A Wedding at O'Mara's (The Guesthouse on the Green Book 6) Read online

  Donal was a glass half-full man with an unfailingly positive attitude and he was exactly the sort of person she wanted to spend time with these days. Life was too short to find yourself on the arm of a crotchety old man and, thought Maureen, it was astounding the number of querulous men in their late sixties roaming the streets of Dublin at any given time. It was not something she’d noticed when her Brian was alive but once she’d been widowed a respectable length of time, they seemed to have come crawling out of the woodwork moaning and groaning all the way.

  Sure, there’d they be with their walking slacks pulled up high around their armpits, their waistlines a thing of the past, as they complained at the rambling group get togethers how the price of gas was going up yet again and how was a pensioner supposed to keep warm in this godforsaken country of theirs? Or, at her painting class they’d be moaning the paperboy had tossed the newspaper onto the damp grass again and how was a man supposed to find out what was happening in the world when the front page was soggy? Oh, and she’d never come up for air again if she were to start on the curmudgeonly lot down at the bowls who were always on about how hard it was to get a decent cup of tea these days as they sipped their brew at the afternoon break.

  Donal brought her back to the here and now. ‘I’m ringing for no other reason than I wanted to hear your voice.’

  It was rather nice to have someone want to hear the sound of her voice for a change.

  ‘Have you had a good day?’ he asked.

  ‘I have.’ She remembered her curls and would have liked him to see them. She raised a hand to fluff her hair up and realised she still had the headscarf on. ‘I’ve not long walked in the door. I was after taking Pooh for a walk down the pier. It was very invigorating, so it was.’

  ‘I’d say it would be. I very much enjoyed our walk the other day.’

  ‘I did too, and I’m sorry about Pooh. He’s not used to male company and he can be quite territorial where I’m concerned.’ She’d been mortified when the poodle had cocked his leg and before she’d been able to stop him, peed on Donal’s left trainer.

  Donal laughed his big rumbly laugh. ‘There’s a first time for everything, Maureen, and sure he’ll get used to me.’

  She liked the way Donal was planning on being around enough for Pooh to get to know him. But as quickly as the warm fuzzy feeling had come it went and she felt queasy as though she’d been eating too much rich, fried food. If he was planning on winning her poodle over, it wouldn’t be long before he was making noises about meeting her girls and introducing her to his girls. She wasn’t sure if she was ready for that yet. It would make things official. It would open him up to judgment from her three because it would be inevitable, they’d draw comparisons between him and their father. Just as it was inevitable Donal’s two daughters would compare her to their late mammy. Neither of them were looking for a replacement for their late spouses though. Through no choice of their own they’d found themselves on their own. It was a lonely thing to turn to tell someone something and find there was no one there anymore. This wasn’t something she thought either of their children would understand.

  Her girls, she knew, had been gobsmacked by her New Year’s Eve announcement of having made a new man friend. They were itching to know more about him too but so far, every time she’d sensed they were about to pump her for information, she’d managed to head them off. She wouldn’t get away with it much longer and she supposed she didn’t want to either because she liked Donal. She liked him a lot; she only hoped they would too and she didn’t even want to think about what Donal’s girls would make of her.

  She could feel Brian’s eyes on her from where he gazed out of the silver frame watching over her living room. She liked to think he’d approve, not that there was anything to disapprove of. Thus far, she and Donal had met for lunch and gone for walks and spoken on the phone but there’d been no romantic encounters. She wasn’t sure how she’d fare were he to make such an advance but she certainly wouldn’t be averse, to him trying. Was kissing and the rest of it like riding a bike? Did it all come back to you once you got back in the saddle so to speak?

  ‘I’m sure he will, Donal,’ she said, spying Pooh licking his chops, his dinner finished as he moseyed toward her. ‘What do you think about coming along with me to the puppy training class next week? It might help.’

  ‘I’d be honoured to accompany you.’

