by Cathy Kelly
“I don’t think I can walk you to your car,” Rafe said. “You have to get a taxi. I should have picked you up in a taxi, but I didn’t want to push my luck. Especially when it was hard enough getting you to meet me in a restaurant in the first place.”
Mara smiled, feeling mellow and comfortable.
“My last boyfriend almost never picked me up,” she said candidly. “He’d just tell me to meet him somewhere. Once he wanted to meet up inside some fancy nightclub, which meant when I got to the door I had to pay the cover charge. It really annoyed Cici, my flatmate. She reckoned he was a tight git and he’d fixed it deliberately to save having to pay for me.”
“I’d say worse than that,” said Rafe, “but I’m not supposed to curse in front of ladies. I’ve never met somebody in a restaurant before; I’ve always picked them up.”
“On the back of your motorbike?” Mara asked playfully.
“No,” he said soberly. “If I’m going to have a drink, I take a taxi. My brother’s injury was caused by a drunk driver. That’s why you are not driving home tonight, you are getting a taxi.”
“I wouldn’t dream of driving tonight,” she said. “I didn’t plan to have anything to drink, that’s why I brought the car. I mean, I don’t ever drink and drive,” she said, anxious to convince him of the fact.
“It’s fine, I believe you,” he said, “but you know when something like that happens to you or someone close to you, it changes the way you think about things. I could never go out with somebody who thought it was okay to have a couple of glasses of wine and get into their car and drive home.”
“It must have been terrible, his accident,” Mara said.
“Horrific,” Rafe replied. “He’s my big brother. All the time we were growing up, he was like a god to me. To see him in that hospital bed and hear that he’d never walk again . . . It was pretty rough. He thought Karen should walk away from him, find another father for the baby, even though that would have killed him. He didn’t want to be a burden. ‘A kid needs a dad who can stand up,’ he said.
“You know what Karen said to that?” Rafe looked off into the distance, remembering. “She said she didn’t care what had happened to him, she loved him, nothing could change who he was, and he was the man for her. And he’s the most amazing dad in the world, which I keep telling him when I remind him of all the dumb things he said about needing to stand up to be a father.”
“He must be pretty special,” said Mara.
Rafe grinned at her. “People say both the Berlin brothers are pretty special,” he said, with a slightly wicked grin. “Let’s get you out of here. In a cosmopolitan hot spot like Avalon, all the taxis will be gone if we don’t get a move on.”
Rafe asked for the bill and when it arrived Mara made an attempt to grab it.
“We’re going Dutch on this,” she said.
“No,” Rafe said. “I’m sorry, but where I come from when a guy asks a girl out to dinner he pays the bill. You’ll have to excuse my rough Kiwi cowboy ways, but that’s what we’re going to do.”
Concepta, who’d brought the bill, sighed a little at this masterful talk and shot Mara a glance that said: You are one lucky girl.
“Okay,” said Mara, “but I pay next time. I’ve got a job now.”
“We can talk about that later,” Rafe said.
He paid the bill and added a healthy tip. Mara had been craning her neck to see his tip and she was delighted. She hated bad tippers. Then he helped her into her coat at the door and somehow he was holding her hand as he led her out on to the street. When she immediately began to shiver in the bitter cold, Rafe put his arm around her shoulders.
“That sure is a nice coat,” he said, “but I don’t think it’s warm enough.” A taxi cruised past and Rafe waved.
“The house right at the end of Willow Street,” Rafe told the taxi driver.
“You’re not going to come with me? ’Cos the driver can drop you first and then me,” Mara said, getting in and then turning around and looking up at him.
He leaned in, his face close to her.
“You know what, Mara,” he said, his voice soft like honey, “I don’t think I can trust myself with you in a taxi.” And then he kissed her on the mouth, and Mara found herself leaning closer to him, her eyes closed, sinking into the kiss, feeling the controlled heat.
Suddenly he moved away, as if he ought to stop now or he wouldn’t be able to at all.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, “is that all right?”
She could only nod at him in return. He shut the door and the driver sped off.
