Snow Falls In Clover Cove: A heart-warming romance set on the beautiful west coast of Ireland

by Maggie Finn

  Snow Falls in Clover Cove

  A Clover Cove Novel

  Maggie Finn

  Copyright © 2019 Maggie Finn

  Kindle Edition

  This edition published by Eleven Press 2019

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, or places and organisations is purely coincidental.

  ISBN 9781911297161

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Welcome to Clover Cove

  A Note from Maggie

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  From the Author

  Welcome back to Clover Cove! Snow Falls in Clover Cove is the fourth book in the heart-warming sweet romance series set on the beautiful west coast of Ireland.

  Noah is too handsome to be a policeman, everyone says so. With his dark eyes and chiselled cheekbones, he should have been a model or an actor. But Hollywood’s loss is Clover Cove’s gain and Noah loves his job, keeping the quirky residents of Kiln County safe and happy, especially during the Holidays, a time when burning turkeys and over-heated families can lead to explosions. So the last thing Noah needs is beautiful American Eliza arriving in Clover Cove with a literal bang, sweeping him into a tangled love story that threatens to turn his world upside down. In this uplifting tale of love, family and friendship, Noah will have to place faith in love and embrace the magic of the season; it’s a beautiful tale of second chances perfect for readers of Debbie Macomber, Nancy Thayer and Jenny Colgan.

  ‘Snow Falls in Clover Cove’ is the latest book in a brand new series set in the most romantic village in all Ireland!

  The first book in the Clover Cove series, ‘Love Comes to Clover Cove’ can be found here.

  The second book in the series, ‘A Secret in Clover Cove’ can be found here.

  And the third book ‘The Little Café at Clover Cove can be found here.

  If you’d like to be kept up to date on all the new releases and happenings in Clover Cove, sign up for the Clover Cove newsletter. You’ll also get access to the Maggie Finn member’s area where you’ll find exclusive content and extracts. Subscribe here.

  A Note from Maggie

  I love Christmas. The wreaths, the twinkling lights, the tree, the half-eaten carrot by the fireplace (one of the Holidays’ big unsolved mysteries: why does Rudolph never eat the whole thing –?) and most of all, that heart-warming, feel-good magic where families come together and friendships are celebrated. So I’m lucky that winter on the west coast of Ireland is the most romantic of all. Spring is exciting and fresh, summer’s balmy and fall’s all about romantic walks hand-in-hand through golden leaves, but winter for me is all about roaring fires and hot chocolate curled up on the sofa, lost in a Christmas romance novel (or romantic TV show or rom com movie). Those are my favourite stories: love stories set in the holidays, romance novels set at Christmas and it’s certainly no accident that some of my favourite romance authors – Bella Andre, Barbara Freethy and Debbie Macomber, plus Holly Martin and Jenny Colgan on our side of the pond – have written Christmas or winter-themed novels and set their romance series in wintery places. Neither is it a surprise that some of their most handsome, rugged heroes seem to be at their heart of those love stories. I’ll confess I’ve been dying to put Noah, Ireland’s most gorgeous man in uniform, at the centre of one of Clover Cove’s romances – and this time of year seemed perfect. There must be something about cold weather that makes lovers seek out their soul mates – some sort of hard-wired ancient urge from when we realised that families, friendship and togetherness were what kept us going through those frosty months. Which would also explain why we spend so much of winter celebrating life, family and telling people how much we love them. Sure, underneath it all there will always be secrets and passion and love tangles and unsolved mysteries – and those romantic tales of boy-meets-girl always need a sprinkling of that too, don’t they? – but at this most wonderful, magical time of year, surrounded by family and people we love, it feels as if love just has to win out. Hopefully the residents of Ireland’s most romantic village won’t prove me wrong…?

  I loved writing Noah and Eliza’s story and I hope you enjoy reading it just as much. If you do, why not sign up for my newsletter, which will keep you updated with news about all my new releases and all the goings-on in Clover Cove.

