The House On Willow Street Read online

  CATHY KELLY

  and her novels are loved around the world

  HOMECOMING

  “A thoughtful panorama of four women doing their best to soldier on through tough times.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “An absolutely fabulous read, a warm, touching, funny, and poignant page-turner.”

  —Irish Independent

  “A warm and engaging tale of love and belonging.”

  —The Sun

  “A cracking novel that ticks all the emotional boxes.”

  —Woman and Home

  ONCE IN A LIFETIME

  “This top-notch storyteller once again cuts to the quick of modern women’s lives and their relationships.”

  —Woman and Home

  “Wise, warm, compassionate, full of characters that I loved and identified with, it’s like having a great gossip with your best friends.”

  —International bestselling author Marian Keyes

  “Vintage Kelly territory—it’s a book for those who believe in love.”

  —Irish Evening Herald

  “Entertaining, moving, and as vivid as a screenplay—presents a picture of the lives of Irish women which, like all good fiction, brings the truth into sharp relief.”

  —Irish Independent

  LESSONS IN HEARTBREAK

  “Kelly cleverly subverts women’s fiction clichés and delivers some excellent and unconventional plot twists. The conclusion won’t leave a dry eye in the house.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Kelly reels you into this addictive tale.”

  —Woman and Home

  “Crosses generations and continents to tell a sweeping . . . story of love and betrayal.”

  —Booklist

  “A must for Kelly’s many fans; a warm and moving read.”

  —Daily Mail

  WHAT SHE WANTS

  “Empathically communicates highly charged yet recognizable emotional issues through resilient and realistically drawn characters.”

  —Booklist

  “Tart with Kelly’s sexy, bracing humor . . . as warm and satisfying as Irish oatmeal.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Warm and delightful.”

  —New Woman

  PAST SECRETS

  “Kelly’s evocation of the mother-daughter relationship shines, and her handle on romance storytelling combined with her characters’ feel-good, empowering evolutions make this a satisfying novel.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Totally believable.”

  —International bestselling author Rosamunde Pilcher

  “Bursting with emotion, heartache, and dreams. . . . Realistic and likeable characters that meet life-changing events head on.”

  —Ireland on Sunday

  “Summer Street is the new Wisteria Lane.”

  —International bestselling author Marian Keyes

  ALWAYS AND FOREVER

  “A soap opera of tears and laughter.”

  —Daily Mirror

  “Kelly’s skill as a storyteller and the rounded nature of her characters captivates and seduces.”

  —Irish Evening Herald

  “Warm and delightful.”

  —New Woman

  JUST BETWEEN US

  “A compulsive read.”

  —Women’s Weekly

  “Plenty of sparky humor.”

  —The London Times

  “Warm and chatty.”

  —Daily Mail

  BEST OF FRIENDS

  “A warm and cozy comfort read. . . . ”

  —New York Times bestselling author Pat Gaffney

  “Touches lightly on simple truths, sensitively on death and on the destruction of relationships, and optimistically on the limitless potential of friendship.”

  —Irish Independent

  Thank you for purchasing this Gallery Books eBook.

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  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Autumn

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Winter

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Spring

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Group Guide

  About Cathy Kelly

  To my darling husband, John, and our wonderful sons, Dylan and Murray. And the Puplets of Loveliness, Dinky, Licky, Scamp, who were there for all of it.

  PROLOGUE

  Danae Rahill had long since learned that a postmistress’s job in a small town had a lot more to it than the ability to speedily process pensions or organize money transfers.

  She’d run Avalon Post Office for eighteen years and she saw everything. It was impossible not to. Without wishing to, the extremely private Danae found herself the holder of many of the town’s secrets.

  She saw money sent to the Misses McGinty’s brother in London, who’d gone there fifty years ago to make his fortune and was now living in a hostel.

  “The building work has dried up, you know,” said one of the little Miss McGintys, her tiny papery hands finishing writing the address she knew by heart.

  Danae was aware the hostel was one where Irishmen went when the drinking got out of control and they needed a bed to sleep in.

  “It must be terrible for such a good man not to have a job any more,” she said kindly.

  Danae saw widower Mr. Dineen post endless parcels and letters to his children around the world, but never heard of him getting on a plane to visit any of them.

  She saw registered letters to solicitors, tearstained funeral cards, wedding invitations and, on two occasions, sad, hastily written notes informing guests that the wedding was canceled. She saw savings accounts fall to nothing with job losses and saw lonely people for whom collecting their pension was a rare chance to speak to another human being.

  People felt safe confiding in Danae because it was well known that she would never discuss their personal details with anyone else. And she wasn’t married. There was no Mr. Rahill to tell stories to at night in the cottage at the top of Willow Street. Danae was never seen in coffee shops gossiping with a gaggle of friends. She was, everyone in Avalon agreed, discreet.