“He could have got into the taxi with you, love,” said the driver. “I mean, I’m a taxi driver: there’s nothing I haven’t seen in the back of this car. Nothing. Besides, Willow Street’s not that far away—he wouldn’t have had time to get up to much.”
“Oh no, it’s not like that at all,” Mara said. “We barely know each other.”
“Yeah, right,” said the driver, his voice all-knowing. “I’ll say nothing then, but I know love when I see it.”
Mara sat back and closed her eyes, reliving that amazing moment when he’d kissed her. It had felt so right. “Told you you’d get over Jack,” said the Cici-voice in her head, “told you that you would, you needed to get out and meet someone new, that’s all.”
“But I didn’t want to meet somebody new,” Mara told the imaginary Cici.
“What was that?” said the driver.
“Sorry, talking to myself,” Mara said.
“Ah, sure, you’re in love,” said the driver fondly. “We do all sorts of mental things when we’re in love, don’t we? Hold on, I’ll find a good station for you . . .” and he flicked around on the radio until he found a station playing soppy love songs. “There you are,” he said, “isn’t that perfect?”
“Perfect,” said Mara, “you’re very kind.” And she listened to Lionel Richie singing “Three Times a Lady” all the way home. But she was smiling all the way home, too.
19
In the post office, Danae had spent weeks watching Christmas cards and Christmas parcels being posted off all over the world. Elderly Mr. Dineen, who lived on his own in one of the sweet 1930s bungalows on Lincoln Terrace, was always very precise in his postings, never missing the posting dates for Canada, where his eldest daughter lived, Singapore, where the youngest lived, and London, where his middle daughter lived. He was as reliable as a metronome, coming in with neatly packaged brown paper parcels for various grandsons and granddaughters scattered around the globe, the address labels bearing his handsome script. He was a widower, lived on his own, and Danae could never remember seeing him with any member of his family around the town. He never asked for advice, never attempted to make conversation beyond a polite, “Hello, Mrs. Rahill, how are you today?”
But Mara’s influence was still working its magic on Danae. When Mr. Dineen came into the shop with the last of his parcels—several small ones for London, addressed to Isabella and Amy, his twin six-year-old granddaughters—she couldn’t resist saying: “Are you visiting them for Christmas, Mr. Dineen?”
The shock on his face immediately told her she shouldn’t have said anything.
“No,” he said nervously and coughed a little. He began searching in a pocket for a handkerchief or something. “I don’t like flying, you see. My wife—my late wife, Doris—she liked it, but I’m nervous. That’s why I never go.”
“But there are courses now to help people get over fear of flying.” Danae couldn’t help herself. This had to be Mara’s doing; the old Danae would never have dreamed of interfering. “Or maybe the doctor could give you something to keep you calm for the flight. It’s such a short flight to London, and it would be lovely to spend Christmas with your family, wouldn’t it?” God, why did I say that? she asked herself. What has come over me?
Mr. Dineen had found his handkerchief—a proper cotton one, no tissues for him—and blew his nose noisily. His face was flushed now.
&n
bsp; “But you see, I . . . I would love to visit them, but . . . but I can’t, and it’s such a long way for the girls to come. Well, not for Yona, it’s easier for her, but . . . but she says she comes all the time and I have to come to her—I have to be brave and try to get over it.”
Danae felt terrible. She’d opened a can of worms. The poor man was clearly terrified of flying and it sounded as though his daughter in London had issued an ultimatum along the lines: We are not coming to you this Christmas; you must come to us.
Remorse flooded through Danae. She of all people knew that there was nothing worse than other people interfering in your business.
“Of course. Flying can be very upsetting,” she agreed, as if she was on and off planes every day of the week. “Noisy things, and it’s worrying . . . especially as the plane’s coming in to land or take off.”
“Which are the most dangerous times,” interrupted Mr. Dineen eagerly, keen to go along with this version of events, the version where flying was a perilous endeavor, only undertaken by the foolhardy.
“Yes,” agreed Danae, “you’re probably right. So, what are you doing for Christmas?”
She’d done it again. For the second time, Mr. Dineen’s face flooded with red.