  Again, Maureen smiled, hugging the sound of his jovial voice to her before inquiring as to what he’d spent the day doing.

  ‘I had a grand morning looking after my Gaby’s little Keegan.’ They whiled away a half hour chatting about the delights of being a grandparent and then, glancing at her watch, Maureen realised she needed to think about getting ready. She had a big evening ahead of her.

  ‘I’ll ring you tomorrow then, Maureen. I’m looking forward to hearing all the craic of the hen night,’ Donal said.

  ‘It will be down to me and Bronagh to keep an eye on proceedings. We’ll make sure things don’t get out of control,’ she informed him before ringing off and floating her way over to the kitchen. She flicked the kettle on and popped a teabag in a cup before sitting down at the table to wait for the kettle to boil. Her mind flitted back to Donal and she played over, as she’d done so at least one hundred times or more, the yacht club Christmas dinner where she’d first met him.

  She’d set such high store on the evening but the night was promising to be a flop and she was regretting all the effort she’d gone to having her hair and nails done. Rosemary Farrell had agreed to be her plus one for the evening, even though she didn’t belong to the club, and Maureen was grateful to her for agreeing to accompany her. She’d learned since Brian had passed a lot of married women didn’t take kindly to a widow joining them at their table. She imagined it would be the same for the newly divorced. Rosemary however had managed to wear her gratitude at keeping her company thin by the time they’d finished their, pre-dinner drinks with her complaining about her clicking hip.

  Maureen had sat down at their allocated table for the meal and two men she’d met a handful of times while taking her sailing lessons had swooped down to sit either side of her. Rosemary and her clicking hip never stood a chance. Instead, her rambling club friend sat down across the table next to a woman who worked for the council. Rosemary, Maureen had seen glancing over, was in her apple cart at having an ear to bend about the state of some of the public walking ways. She’d gotten particularly strident as she informed the council woman how she was sure the shoddy paths had played a part in giving her a dicky hip in the first place. Maureen felt sorry for the woman, knowing she was in for a blow by blow account of Rosemary’s hip replacement surgery over their entrees.

  So it was, Maureen found herself sandwiched between Grady Macaleese, an aging playboy who had a penthouse overlooking the harbour here in Howth. He’d droned on and on about his boating prowess in a manner which had made her wonder whether he was talking about boating at all. He’d kept mentioning things like his big rudder and his ramrod boom. On her right was Rory Power, a wet-lipped, ruddy-cheeked man with an appalling combover who’d not been able to avert his eyes from her bosom all evening. It was a miracle how his fork had managed to find his mouth during the main course.

  Yes, she’d been wondering why she’d bothered coming and she’d been so looking forward to the evening too. She liked mingling with the boatie types, just not these two boatie eejits. As the plates were cleared away and Grady began to tell her about how he liked to manhandle his keel, she looked toward the stage and her mood brightened. The band was about to start. At least she wouldn’t be able to hear him over the music. She interrupted him, past caring if he thought her rude. ‘What sort of music are we in for?’

  Grady looked flummoxed at having to answer a question not directly related to himself. Rory, eyes still firmly attached to Maureen’s right breast, informed her it was to be a Kenny Rogers tribute band. ‘The club’s director of entertainment is a country an
d western fan, that’s him prancing around in the cowboy boots, over there.’ He pointed toward the stage.

  Oh yes, Maureen thought, spying the gentleman in question, all he was missing was a piece of straw to chew on. She liked the sound of some Kenny Rogers though. The Gambler usually got everyone on their feet.

  It had too, she thought now, getting to her feet as she heard the kettle begin bubbling away. She’d managed to escape the clutches of Grady and Rory by taking herself off to the bathroom and when she’d reappeared, she’d attached herself to a large group who’d taken to the dance floor. She’d felt a little like a teenager as she caught the eye of the singer who did indeed have a look of your man Kenny with his thick thatch of salt and pepper hair and matching beard. It was his twinkling eyes that won her over though and when he asked if he could fetch her a drink while the band took their break, she was very happy to accept. Rosemary’s nose had been out of joint when she’d spotted Maureen in conversation with the lead singer whose name, she’d since found out, was Donal. She’d limped over to say she was calling it a night because there was no show of her being able to manage the dancing, not with her hip clicking.