  She might gently inquire as to whether some plan or ambition had worked out or not, but equally she could tell without asking when the person wanted that last conversation forgotten entirely.

  Danae was kindness personified.

  And yet a few of the more perceptive residents of Avalon felt that there was some mystery surrounding their postmistress because, while she knew so much of the details of their lives, they knew almost nothing about her, even though she’d lived in their town for some eighteen years.

  “She’s always so interested and yet . . .” Mrs. Ryan, in charge of the church cleaning schedule and an avid reader of Scandinavian crime novels, tried to find the right words for it, “. .
. she’s still a bit . . . distant.”

  “That’s it exactly,” agreed Mrs. Moloney, who loved a good gossip but could never glean so much as a scrap of information from Danae. The postmistress was so tight-lipped that the KGB couldn’t have got any secrets out of her.

  For a start, there was her name: Danae. Completely strange. Not a proper saint’s name or anything.

  Dan-ay, she said it.

  “Greek or some such,” sniffed Mrs. Ryan, who was an Agnes and proud of it.

  “I don’t even know when her husband died,” said Mrs. Moloney.

  “If there ever was a husband,” said Mrs. Lombardy.

  Mrs. Lombardy was widowed and not a day passed without her talking about her beloved Roberto, who grew nicer and kinder the longer he was dead. In her opinion, it was a widow’s job to keep the memory of her husband alive. Once, she’d idly inquired after Danae’s husband, because she was a Mrs. after all, even if she did live alone in that small cottage at the far end of Willow Street with nothing but a dog and a few mad chickens for company.

  “He is no longer with us,” Danae had said, and Mrs. Lombardy had seen the shutters coming down on Danae’s face.

  “Ah sure, he might have run off with someone else,” Mrs. Ryan said. “The poor pet.”

  Of course, she looked different too.

  The three women felt that the long, tortoiseshell hair ought to be neatly tied up, or that the postmistress should maintain a more dignified exterior, instead of wearing long, trailing clothes that looked secondhand. And as for the jewelry, well.

  “I always say that you can’t go wrong with a nice string of pearls,” said Mrs. Byrne, in charge of the church flowers. Many years of repeating this mantra had ensured that her husband, known all over town as Poor Bernard, had given her pearls as an anniversary gift.

  “As for those mad big necklaces, giant lumps of things on bits of leather, amber and whatnot . . .” said Mrs. Lombardy. “What’s wrong with a nice crucifix, that’s what I want to know?”

  Danae was being discussed over Friday-morning coffee in the Avalon Hotel and Spa, and the hotel owner, one Belle Kennedy, who was very light on her feet for such a large and imposing lady, was listening intently to the conversation.

  Belle had ears like a bat.

  “Comes in handy when you have a lot of staff,” she told Danae later that day, having dashed into the post office to pick up a couple of books of stamps because the hotel franking machine had gone on the blink yet again and someone hadn’t got it fixed as they’d promised.

  “I swear on my life, I’m going to kill that girl in the back office,” Belle said grimly. “She hasn’t done a tap of work since she got engaged. Not getting the franking machine sorted is the tip of the iceberg. She reads bridal magazines under her desk when she thinks no one’s around. As if it really matters what color the blinking roses on the tables at the reception are.”

  Like Danae, Belle was in her late fifties. She had been married twice and was long beyond girlish delight over bridal arrangements. It was a wonder the hotel did such good business in wedding receptions, because Belle viewed all matrimony as a risky venture destined for failure. The only issue, Belle said, was when it would fail.

  “The Witches of Eastwick were talking about you in the hotel coffee shop this morning,” she told her friend. “They reckon you’re hiding more than prepaid envelopes behind that glass barrier.”

  “Nobody’s interested in me,” said Danae cheerily. “You’ve a great imagination, Belle. It’s probably you they were talking about, Madam Entrepreneur.”

  Danae’s day was busy, it being a normal September morning in Avalon’s post office.

  Raphael, who ran the Avalon Deli, told Danae he was worried about his wife, Marie-France, because she had an awful cough and refused to go to the doctor.

  “‘I do not need a doctor, I am not sick,’” she keeps saying,” he reported tiredly.

  Danae carefully weighed the package going to the Pontis’ only son, who was living in Paris.

  If she was the sort of person who gave advice, she might suggest that Raphael mention his mother’s cough to their son. Marie-France would abseil down the side of the house on a spider’s thread if her son asked her to. A few words in that direction would do more good than constantly telling Marie-France to go to the doctor—something that might be construed as nagging instead of love and worry.

  But Danae didn’t give advice, didn’t push her nose in where it didn’t belong.

  Father Liam came in and told her the parish was going broke because people weren’t attending Mass and putting their few coins in the basket any more.

  “They’re deserting the church when they need us now more than ever,” he said, wild-eyed.

  Danae sensed that Father Liam was tired of work, tired of everyone expecting him to understand their woes when he had woes of his own. In a normal job, Father Liam would be long retired so he could take his blood pressure daily and keep away from stress.

