The Guesthouse on the Green Series Box Set 2 Read online

  Michelle Vernal Box Set

  The Guesthouse on the Green Series

  Christmas at O’Mara’s

  Bonus, New Year’s Eve with the O’Maras, Short Read

  A Wedding at O’Mara’s

  Maureen’s Song

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Michelle Vernal Box Set - The Guesthouse on the Green Series, Christmas at O'Mara's, New Year's Eve with the O'Maras, A Wedding at O'Mara's, Maureen's Song

  Also by Michelle Vernal

  Christmas at O’Mara’s | Michelle Vernal

  New Year’s Eve with the O’Maras

  A Wedding at O’Mara’s

  Maureen’s Song | By Michelle Vernal

  Maureen’s Song | by | Michelle Vernal

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  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

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Book 8, The Guesthouse on the Green Series | The O’Mara’s in LaLa Land

  Pre-Order here: https://books2read.com/u/bW12e1

  The Promise | By Michelle Vernal | The Beginning

  MICHELLE VERNAL LOVES a happy ending. She lives with her husband and their two boys in the beautiful and resilient 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. As well as The Guesthouse on the Green series Michelle’s written eight standalone novels. They’re all written with humour and warmth and she hopes you enjoy reading them. If you enjoy reading The Guesthouse on the Green series boxset 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, and other book news you can subscribe to Michelle’s newsletter here: http://tiny.cc/0r27az

  To say thank you, you’ll receive an exclusive O’Mara women Character Profile!

  https://www.michellevernalbooks.com/

  https://www.facebook.com/michellevernalnovelist/

  https://www.bookbub.com/authors/michelle-vernal

  Also by Michelle Vernal

  The Cooking School on the Bay

  Second-hand Jane

  Staying at Eleni’s

  The Traveller’s Daughter

  Sweet Home Summer

  The Promise

  The Dancer

  When we say Goodbye

  Christmas at O’Mara’s

  Michelle Vernal

  Copyright © 2019 by Michelle Vernal

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

  This novel, Christmas at O’Mara’s 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.

  Introduction

  Cliona Whelan, Clio for short, had been many things in her fifty-nine years on this earth. A daughter, a sister, an aunt, a friend, journalist and now a published and, some would say, feted novelist, but there were things she hadn’t been too. Things she’d have liked to have been had fate played her a different hand. If she’d been born into these modern times, perhaps she would have had it all but in her youth, there was no such thing as, “having your cake and eating it too”. She’d had to make choices, hard decisions because she couldn’t have it all. She wasn’t a wife, nor a mother and she would never be someone’s grandmother. ‘I’ve got you though haven’t I, Bess.’ It was a statement not a question and she reached down to stroke the cat’s silky back as she meandered past on her way through from the kitchen where she’d finished her breakfast to bask on her favourite chair. Bess mewled but didn’t pause on her well-worn path.

  Clio took a sip of milky tea from her china cup. The dancing rose pattern, so delicate against the white, bone china, was beautiful and she paused briefly to admire it as she set it back down in its matching saucer. The Japanese knew the importance of things being just right when it came to drinking one’s tea. They’d understand her refusal to sip her morning brew from anything other than this rose teacup. It was a habit adopted from her mam. God rest her soul. ‘It tastes different when it’s not in my cup,’ Maeve Whelan used to say. Clio had thought her a terrible old fusspot suffering from delusions of grandeur when she was young, but now, she knew exactly what she’d meant.

  She heard the familiar rattle of the cast iron letter slot being pushed open by Niall. He of the ruddy cheeks and ready grin who’d been the postman delivering to her street for forever and a day. It was followed by the soft plop of mail landing on the mat by the front door. Clio liked this time of year. Oh, she wasn’t a fan of the cold. She’d have been happier banging away on her trusty old typewriter somewhere warm and sunny like Spain. Dublin could be bleak in the depth of winter. What she liked about the month of December though, was the way in which people became kinder and more engaged with one another. Those that would hurry along the streets, heads down, keen to be on their way the rest of the year, would slow a little, look one another in the eye and give a nodding smile in passing. It was as if they’d suddenly remembered what really mattered in life. She enjoyed sifting through the post of a morning too knowing there’d be a pile of cards to open—it was much more enjoyable than eyeing the electric bill while munching her toast.

  Clio liked to eke out her morning routine, partly because it took longer to wind through the gears and crank into fourth these days and partly because she wasn’t, and never had been, a morning person. She got up and knotted her dressing gown tie before padding through on slipper-clad feet to the kitchen. She slotted her toast into the toaster pushing the handle down before going to fetch the mail. The white envelopes lay scattered on the floor and her eyes flitted over the different handwriting as she scooped them up, but as she registered the postmark on one such envelope her breath caught and her hand fluttered to her mouth. The envelope, as her eyes drifted to the lazy, looping script she’d never expected to see again, seemed to vibrate in her hand. It was nonsensical she knew. Her heart, she realised, had begun to race in a way she should perhaps at her age find alarming but the doctor had told her just last week her ticker was strong as an ox.