“Well, what I normally do, which is go to the Avalon Hotel, where Belle and her staff cook a very satisfactory Christmas dinner.”
Danae made a mental note to tell Belle that Mr. Dineen thought the hotel’s Christmas dinner was satisfactory, but then thought better of it. Belle would no doubt consider that a terrible insult.
All of a sudden, another bit of Mara-dom came over her. Danae knew what she could do to make up for upsetting poor Mr. Dineen in this way, forcing him to admit he’d be having a sad and lonely Christmas dinner in the hotel.
“You should come to us,” she found herself saying. “It will be myself and my niece, Mara, and the dog. We have hens, but they won’t be joining us for Christmas dinner, although they might possibly look in the window.”
This was getting worse, she was making it sound like a madhouse. But Mr. Dineen didn’t appear to think so.
“That would be lovely,” he beamed. “Lovely! What should I bring? Eh . . . Some wine perhaps?”
“No,” said Danae quickly, “I do not imbibe myself.”
The poor man would want to bring something. She racked her brains.
“A box of chocolates for after dinner, perhaps?” she suggested.
“And we might play board games,” he said eagerly. “When I was a child, we always played Scrabble.”
“Scrabble! What a fabulous idea,” said Danae. “Do you have a Scrabble set?”
He nodded. “I sometimes play myself, although it’s not really that . . . satisfactory.”
“I hope you will find our dinner satisfactory,” said Danae with a smile.
“I am sure, Mrs. Rahill, that anything you cook will be exemplary,” he said.
“Just one thing,” said Danae, “you must stop calling me Mrs. Rahill. It’s Danae.”
For the third time, Mr. Dineen blushed, the rosy color of one of Danae’s precious tea roses in June—a sort of orangey pink, which was lovely on a rose, but not so good on an elderly gentleman.
“And I am Denis,” he said gravely, nodding.
“I’ll give you my address, shall I?” said Danae, and wrote it out on a piece of paper.
“Willow Street. Of course, I know it. Doris and I used to go up there on walks and look at the old house. It was magnificent in its day,” he said mistily.
“Well, it’s going to be magnificent again,” Danae informed him. “Cashel Reilly has bought it and he’s going to revamp it. In fact, my niece Mara, who’s going to be at lunch with us, is assisting him.”
“Wonderful, wonderful!” said Mr. Dineen happily. “It will be like old times.”
After saying thank you again many more times, he left the post office and Danae was able to retreat into the back room. She sank down on her chair without even the energy to make herself a cup of tea to recover. Whatever had come over her? She knew. It was Mara. Mara’s pernicious influence was changing her, making her all friendly and chatty, after all these years of keeping herself to herself. But it felt good. Danae smiled to herself. She had to admit it—opening up to the world felt good.
Danae arrived home that night feeling faintly sheepish. Mara was in the kitchen and the aroma of stir-fry drifted enticingly in the air. Lady sat at Mara’s feet as she worked at the cooker.
“You’re not going to believe this, Mara,” Danae began, “but I seem to have invited three people to Christmas dinner.”
Mara spun around in astonishment. “You did what?”
“I don’t know how it happened,” said Danae, “but first I found myself inviting Mr. Dineen, and then I bumped into Father Olumbuko when I was locking up and I asked him too, but he said he and Father Liam would be eating together. So then . . .” Danae paused. “Well, I totally lost the run of myself and asked Father Liam too. It’s your fault,” she added, “you and your introducing me to people and making me see people. Now look what you’ve done. Instead of you and I having a nice quiet dinner, we’ll have to cook for a cast of thousands!”
Mara grinned. “Three more people is hardly a cast of thousands,” she said. “Besides, it’ll be fun.”
In fact, Mara loved the idea. Normally she went home to Furlong Hill for Christmas, but Danae had been reluctant to join her. So, rather than leave Danae on her own, she had decided to stay in Avalon for Christmas Day and then drive to her parents’ for St. Stephen’s Day. But much as she enjoyed Danae’s company, Mara was accustomed to the hubbub of Furlong Hill, with a constant stream of friends and neighbors dropping in for five minutes to leave a gift and having to be shoved out the door six hours later having had too much eggnog. That was fun, that was part of Christmas.