  Worse, said Father Liam, the new curate, Father Olumbuko, who was strong and full of beans, wasn’t even Irish.

  “He’s from Nigeria!” shrieked Father Liam, as if this explained everything. “He doesn’t know how we do things around here.”

  Danae reckoned it would do Avalon no harm to learn how things were done in Nigeria but kept this thought to herself.

  Danae nipped into the back to put the kettle on and, from there, heard the buzzer that signaled a person opening the post office door.

  “No rush, Danae,” said a clear, friendly voice.

  It was Tess Power. Tess ran the local antique shop, Something Old, a tempting establishment that Danae had trained herself not to enter lest she was overwhelmed with the desire to buy something ludicrous that she hadn’t known she wanted until she saw it in Tess’s beautiful shop. For it was beautiful: like a miniature version of an exquisite mansion, with brocade chairs, rosewood dressing tables, silver knickknacks and antique velvet cloaks artfully used to display jewelry.

  People were known to have gone into Something Old to buy a small birthday gift and come out hours later, having just had to have a diamanté brooch in the shape of a flamingo, a set of bone-handled teaspoons and a creaky chair for beside the telephone.

  “Tess Power could sell ice to the Eskimos,” was Belle’s estimation of her.

  It was from Belle that Danae had discovered that Tess was one of the Powers who’d once owned Avalon House, the huge and now deserted mansion overlooking the town that had been founded by their ancestors, the de Paors, back in feudal times.

  The family had run out of money a long time ago, and the house had been sold shortly before Tess’s father died. There was a sister, too.

  “Wild,” was Belle’s one-word summation of Suki Power.

  Suki had run off and married into a famous American political dynasty, the Richardsons.

  “Quite like the Kennedys,” said Belle, “but better-looking.”

  After spending three years smiling like the ideal politician’s wife, Suki had divorced her husband and gone on to write a best seller about feminism.

  To Danae, student of humankind, she sounded interesting, perhaps even as interesting as Tess, who was quietly beautiful and seemed to hide her beauty for some unfathomable reason.

  “Hello, Tess, how are you?” asked Danae, emerging from the back room with her tea.

  “Fine, thank you.” said Tess. She was standing by the notice-board, clad in an elderly gray wool sweater and old but pressed jeans. Danae had only ever seen her wear variations on this theme.

  Tess had to be early forties, given that she had a teenage son, but she somehow looked younger, despite not wearing even a hint of makeup on her lovely, fine-boned face. Her fair hair was cut short and curled haphazardly, as if the most maintenance it ever got was a hand run through it in exasperation in the morning. Despite all that, hers was a face observant people looked at twice, admiring the fine planes of her cheekbones and the elegant swanlike neck highligh
ted by the short hair clustered around her skull.

  “I wanted to ask if I could stick a notice about my shop on your board, that’s all.”

  “Of course,” said Danae with a smile.

  Normally, she liked to check notices to ensure there was nothing that might shock the more delicate members of the community, but she was pretty sure that anything Tess would stick on the board would be exemplary. The vetting system had been in place since some joker had stuck up a card looking for ladies to join Avalon’s first burlesque dance club:

  EXPERIENCED BOSOM-TASSEL TWIRLERS REQUIRED!

  Most of the ladies of Avalon had all roared with laughter, although poor Father Liam allegedly needed a squirt of his inhaler when he heard.

  “How’s business?” Danae asked.

  Tess grimaced. “Not good. That’s why I’ve typed up the notices. I’m sticking them all over the place and heading into Arklow later to put some up there too. It’s to remind people that the antique shop is here, to encourage them to bring things in or else to come in and shop. The summer season used to be enough to keep me going, but not anymore.” She looked Danae in the eye.

  Danae kept a professional smile on her face. Although she didn’t know her well, she sensed that Tess was not the sort of person who’d want sympathy or false assurances that everything would turn out fine in the end, or that the antique shop would stay open when other businesses were going under because of the recession.

  Instead, she said: “Chin up, that’s all we can do.”

  “That’s my motto exactly,” Tess said, breaking into a smile.

  Her large gray eyes sparkled, the full lips curved up and, for a moment, Danae was reminded of a famous oil portrait of an aristocratic eighteenth-century beauty, with fair curls like Tess’s clustered around a lovely, lively face. Someone who looked like Tess Power ought to have plenty of men interested in her, yet the most recent local gossip had it that her husband had left her and their two children.

  Still, appearances could be deceptive. Danae Rahill knew that better than most.

  When she’d shut the post office for the day, Danae headed home. She loved her adopted town. It was very different from the city where she’d grown up. After her father died, she and her mother had lived in a cramped three-room flat on the fourth floor of an old tenement building. They’d shared the bathroom with everyone else on that floor. Poverty had been the uniting factor in the tenements. People put washing and bags of coal on their balconies instead of window boxes.