O'Mara's Read online

  Table of Contents

  O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green, #1)

  Chapter 1 | 1999 Dublin

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11 | One year earlier or, thereabouts

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15 | Present day

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20 | 1942

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24 | 1948

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26 | 1950

  Chapter 27 | Present Day

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  MICHELLE VERNAL LOVES a happy ending. She lives with her husband and their two boys in the beautiful city of Christchurch, New Zealand. She’s partial to a glass of wine, loves a cheese scone and has recently taken up yoga—a sight to behold indeed. She has written eight books to date all of which are written with humour and warmth and she hopes you enjoy reading them. If you enjoy O’Mara’s then taking the time to say so by leaving a review would be wonderful. A book review is the best present you can give an author. If you’d like to hear about new releases in this series, you can sign up to receive her VIP Newsletter via her website and to say thank you, you’ll receive the first ten chapters of her novel, Sweet Home Summer FREE!

  www.michellevernalbooks.com

  www.facebook/michellevernalnovelist

  www.bookbub.com/authors/michelle-vernal

  Also by Michelle Vernal

  Sisterly Love

  Second-hand Jane

  Being Shirley

  The Traveller’s Daughter

  Sweet Home Summer

  The Promise

  And...

  Introducing: The Guesthouse on the Green

  Book 1 - O’Mara’s

  Available on Amazon 11 December 2018

  The Guesthouse on the Green

  O’Mara’s

  Michelle Vernal

  Copyright © 2018 by Michelle Vernal

  Michelle Vernal asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this work may be reproduced in any fashion without the express, written consent of the copyright holder.

  The red fox poked his head through the hole he’d dug under the bricks. This was his secret point of entry. A closely guarded gap between the brick wall separating the gardens in which he had his den and his favourite dust bin.

  The bin was located around the back of a handsome Georgian townhouse, one of a long row of identical buildings opposite St Stephen’s Green. This particular bin with its scraps of bacon, black and white pudding, sausage, fried potato, toast crusts and on occasion, soda bread had the best pickings in the area.

  His ears were pricked for any sounds alerting him to danger and his black nose twitched as he sniffed the night air. It was crisp with a tang of chimney smoke and the remnants of late-night suppers. The only sound was the odd car winding its lonely way home. He waited a beat or two longer and only when he was certain it was safe did he squeeze his bristly body through the gap.

  The one and only time he’d been bold enough to investigate the bin’s contents in the early morning hours, he’d encountered a fierce round woman, wielding a rolling pin. She’d shouted at him and waved that wooden baton in a way which meant to do him harm. Thankfully her cumbersome size meant she wasn’t quick enough to catch him, and he’d shot back through his hole into the sanctity of his gardens—safe. He’d heard her muttering about setting a trap, but none had ever been laid. His prowess when it came to keeping the mice at bay, had been his saving grace. It had been a lesson learned, though, and calling as those first shards of morning light broke was a mistake he’d not made twice.

  His yellow eyes darted about the courtyard inspecting the shadowed corners. A chink of light peeped through the curtains of the room closest to the back door despite the lateness of the hour. The temptation of what he might find in the bin however was too strong. He couldn’t turn back now, and he crept stealthily over to it, nudging at the lid with his nose. As he felt it budge, he was grateful it never sat as firmly over the lip as it should and with one last good push it slid off, clattering to the ground.

  He had to move fast now, and he dived in head first emerging victoriously having snared a piece of bacon rind. It would make a tasty addition to the grasses, berries and odd squirrel he dined on in the gardens. The curtains to the room were wrenched open flooding the courtyard with light. The fox snaffled his rind and scrambled from the bin, jubilantly dragging the sausage he’d found with him. It would make for a feast to be enjoyed back in his den.

  He glanced back to see how the land lay. A woman of indeterminable years stood at the window, her tear-stained face peering out into the courtyard. They were a strange lot these humans, he thought squeezing back through the cavity and slipping away into the darkness.