  And if this is your first visit to Clover Cove, could I gently steer you towards the first book in the series, ‘Love Comes to Clover Cove’ which can be found here. You might meet some characters you already know!

  Maggie

  Chapter One

  Noah turned the key and cocked his head. An old carol: ‘The Holly and the Ivy’, drifting in on the night air. Noah smiled; must be coming from St. Mary’s up on the hill, choir practice for the big Christmas service next week. He rattled the station’s heavy door, looking up at the windows, barred with wrought iron, the black – or was it blue? – paint flaking and peeled, then up towards the clear night sky. Cold enough for snow, he thought. But no clouds, maybe a frost. Forecasting the weather wasn’t part of a policeman’s training, not even in Ireland, but Noah found it helped if you knew a storm – or a drop of sun – was coming. More accidents when there was ice about and more tourists to Port Quinn and Clover Cove if the sun actually decided to show its face. No danger of that for a while though, he thought with a smile.

  A white Christmas was almost expected in the Port – something to do with their microclimate – but he’d never known the harbor to freeze, but the festive season was one of the busiest for the Garda. Turkeys burning in the oven, Christmas decorations overloading circuits and triggering alarms: and then there were the inevitable domestics to sort out. Families, he thought. They brought the joy of the season and they tested those bonds to the limit. And me right there in the middle.

  Breathing out a dragon’s puff of frozen air, jangling the keys into the pocket of his dark uniform, he turned, heading down the cobbles toward the port. Noah never felt good locking the Garda station, especially at this time of year. It felt like turning off the lamp in a lighthouse. Not so long ago, the station was open twenty-four hours, but things – budgets, politics – had changed and Noah supposed he’d rather lock the doors than a return to those troubled times.

  ‘How’s yerself, Guard?’

  Noah looked up in surprise to see Raff the fisherman towering over him at the top of a ladder, his broad shoulders looped with green wires.

  ‘Grand, Geoffrey and yourself? What’s all this?’

  ‘Christmas, man! We’re bringing joy to Port Quinn!’

  Raff spread his arms to indicate the twinkling lights he’d already fixed to the gutters above the grocers, then quickly grabbed hold of the ladder again. ‘Whoa…’ he said, then glared down at the lad Mikey who was poking a screwdriver into a junction box attached t
o the wall.

  ‘Ahoy Mikey boy,’ shouted Raff. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be holding this ladder steady?’

  Mikey turned to flash him a grin.

  ‘And weren’t you just telling me about your sea legs and how you’d had worse in the gale of ’09 when an octopus almost swallered you whole?’

  Noah allowed himself a discreet smile. Raff was famous for his tall tales of the sea.

  ‘Now then lads,’ called Noah. ‘You play nice. It’s Christmas after all. Anyway, I take it this is all safe and above board? I don’t want to be called out to rescue a puffin tangled in your wires.’

  ‘Perfectly safe, Guard,’ said Raff, a foot slipping off a rung as he said it.

  ‘Safe is it? Well, you just see that it is, Geoffrey,’ said Noah in his most stern voice. ‘The last thing we want is one of these new American tourists electrocuted before they’ve a chance to get off the bus.’

  Mikey gave Noah a wink and tapped his screwdriver against the box. ‘Don’t worry, I’m watching him.’

  This time Noah did chuckle, clapping the lad on his arm. ‘You do that, Michael.’

  Noah strolled on, casting an affectionate glance over his shoulder at the two men arguing. Raff was Clover Cove’s last remaining fisherman in a village that had once been awash with mackerel and sardines. Since dwindling fish stocks and EU quotas had torpedoed the industry, Raff had put himself to use as the local jack-of-all-trades – plumbing, carpentry, even tumble dryer repair – whether he had skills in that area or not. He was certainly a character, you could say that about Geoff Rafferty, and this was in Ireland where producing characters seemed to be the nation’s gift to the world. Happily Mikey Cousins balanced out Raff’s blarney; trained as a blacksmith, he was one of those people who could look at a fried boiler or blocked drain and instinctually know how to fix it. So assuming Raff didn’t fall to his death, they both might actually make it to Christmas Day.