  Maureen poured the boiled water into her cup and waited for the tea to brew. She wondered what her children would make of Donal’s retirement hobby. Sure, she decided, they’d be won over like she’d been if they got the chance to hear him sing Lucille. Satisfied her tea was just the right shade of tannin, she flicked the bag onto the little saucer she kept beside the kettle and then carried her drink over to the table. Pooh began to whine as she burst into the Dolly part of Islands in the Stream. It was something she’d been doing ever since she’d met Donal.

  Chapter 17

  ‘Moira O’Mara, I can see your knickers!’ Maureen said. She was perched on the edge of the sofa in the living room of the family apartment in between Bronagh and Ita. They were all awaiting the appearance of the bride-to-be. She’d opted for a slimline tonic, mixed with the gin her eyes had migrated to when she’d arrived, and it was going down a treat. Bronagh, who’d poured herself into a deep pink dress, which she told Maureen she’d had a sod of job trying to match a lipstick with, informed her she’d brought the gin along. The hidden calories in those pre-mix lolly water drinks all the young ones were so keen on knocking back would make your hair curl, she’d said, thinking herself hilarious given Maureen’s curls. She was still chortling to herself as she reached forward to help herself to the cheese and crackers. It was the second time Maureen had had to slap Bronagh’s hand away, telling her she’d regret her poor snack choices in the morning.

  Nina had also joined them for the evening and was looking forward to a rare night out. It wasn’t often she got to be a young woman with no responsibilities or cares and she intended to have fun. Mrs Flaherty had declined Aisling’s invitation on the grounds of her bedtime being nine pm these days and young Evie who worked the weekend evening shift on reception, was precisely that, young.

  ‘You can’t,’ Moira said, craning her neck to look back over her shoulder. She’d been standing by the dining table chatting to Aisling’s old work friends when Maureen had caught sight of her skirt and nearly spilled her G&T.

  ‘I can. They’re purple and barely cover that arse of yours.’

  ‘Well it is a hen night, Mammy. We’re supposed to cause all sorts of trouble around the town. And what do you call the get-up you’ve on?’

  ‘The only trouble you’ll be getting, my girl, is the back of my hand on your bare legs. Now go and put something suitable on. I’ll not have a daughter of mine flashing her knickers to all and sundry.’ Maureen flicked her hand in the direction of the hallway, shooing her off.

  Moira ignored her, knowing it would take too much energy for Mammy to get up from the sofa to smack the back of her legs. Her glory days of being fast as lightning with the wooden spoon were over. She took in her mammy’s white cowboy boots and her eyes travelled upward. ‘Jaysus, Mammy, please tell me those aren’t rhinestones on your blouse.’ She was wearing a black skirt, nothing wrong with that. It was a perfectly respectable knee length teemed with a long-sleeved silky black blouse which revealed a tad too much cleavage in Moira’s opinion. One Cindy in the family was enough. It was the sparkly, swirly pattern across the chest she took umbrage with. It looked very much like rhinestones. All she needed was a big fecky off, cowboy hat, big blonde hair, enormous boobs, a smaller waist and the ability to hold a note, and she’d be like an Irish Dolly Parton.

  ‘They’re diamantes not rhinestones.’

  ‘You’re like a grandmotherly version of Madonna changing your look every fecking few minutes,’ Moira muttered.

  Maureen lunged forward and Moira scooted around the other side of the table, smirking as she saw Mammy was all hot air. She hadn’t managed to make it out of the seat.

  ‘Enough of the language on your sister’s special night,’ she said, settling back on the cushions and giving her gin and tonic, the attention it was due.