  Chapter 1

  1999 Dublin

  Aisling O’Mara had a gift. It hadn’t been bestowed on her by three meddlesome fairies like Princess Aurora’s gifts of beauty, song, and being awakened by her true love’s kiss. Oh, she was an attractive enough woman, or so she’d been told on occasion. Marcus, whom she’d thought was her true love, used to give her an admiring once-over from time to time, and tell her she was a fine-looking woman. He’d never been the effusive sort, but then again, he did work in banking.

  As for beauty, well now it had bypassed her and blessed the face of her younger sister, Moira. She’d been Maureen O’Mara’s, ‘surprise’ baby. The day she arrived, Maureen told her husband, Brian he could forget about giving her the glad eye in the future. She’d be keeping her legs crossed until the end of her days ta very much.

  Aisling had been nine when she and Roisin, to their disgust, had to push their beds closer together so as to make way for their baby sister. Whether her sister’s beauty was a gift Aisling was unsure, because things came easily to Moira, far too easily and she was headed for a fall. Aisling could feel it in her bones. She’d had the same feeling in the weeks leading up to her wedding, only she’d ignored it, more fool her.

  So, that left song. Celine Dion, she was not. Shortly after her tenth birthday she’d auditioned for the children’s choir at St Teresa’s and been told in not so many words, ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you,’ Suffice to say they’d never called. Not even when mammy had tried to bribe the choirmaster with one of her famous Porter Cakes.

  No, Aisling’s gift was a simple one. There was no magic involved. Hers was a practical gift. She’d been born with an innate ability to listen to and fix other people’s problems. ‘Talk to Aisling, she’ll know what to do.’ How many times had she heard that sentence uttered over the years? It was to her family and friends turned to when they needed a shoulder and sometimes it could be a heavy burden. She often thought instead of managing the family’s guesthouse, O’Mara’s Manor House, she should have had a newspaper column. It would
be called Dear Aisling or Ask Aisling. Not original titles by any means, but effective and straight to the point. She would be the Irish version of the agony aunt over in the States, what was her name? Dear Abby— that was it.

  Yes, she sighed sipping her coffee and looking at the letter lying open on the table, her talents were wasted.

  ‘I’m off now.’ Moira popped her head around the doorway. ‘Don’t wait up for me tonight, I’ll be late.’ She strode over to the table and snatched a piece of Aisling’s toast, stuffing the triangle into her mouth before Aisling could shriek at her to give it back.

  Moira was employed as a receptionist for one of Ireland’s largest law firms, Mason Price. Seeing how Friday had rolled around, Aisling knew she’d be staying behind for the customary end of week drinks. ‘If you got up earlier, you’d have time to make your own toast.’

  ‘Yours tastes better.’

  ‘Its toast not cordon bleu cooking.’ Aisling took stock of her younger sibling, her mouth curving as she spied the white runners peeking out from under the hem of her black trousers. They were very Minnie Mouse, but she knew as soon as she got to work they’d be swapped for a pair of heels. As long as they weren’t her heels.

  ‘You’ve not got my black Miu Miu’s in your bag have you?’ She stared hard at Moira. Her left eye twitched when she fibbed.

  ‘No, and would you leave off about your stupid Miu Miu’s. I borrowed them once.’

  ‘And got a scratch on the heel.’

  ‘It was microscopic.’ Her hand snaked out for another piece of toast, but Aisling was quicker and held the plate up out of her reach. She hadn’t detected a twitching eye, she’d let the Miu Miu’s go for now. It made sense for Moira to walk the short distance to the multi-storey office building near the Grand Canal. The traffic was bumper to bumper of a morning and it was faster to get there on foot.

  She looked particularly lovely today, footwear aside with her dark hair scooped back into a low ponytail hair. The moss green coloured blouse she was wearing under her suit jacket brought out the flecks of gold in her hazel eyes. To be fair, the black Miu Miu’s would have worked a treat with her sister’s black trousers.