  As Noah turned down towards the port, he could see the amateur decorators had already made a good start. Strings of fairy lights ran the length of the front, their firefly glow sparkling in the dark water, Raff’s fishing boat tied up, bobbing like a horse in a Western, itself festooned with its own lights and a glowing inflatable snowman on the prow.

  ‘You’ve seen that monstrosity then, Noah?’

  The policeman’s heart sank. Graham O’Toole, the harbor master. A grand title for such a small port; even in its fishing heyday, Port Quinn’s fleet barely numbered two dozen trawlers, but O’Toole – or ‘Go’T’ as he was known, for the ruddiness of his nose as well as his pomposity – liked to let everyone know about his position of authority. The irony was that Graham looked jolly, with a roly-poly girth and rosy-apple cheeks. He’d make a grand Santa for the kiddies if he could only get the scowl off his face.

  ‘Seems like your man Raff’s taking the festive spirit seriously this year, eh?’ said Noah. Graham harumphed.

  ‘There’s a time and place for festivities, Noah.’

  ‘Now wouldn’t Christmas in the center of the Port be exactly right time and place, especially given we’re supposed to be prettying up the harbor for the tourists?’

  ‘Pah, tourists.’

  Port Quinn had lately had an upswing in tourism, the knock-on effect from a well-publicized food festival at Molly’s Cafe up the road in Clover Cove. Somehow, via Wi-Fi and Ethernet and other things Noah never pretended to understand, their little corner of God’s Own Country had become a favorite for American coach tours, something which was sorely needed for the local economy, but clearly it didn’t meet with everyone’s approval.

  ‘Those coaches will just bring more cars who’ll clog up the streets and what then?’ said Graham. ‘Then they’ll come by sea, wanting to moor their superyachts in the port.’

  Ah. Graham was annoyed that he might have to get his feet down off his desk once in a while.

  ‘All I’m hearing is the ching of the tills, Graham,’ said Noah. ‘And Lord knows most folk could be doing with a little of that these days.’

  ‘But look at it!’ said O’Toole, possibly sensing he was losing the argument, he turned back to Raff’s boat. ‘It’s an eyesore. Do your precious tourists want to see some tacky snowman? Something should be done about it.’

  ‘Now Graham,’ said Noah, taking a step forward. ‘I hope you’re not suggesting that someone might take it into their head to interfere with someone else’s property?’

  ‘No, no, I wasn’t…’ said the harbor master, backing away, ‘I just think that…’

  Noah darted forward, his hand shooting out and grabbing O’Toole’s shirt. ‘Hey!’ he squealed, outrage bubbling up in the split second before he stepped into thin air, his legs dangling.

  ‘Careful there,’ grinned Noah, hauling the man back from the harbor wall’s edge. Graham’s face turned white as he looked over his shoulder and saw how close he had come to falling backwards.

  ‘One more step and we’d both have gone,’ smiled Noah, brushing off the man’s jacket.

  ‘Well I… I’m grateful for that Guard. I didn’t realize I…’

  He glanced back again and swallowed, the white face turning to bright red.

  ‘You grand? We’ll say no more about it, hmm?’ said Noah meaningfully. It wouldn’t have looked good for the harbor master to fall into his own harbor.

  ‘No, no,’ said Graham, looking at Raff’s boat. ‘Actually perhaps the Yankees will like it after all.’

  Noah nodded, then bent towards Graham conspiratorially. ‘And you know, perhaps I can have a word, ask Raff to keep his boat up at the Cove. Just as a favor to you?’

  Graham beamed. Nothing he liked better than special treatment. ‘Yes, that would be grand.’