  Ita looked down at her carefully chosen black dress with its white polka dots, bought specially for this evening from River Island. It had cost her nearly a week’s wages and she’d teemed it with black knee-high boots as the shop assistant had suggested. She’d felt a million dollars when she’d left home earlier, her mam’s voice ringing in her ears. ‘Be sure to remember me to Maureen, now Ita.’ She’d wanted to impress the O’Mara sisters who only ever saw her pushing a cleaning trolley about the place. She felt certain they looked down their haughty noses at her and she’d planned on showing them she scrubbed up as well as the next girl. Now though, looking at Moira in her tiny scarlet skirt she felt frumpy, as though she were off to a church social and not on a hen night. Her stomach knotted in the way it always did when she was around the O’Mara sisters.

  Bronagh put in her penny’s worth. ‘Moira, if you prance around the city streets in that skirt, you’ll be offered money in return for favours. Mark my words.’

  Moira frowned, not sure what Bronagh was on about, her mammy’s message had come across loud and clear though. ‘What I want to know, Mammy, is why it’s alright for you to swan around the city in your yoga pants showing everyone your bits but I can’t wear a short skirt when I’m in the prime of my youth.’

  ‘The yoga pants are very good for the mobility so they are. I can bend and stretch and get in and out of the car and remember, young lady, you’ll still be my daughter when you’re sixty and past your so-called prime. Besides, I’m after getting a new pair. It won’t be me flashing my undergarments to anyone who cares to take a look.’

  Roisin looked up from where she was scooping paté onto a cracker over by the kitchen worktop. ‘What do you mean you’ve got a new pair?’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Mammy, have you been nosing in my suitcase?’

  Nina was sitting in the armchair near the windows and her head swivelled back and forth, like a tennis ball being thwacked across the court, between the sisters and their mother. She would never answer back to her madre the way these girls did theirs but she envied their easy relationship with her too.

  Maureen had a shifty expression on her face but before Roisin could grill her further, Leila appeared looking glamorous in a silver halter neck dress.

  ‘Leila, you look a picture, so you do,’ Maureen exclaimed, grateful for the diversion.

  ‘Thank you, Maureen, but wait until you see our bride. Aisling,’ she called.

  Aisling came striding out with her hands on her hips as though strutting the catwalk. Roisin whistled and Maureen and Bronagh clapped. Aisling’s two girlfriends from her resort management days, Rowena call me Ro-ro and Tina-Marie like Lisa-Marie Presley only it’s Tina-Marie Preston, cheered. Aisling was stunning in a sage green chiffon strappy number with impossibly high Louboutins and a fluffy white veil pinned into her hair. A drink was pressed into her hand and she took a seat alongside her old friends as Moira took charge.

  ‘Has everyone got a drink?’

  ‘Yes,’ came the chorused reply.

&n
bsp; ‘Good, because we’ve a few presents there on the table for Aisling to open and then I thought we could play some games before our limousine whisks us away. I thought we’d start with Bridal Bingo.’

  ‘I love that,’ Ro-ro squealed turning to Tina-Marie. ‘It’s great craic. I played it last month at Stephanie’s hen night. Aisling you should sit at the head of the table to open your presents.’

  Aisling pulled out the chair and dutifully sat down.

  ‘Go and change that skirt, Moira,’ Maureen bossed.

  Seeing she was going to get no peace until she did, she told the expectant hens she’d be two ticks before racing off to the bedroom. She reappeared with a skirt that came down to the middle of her shapely thighs. ‘Better, Mammy?’

  ‘Much better.’ Maureen was appeased. She was also enjoying her gin and tonic. It had been years since she’d tippled on that particular mixer. ‘Bronagh, how’s your drink there. Shall I top us up?’

  ‘A grand idea, Maureen.’ Bronagh said. ‘Help me up would you, Ita?’

  Ita took her hand and heaved the receptionist up from the sofa. They all gathered around the table, Maureen watching the proceedings from where she was sloshing tonic into a generous measure of gin.