  Moira and their older sister Roisin both took after their mammy. They’d inherited her olive skin which obligingly turned mahogany when they went on their holidays. While Aisling had Nanna Dee on their dad’s side, long gone now bless the old harridan, to thank for her strawberry blonde mop. The green eyes, a smattering of freckles and skin that refused to tan no matter how long she sat out in the sun meant she’d drawn the short straw in her opinion. Not that she got much opportunity for sunbathing these days anyway, and it wasn’t just down to Dublin’s inclement weather.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d taken a holiday. There’d been no opportunity for time off since she’d taken over the running of the guesthouse nearly two years ago. It was a job that needed her at the helm seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days of the year. Of course Moira, Mammy and Roisin would argue this wasn’t the case. They’d be quick to say Aisling chose to see herself as indispensable. Perhaps it was true. She needed to keep herself busy after everything that had happened. God, she’d had a hell of a twelve months.

  Chapter 2

  ‘Ash, did you hear me?’ Moira waved a hand in front of her sister’s face.

  ‘What? Oh yes you said you’ll be late. Well, have fun, but don’t go getting hammered or anything.’

  This received a frown. ‘You’re such a sourpuss these days and you’re not my keeper, Aisling O’Mara. I’m twenty-five not fifteen.’

  Aisling sighed, she never used to be a sourpuss. ‘Sorry. It's habit, but we’ve got lunch with Mammy tomorrow remember, and you don’t want a sore head or you’ll never hear the end of it from her.’

  ‘Oh feck it, I’d forgotten all about that. I’ve arranged to meet Andrea on Grafton Street for eleven o’clock tomorrow. I was really looking forward to it too. We’re going shopping. I’m due some retail therapy.’

  Money burns a hole in her sister’s pocket. Aisling decided she was allowed to be self-righteous. She’d managed to kick her designer shoe shopping habit when she’d arrived back in Dublin. Marcus and his thrifty ways had seen to that. Truth be told she hadn’t had much choice in the matter, a disposable income was needed to maintain a designer shoe habit. The wage she drew from O’Mara’s while a living one was not a patch on her old salary. The old Aisling had packed up her frivolous side when she’d packed her bags and returned to O’Mara’s after Dad got sick.

  ‘Don’t roll your eyes, Ash. I need a new dress because Posh Mairead from the Finance Department’s gotten engaged to Niall. He’s a senior partner, and how she snared him with those buck teeth of hers I don’t know—there’s hope for us all. Personally, I think he’s only marrying her because of her family name. The Horan’s are old money, and everybody knows Mairead only works because her daddy thought it would be good for her to see how the other half live. Anyway, the engagement party’s only a couple of weeks away and I’ve got absolutely nothing to wear. I have to look my best because all the partners have been invited and I have it on good authority Liam Shaughnessy from Asset Management is going to be there.’

  Aisling was exhausted by the time Moira finished her monologue but not so tired she hadn’t seen the predatory gleam in her eyes as she mentioned Liam Shaughnessy. ‘Be careful Moira,’ she warned for the second time that morning.

  ‘What?’

  ‘From what you’ve told me yer man, Liam sounds like a player.’

  ‘Ash, just because you made a bad call doesn’t mean all men are tarred with the same brush as Marcus fecking coward McDonagh. He was a selfish eejit.’ She shuddered for effect. ‘I didn’t like the way he’d give you that look.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘The look that said you were being loud. It made me want to kick him. It was the same look Mr Mathias used to give me in the juniors. I wanted to kick him too remember? He always described me as a disruptive member of the class.’

  ‘Vaguely.’ Alright, so Marcus didn’t like her drawing attention to herself but that was because he was reserved. He liked to sit back and observe not be thrown in the mix.

  ‘And the way that man used to hog the remote control for the tele spoke volumes, an only child, used to getting his own way.’