  ‘Go and sit down, Clio,’ she ordered and with the envelope pulsing on top of the small pile she’d swept up, that’s what she did. She pushed her glasses onto the bridge of her nose and pinched her bottom lip between her teeth as she retrieved the letter opener from the dish on the table. Then, sliding it through the crisp white paper, she retrieved the card inside. The last correspondence she’d had from him had been a letter written o
n a sheet of notepaper. That was forty-one years ago, although, if you were to ask her, she could tell you exactly where that letter could be found. This card, she saw inspecting it, was rather nondescript, an expensive looking nativity picture, a slightly different version of the same scenes already draped over the string she’d tied around one curtain finial stretching it across to the other as she did each year to dangle her cards from.

  She wondered if he’d spent time in the newsagent’s loitering for an age by the rack of Christmas cards trying to decide which to choose, in the end playing it safe and settling on something rather stock standard. Or, perhaps it had simply come from a packet of ten, selected at random from the choice of Santa Claus with his sack of presents, a Christmas tree or the nativity scene. Nerves were making her procrastinate because it wasn’t the image on the front that mattered, it was what the card said inside. ‘Go on, Clio, old girl. Since when you were afraid of anything? Open it.’ She did so.

  Chapter 1

  London, December 21, 1999

  Roisin O’Mara was not feeling festive. In fact, she was feeling decidedly foul and full of fecks as with her free hand she closed the gate. It clanged shut with a force threatening to snap it off its hinges. The plastic bag with the presents she was carting banged against her leg as she stomped up the path to the front door. Its green colour was a beacon on a day that was threatening more snow and she sent a flurry of the sludgy stuff that had settled overnight flying as her feet skidded on the icy surface. ‘Fecking, Colin,’ she muttered, her breath coming in huffy, white puffs. You’d have thought he’d have swept the path for them. Mind you, she shouldn’t be surprised. Considerate had never been a word that sprang to mind when she thought about her estranged husband. She was beginning to agree with her sister Moira, Arse was a much more fitting term for Colin Quealey.

  Sure, a girl could fall over and do an injury on this path, she griped silently. ‘Watch your step, Noah.’ Her son was in a hurry to reach the house and she’d rather he made it there intact. They were late, which wasn’t helping her mood because she knew their tardy arrival would be noted with a sniff. Her soon to be ex-mother-in-law, Elsa, was the queen of the disapproving sniff. The annoying thing was it wasn’t even her fault. They’d left their tiny flat in a leafy, overpriced pocket of Greenwich in plenty of time but her old banger had protested against the cold by refusing to start. Her language, muttered under her breath, had been ripe as she turned the key for the umpteenth time knowing she was in danger of flooding the engine. She’d been about to tell Noah to unbuckle because they’d have to go back inside and ring Daddy to ask him to pick them up when she’d given it one last try. She’d sent a “thank you” heavenward as the engine spluttered into life.

  The traffic despite the busy time of year had been light on the drive over. Roisin was guessing most people had the sense to hunker down for the day than to venture out and about. She envied them, she’d thought, turning into Staunton Mews ten minutes later. It was the sort of Sunday that should be spent in pyjamas, snuggling under a duvet on the couch watching videos while stuffing one’s face, not partaking in a farcical Christmas day with whatever you called your mother-in-law and husband once you’d pulled the pin on your marriage.

  She’d managed to slide into a parking space a few doors down from number nine and even though she’d only walked from the car to the path her feet were already icicles inside her boots. This was despite her having worn socks so thick over her black tights she knew her boots would be pinching before the day was out.

  Oh yes, this two Christmas day’s lark was a pain in the arse and she’d have rather left Colin, Elsa and Noah to the goose that was undoubtedly on the menu but Elsa had other plans. She’d been insistent she come, giving a loud sniff before remonstrating, ‘It’s important to present a united front you know, Roisin. That poor boy deserves a proper Christmas with both his parents given everything he’s been through.’

  Roisin knew she wasn’t being overly sensitive—there was a definite accusatory tone in Elsa Quealey’s voice. She’d been tempted to point out that her son had played a lead role in their marriage disintegrating too. Elsa seemed to have forgotten all about the bank having foreclosed on them, selling their home and assets to clear debts Colin had amassed, unbeknown to his wife, with his ill-fated, investments. This was why Roisin and Noah now lived in a flat the size of a shoebox and why she drove a temperamental car that would have been right at home cruising the streets back in nineteen seventy-one. It was also why her husband at the ripe old age of thirty-nine had slunk home to lick his wounds at his mother’s house. She’d have dearly loved to have rubbed Elsa’s nose in all of this as she looked down that long beak of hers waiting for her to say yes to her Christmas dinner invitation.