Up here, in the little cottage at the end of Willow Street it would be a different, quieter Christmas, even with the dog around and the hens squawking madly in the window. Now, it would be fun, too, and she said so.
“I don’t know about fun,” said Danae. “I mean, you haven’t actually met Mr. Dineen or Father Olumbuko—although he is a very dashing and a charming young priest, and I’m quite sure he’s good fun—but Mr. Dineen is . . .” she hesitated, wondering exactly how to describe him, “well, sort of fragile. He’ll need a bit of looking after. Not to mention Father Liam, who needs a fleet of people to look after him, if truth be told.”
“Oh, that’s fine,” said Mara, turning back to her stir-fry, “looking after people is my speciality.”
Danae smiled fondly at her niece’s back. It was true: looking after people really was Mara’s speciality.
“Do you know,” said Mara, still stirring, “another thought has occurred to me, now that we’re going to be having this open-house thing. I’ve been thinking about Tess and her kids, Zach and Kitty. Things are going to be difficult for them this year, because Kevin will obviously spend the day with Claire and her family, leaving Tess at home with the kids, and possibly Kevin’s mother—apparently she’s refusing to go to Claire’s. Every time I mention Christmas, Tess looks so miserable, as if she’s absolutely dreading it. And you know,” Mara said earnestly, “Kitty is such a little darling and Zach is a sweetheart, and I couldn’t bear for their Christmas to be diminished. It should be full of fun and crackers and games around the table and Monopoly and silly hats and loud music, so they don’t even notice their dad’s not there. What would you say to inviting them here?”
First, Danae wondered how Mara managed to get all this information out of people so easily. Then, she looked around her beautiful, cozy cottage kitchen, filled with the simple furnishings and homely touches she’d put into it over the past eighteen years. It was calm and peaceful, but it had never seen crazy fun like the party Mara was describing. Maybe it was time that changed.
“You’re right,” said Danae. “You must see Tess tomorrow and invite them all, the mother-in-law included,
and that darling little whippet too—no time to be lost!”
Tess Power, meanwhile, was sitting in her kitchen going over the books. She’d tried to give the business one last chance, even bringing in Mara for another two days while she went auction hunting—a decision which had turned out to be a sound investment, because Mara had the gift of selling things to people. She’d read the description that Tess had written on the luggage label attached to each item, and from that snippet of information she’d weave the most fabulous stories. If a customer happened to glance at a silver-backed brush from the 1920s, Mara would be off: “Isn’t it beautiful? Can’t you just imagine an elegant lady, sitting at her dressing table while she . . . No, actually,” Mara would pause, correcting herself, “while her maid brushed her hair the regulation one hundred times. And perhaps all the while she’d have been secretly dreaming of getting her hair shingled. You see, her father really wanted it long and she was being modern . . .”
Soon everyone in the shop would be listening, rapt, as Mara brought the past to life. People bought things in frantic haste after listening to Mara, which was wonderful. Unfortunately it would take more than Mara and her brilliant selling skills to keep Something Old afloat.
People simply had less money to spare, and even though there were far more antiques on the market because so many people were having to part with their treasures, many of them were way beyond Tess’s budget.
The fabulous faded rosewood breakfast tables and silver-plated candlesticks she’d seen at the auction houses were too expensive for her. The Regency mahogany side cabinets probably wouldn’t fit in the shop and, even if they did, she couldn’t afford them. They were soon snapped up by other dealers, along with any sought-after pieces of Imperial ware china; items that she would once have picked up for a song were selling at a premium now that the Chinese were trying to buy back their heritage. The things that were left, like the sad-eyed portraits from the eighteenth century, nobody wanted to buy these days.
She needed a miracle: she needed a piece like the beautiful Chinese blue-and-white porcelain dragon dish that had been hiding in somebody’s attic and had come out for sale at an auction with a 2,000–3,000 euro reserve price. It turned out that the dish was not only authentic Ming dynasty, but it bore the mark of Xuande, a fifteenth-century genius. That tiny mark had changed everything: the dragon dish sold for hundreds of thousands of euros.