  Aisling looked at her sister. She’d forgotten how he did that. It was the channel surfing that had driven her mad. She’d be happily involved in Melrose Place and the next she’d be confronted by that mad Australian wrestling crocodiles. An annoying habit she’d add to her list of reasons as to why she should continue ignoring his letters. Maybe Moira was right when she said she was bitter from having been burned. She was bitter like an unripe lemon.

  ‘Anyway,’ Moira prattled on, ‘Mairead’s only gone and hired The Saddle Room at the Shelbourne for it.’ She breathed, ‘Shelbourne,’ with reverence before looking hopefully at Aisling. ‘Maybe you could explain to Mammy for me? Sure look it, we could always make it for the following week.’

  ‘I will not. You’ve got plenty of things you can wear. Your wardrobe’s overflowing as it is. Mammy doesn’t ask a lot from us, Moira, you know that.’ Seeing Moira open her mouth she warded her off. ‘Alright I’ll grant you she tells us what to do a lot, but she’s had such a horrible time of it, the least you can do is front up for lunch. She looks forward to seeing us.’

  ‘We’ve all had a horrible fecking time,’ Moira huffed. ‘And it’s bloody inconvenient. She’s a whirling social dervish that fits us in to suit her social calendar.’ Her hazel eyes regarded her sister steadily. ‘And don’t start because it’s true and you know it.’

  She could be a selfish mare sometimes thought Aisling as she shut her mouth. They would go to lunch to keep the peace even if she did have a point.

  ‘What’s that you’ve got there?’ Moira pointed to the letter lying next to Aisling’s plate, her face lighting up as she asked, ‘Is it from Pat?’


  Moira adored Patrick their handsome, big brother. Aisling however had his number. He was a chancer. Although, she was the only one in the family who did. Mammy thought the sun shone out of her eldest child and only son’s arse. She could make an excuse for his behaviour faster than a magician could pull a rabbit out of a hat. Roisin sat on the fence. She’d side with Mammy and Moira when it suited and agree with Aisling when she wanted to borrow a pair of her shoes.

  Patrick O’Mara was a selfish so-and-so with notions about himself. Look at how he’d thrown his toys out of the cot after Dad died. He’d flown off to the States without a backward glance when he hadn’t got his way over O’Mara’s being sold, right when Mammy needed him most. As far as she was concerned, America wasn’t far enough. Her brother always had his own best interests at heart. If he was chocolate he’d eat himself, she frowned.

  ‘No, not Patrick, it’s from the ESB that’s all, gas is going up again.’ The lie tripped smoothly from her tongue and she felt a flash of anger towards him as she saw the look of disappointment on her sister’s face. He hadn’t been in touch since Christmas, and then he’d only sent a card and a photograph of himself and his new girlfriend Cindy. She was the perfect appendage. Arm candy with big blonde hair and a perfectly aligned white, toothy smile. Moira upon seeing the photograph fall from his Christmas card had announced, ‘her boobs weren’t gifted to her by God that’s for sure.’

  ‘That reminds me I forgot to tell you, Roisin rang yesterday. Noah’s getting a certificate for ‘good work’ at his school assembly this morning.’

  Their nephew had only started at his primary school, in the affluent London suburb of Highgate a month ago and was already getting a pat on the back. Aisling felt a surge of pride as though she personally had something to do with him being awarded an accolade. There’d be no hope for her in years to come if he went on to graduate from University.

  Moira’s smile was wistful. ‘Ah, I wish we could be there cheering him on. His little face will be a picture. Mind you Colin the Arse will be puffed up like a peacock saying it’s down to the Quealey genes, eejit that he is. Do yer know the last time I spoke to Roisin, she told me he’d got it in his head that Noah’s the next Beckham, because he scored a goal at toddler footie. I’ll bet you anything, he’s one of those awful parents who stands on the side-lines shouting and bawling.’ Her mouth formed a startled ‘O’ as the old grandfather clock in the corner, chimed the half hour. ‘Feck is that the time? I’ve got to run or I’ll be late.’