  Noah nodded solemnly and shook O’Toole’s hand as if they were signing a pact. Straightening his cap, Noah walked off down the harbor front. He had no intention of talking to Raff – the fisherman was entitled to moor his boat wherever he liked and Raff wasn’t the sort of man who cared too much for rules and regulations anyway. However, Noah knew that Raff much preferred to keep his boat up at Clover Cove as it was closer to Connor’s pub where he also moonlighted as a barman. Letting Graham O’Toole believe he’d won a little battle wouldn’t do any harm and it kept the harbor master onside with the Guards, which might be useful in the future. Noah’s job furnished him with a uniform and a radio and the keys to the Garda station, but the reality of law enforcement in Kiln County was that relationships counted for more than a dusty book of law. Out here on the wild western lip of the Emerald Isle, a man’s word still counted for something and Noah took some comfort from that.

  Noah walked a circuit of the village, nodding to shopkeepers and waving to passers-by. As he passed O’Leary’s Bar, he stopped, holding his breath and listening. Partly this was habit: a policeman became used to sniffing the air, feeling for anything awry, especially at potential flashpoints where they sold the Black Stuff by the pint. Tonight, all was calm, all was quiet, as the song went. Just the hubbub of subdued festivities and the hew and saw of Irish fiddle music. Noah knew the tune: Four Green Fields. He gave a sad smile and moved on. A rebel song, Ireland’s favorite kind, the sort of song people sang while drunk, swaying arm-in-arm, sentimental tears in their eyes. It was always songs about firebrands, the martyrs, the blue-eyed leaders tragically struck down by history. No one wanted to hear a song about law and order; no one was writing ballads about the Guard quietly going about his business.

  Noah turned away from the seafront and up an alleyway, then into the next street. At the end was an unassuming little fisherman’s cottage with a neatly painted blue door. Unassuming it may have been, but it was his and Noah always smiled as he walked towards home. He pulled his keys out, taking care not to jangle this time; Mrs. Dorben next door worked shifts as a cleaner in ‘the Big Town’ of Kilmara and he didn’t want to wake her. He carefully closed the door just as the phone began to ring.

  He reached towards it, then something made him sto
p, frozen in the hallway. Noah stood there, looking down at his answer machine as the phone continued to ring, the light on the machine already flashing. Blinking, blinking, a lizard eye opening and closing. Why were they always red? Why not yellow or blue or a nice friendly orange? Red for danger, red for stop. But then Noah was probably the last person on earth who still used these things, so who was going to change it now?

  Clunk. Whirr.

  The ringing stopped and the answer machine engaged. Noah waited. A pause, a hesitation, a drawn breath at the other end of the line.

  Then: ‘Hello Noah, it’s me. Your da.’ An awkward chuckle. ‘But you knew that, eh?’ An audible swallow.

  ‘Linda and I, that is I, I thought it would be nice…’ He trailed off and Noah felt his hand pressing against his lips. In an interview, Noah knew he would see that as a ‘tell’, someone trying not to say something he might regret. But that was stupid, wasn’t it? There was no one else here.

  ‘Listen,’ his father continued in a rush, ‘I’d like you to come over to ours for Christmas lunch, okay? Because I miss you and it’s nice to be together and all that. So stop being an eejit and call me, okay?’ Noah heard an indistinct voice in the background. There was a pause, another drawn breath. ‘And I love you, son.’

  Click.

  Noah stood in the dark hallway and closed his eyes. Christmas lunch. At Da’s. What could be wrong with that? For one long moment, he thought about picking up the receiver and returning the call.

  Then he reached across and pressed the ‘erase’ button.

  Chapter Two

  Eliza didn’t like driving. Which, back home in Los Angeles, made her a curiosity. Her sprawling smog-bound home was a gigantic concrete temple to the car, a rigid grid built to service those glittering overheated metal boxes. No one walked further than the ten steps from the valet stand to the sealed air-con tomb of the restaurant or the mall. No one used public transport, unless they had no other choice. So Eliza had joined in, drumming her fingers on the steering wheel in stalled traffic, stressed and irritable over red lights, never on time for anything. Until God had finally smiled on her and invented the smartphone and the cheap, plentiful Insta-Cabs that appeared like magic whenever you whistled.