  It rankled too the reference to ‘poor Noah’. He was doing fine. Sure, the first wee while had been rough as he adjusted to all the changes their separation wrought, but of late he’d settled down and was back to his usual, happy self, pestering her constantly for a gerbil. He hadn’t shut up about it, in fact. He’d forgotten all about wanting Mummy and Daddy to live together in their old house again because becoming the owner of a small, furry brown rodent was the number one priority in his life.

  Roisin’s friend Stephanie had warned her not to go there and she was inclined to agree, as was her landlord, who’d enunciated loudly—he was hard of hearing—that no animals were allowed. Was a gerbil an animal? Roisin wasn’t sure but it was a good excuse to appease Noah, so she’d run with it. ‘They look small and innocuous enough,’ Stephanie had said. ‘You could even say they’re quite sweet looking but Rosi think about the havoc Charlie caused bringing Beyoncé to school on pet day.’

  Roisin had nodded. She well remembered the story of Stephanie’s daughter’s gerbil escaping and terrorising the headmistress by hiding out in the toilets. Still, the look on Noah’s face when he’d asked whether she thought Father Christmas would get his letter in time because there was NOTHING he wanted more in the world than a gerbil and he’d been ever such a good boy had made her waiver. Perhaps she could get away with a soft toy version. Ah, who was she kidding?

  That’s what she needed to remember, she told herself looking down at her son. Today was about him, not her, and besides if she hadn’t agreed to come then Colin might have put his foot down regarding her spending Christmas day proper with her family in Dublin. They’d yet to iron out all the nitty gritty finer points of custody where their son was concerned but seemed to have settled into an unspoken arrangement whereby, he spent every second weekend with his daddy and Granny Quealey.

  Her son’s hat was pulled down low and he was dwarfed inside the jacket Colin had bought him a few weeks ago despite his proclamations of trying to get back on his feet and that the maintenance he was currently paying out was daylight robbery. There’d been nothing wrong with Noah’s old jacket but Colin was a show pony, always had been and appearances mattered to him. She could sense, despite his five-year-old body being hidden inside an expensive layer of goose down, Noah twitching with an energetic excitement at the thought of what lay in wait for him inside Granny Quealey’s house. Throw in some sugary treats that were bound to be coming his way very soon and he’d be bouncing off the walls in no time.

  That was another thing, she thought, a gloved finger pressing the doorbell and holding it down for longer than was necessary; those weekends spent here saw Noah get spoiled rotten. He’d burst in through the door of their small flat on a Sunday afternoon full of stories about ice creams and trips to the cinema. She felt as though she were in a competition for her son’s affections, one in which not only the financial odds were stacked against her but the opportunity to simply relax and have fun with him too. What annoyed her most of all and yes, she knew it was irrational but she couldn’t help how she felt was Elsa serving him up chicken nuggets and chips, his all-time favourite. Her son was very quick to point out that she didn’t put anything green on his plate to ruin his dinner either. He’d say this wh
ile waving a piece of broccoli at her in an accusatory fashion. Colin would have told her off when they were still living under the same roof if she’d put an unbalanced meal like that in front of Noah. Would he say “boo” to his mother, though? No, he would not.

  Their roles had changed since they’d parted ways. He it seemed, got to play at being jolly, good time daddy every second weekend, something he’d never been good at before but seemed to be hitting his stride with now, while she did the day to day parenting hard yards. It wasn’t fair.

  Her mood darkened as she jiggled inside her coat waiting for the door to open. She’d never breathe a word about how their new arrangement made her feel to Colin because his face would scrunch up in that annoying pinched way it did when something pained him and he’d say, ‘Well, Roisin, it wasn’t my decision to separate nor is it my fault Noah has to split his time between his parents.’ He’d be right too, it had been her decision and not one she’d taken lightly. She and Colin had not been a good match. It was also one, despite her and Noah’s flat with its moaning and groaning pipes and dodgy hot water, she didn’t regret. ‘Hurry up,’ she muttered, her breath emitting another puff of white into the air.

  ‘You look like you’re smoking, Mummy.’ Noah grinned revealing two new front teeth finally beginning to grow down. His lisp was still pronounced though. He reached over and snapped a twig from the spindly hydrangea in the front garden.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  Noah didn’t get a chance to answer because the door swung open to reveal Elsa Quealey. The smile on her face drooped as she took in the sight of her beloved grandson holding a twig between his fingers and sucking on it as though his life depended on it.

  Chapter 2

  ‘What are you doing, Noah?’ Elsa frowned, watching as he exhaled a white plume into the air with the kind of satisfied gusto reserved for those that had just done the deed.

  ‘Smoking like Mummy.’