that’s a little more cunning.

  Heads turn as his father walks back. Heads have always turned. The man is a walking ad for quality plastic surgery. And he knows it.

  Behind him, the guy who did up Jack’s grandad’s house is going to the counter. Nicky looks surprised to see him.

  “I’ll have another latte, Nicky, thanks,” he says, loudly. “All that sugar has done me in.” He pats his stomach gently.

  “For here or take away?”

  “Here, this time. Shake things up!”

  Smiling, she goes to make the coffee.

  He glances over at Jack then immediately away again when their eyes meet.

  Weird.

  “Jack?”

  “What?”

  His dad has sat down and is zoning in on him like he’s the only person in the room. It’s a trick he has. Like a politician. Jack’s not fooled.

  “It’s so good to see you,” he’s saying now.

  Jack breaks up the cookie to avoid looking at him.

  “I love you.”

  The words floor Jack. Because he believes him. And loves his father back. He looks up.

  “I’d never do anything to hurt you,” his dad says so earnestly. “You know that. Don’t you?”

  Jack can’t speak, for fear of crying.

  Next to them, Jacinta has stopped talking. Is she listening?

  Tom stands up, lifting his eyebrows at his wife. “Coming?”

  “We’re grand for a while.” She widens her eyes at him.

  “Thought you wanted to get a good spot.” Tom lifts his coat from the back of the chair and starts to put it on. He winks at Jack. “Good luck, son,” he says and turns to go.

  Rolling her eyes, Jacinta grabs her faux fur and hurries after him.

  Jack feels a sudden fondness for Tom and a massive relief that they’re gone. He looks back at his dad.

  “But you did hurt me. Hurting Mum hurt me. Hurt us all.”

  He shakes his head at himself like that is the great regret of his life. “I don’t know what made me do that. And I’m sorry, so, so sorry. But I’ve changed, Jack. I’m having therapy.”

  Hope rises in Jack. But he flattens it down again. His father’s lies are fluid and slippery things.