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

  Leila laughed. She’d been targeted for a kiss from Uncle Colm on the dance floor at Roisin’s wedding reception. ‘And, are we still on for next Saturday night, too?’

  Aisling nodded although she could do without it, to be honest. A hen night was at the bottom of her list of priorities but Moira had insisted on organising it and with Roisin coming to stay for the weekend, there was no getting out of it. ‘Yes, and I’ve told Moira I will not be wearing an Alice band with glittery purple willies bobbing about on it, or carrying a blow-up doll called Seamus around town like she was planning last time around. I said we’re all older, and wiser and I’d wear a veil at a push.’

  ‘I don’t blame you.’ Leila smiled, knowing Aisling could say what she liked to Moira. It would make no difference and she’d organise exactly what she wanted regardless of her sister’s wishes. She was glad because to be frank, Aisling was so tightly wound she could do with letting her hair down and having a little fun.

  ‘How’s Bazzer? He’s definitely on board to do the photographs isn’t he?’ Aisling grinned across the table. He was in demand for his photography skills but thanks to Leila he’d fitted their date in and offered a discount. Leila had told her Bearach didn’t come cheap, even with the discount, and she shouldn’t feel obligated to use him because she was dating him. He didn’t expect them to. Aisling had barely listened to her. She was focussed only on the fact he was one of the best in the city. Her justification for using a top gun at his game was the discount he was going to give them.

  Leila scowled at her. ‘Bearach thank you, is grand. And don’t you dare call him Bazzer on the day or he’ll take loads of unflattering pics and still charge an astronomical fee. Repeat after me Bearach.’

  ‘Bearach.’ She followed it up with a whispered, ‘Bazzer.’ And got a kick under the table.

  ‘Sorry, I can’t seem to help myself. I don’t know why because he doesn’t look like a Barry.’

  ‘Because he’s Bearach.’

  ‘Yes, but he might as well be seeing as it means Barry.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Barry anyhow?’ Leila frowned popping a piece of chicken in her mouth.

  ‘Do you Leila take the Bazzer?’

  Leila couldn’t help herself, she laughed. ‘Don’t make me laugh when I’m eating. I could choke and, alright, I get your point but we’re hardly about to march down the aisle. And he’s grand, thank you. Although I did want to ask your advice about something.’ She noticed Aisling’s gaze was fixated on the remainder of her croutons once more and she quickly forked them up along with the rest of her salad.

  Aisling waited patiently for her to swallow, lamenting the loss of the croutons as she watched Leila chew.

  ‘Bearach’s asked me to go down to Connemara to meet his parents and I don’t think it’s a good idea.’

  ‘Why not? Connemara’s one of my favourite places in Ireland. It’s beautiful.’

  ‘I know that but, Aisling,’ Leila voice had the intonation of an exasperated parent trying to explain something to a small child. ‘Meeting your boyfriend’s parents is akin to announcing your serious about their son and I’m not sure I am.’

  This was news to Aisling, but then she had been self-absorbed of late.

  ‘But you said everything was grand.’

  ‘No, I said he’s grand.’

  Aisling studied her friend. She knew the signs well. As soon as the fellow she was stepping out with began to make noises about moving things along in their relationship, Leila got cold feet. ‘I think you should go.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘Yes. You need to take his invitation at face value and not analyse it. What do I always say to you?’

  ‘Analysis is paralysis.’ Leila recited; a good student.

  ‘Go and enjoy the opportunity to sample the delights of Connemara. Spend some time with his family who are probably very nice people keen to get know the woman who’s been spending time with their son. The only person reading more into the invitation, is you.’

  Leila smoothed the serviette she’d unwittingly been folding. ‘You’re right. Thanks, Ash. You know if you ever get tired of running O’Mara’s you’d make a grand counsellor.’

  Aisling smiled. She was good at helping other people see things clearly. Unfortunately, it was a life skill which didn’t extend itself to her own life. She didn’t dwell on this though as Leila retrieved the wedding file from her bag and, pushing her plate to one side put it on the table. She was all business now, flicking through the various pages of notes and pictures clipped inside until she came to what she was looking for.

  ‘I wanted to know what you thought of these themes for the table settings.’ Leila slid the folder toward her friend and Aisling began to flick through the various cuttings of different ideas filed and clipped inside it.

  ‘They’re all gorgeous. You know me so well,’ she sighed, pausing over one particularly lovely idea with pinecones, lots of flickering tealight candles and white hydrangeas ‘This one’s lovely, simple but elegant. Perfect for a winter wedding. What do you think?’ Her expression darkened, ‘Do you think the hydrangeas would set Rosi’s hay fever off? And what if one of Mammy’s eejity brothers gets drunk and knocks the candles over?’ She began to chew at her thumbnail as she was assailed with a high drama, action packed vision, whereby Roisin was bent double with the sneezes and her uncles were running about the place brandishing fire extinguishers like they were trained assassins. ‘Do you think the candles might be a recipe for disaster?’

  ‘Ash, calm down. Remember your mantra, breathe. It’s your day and Quinn’s. You should have exactly what you want and not be worrying about anyone else. Get your thumb out of your mouth, would you. If you start biting your nails now, you’ll have to have falsies put on.’

  Aisling dropped her hand. ‘You’re right.’ She took a calming breath as instructed. ‘It’s my wedding and I can have what I want.’

  ‘And Quinn’s,’ Leila corrected.

  ‘Yes, yes, his too. Can I take this with me to show him?’

  ‘Of course you can.’

  Aisling unclipped the picture and folded it in half before sliding it into her bag. ‘Where are you at with securing the carriage?’ She wanted to sit inside a horse drawn carriage and wave to the commoners like the Princess Diana and even yer Fergie one had. She’d been practising her wave in the bathroom mirror.

  ‘I’m in talks with Fergus Muldoon. I’ve put a lot of work his way in the past so he should come to the party despite the short notice and give us a good price.’

  ‘Grand, thanks, Leila. Can you ask him to make sure the carriage looks as much like a pumpkin as possible? Oh, and I don’t want any mangy horses off the estate either.’

  ‘I will. Sure, you’ll have a fine pumpkin carriage drawn by dancing white horses. You’ll be Cinderella on the way to meet her prince.’

  Aisling smiled liking the analogy. Quinn was her Prince Charming and she would live happily ever after – she’d make damned sure of it even if it was the death of her.

  Chapter 6

  ‘Aisling O’Mara, the woman who has not only broken my heart but shattered it into a million tiny pieces!’ Alasdair flounced forth as Aisling burst in through the door of Quinn’s eager to escape the cold.

  It was no good her being cold when she was trying to lose weight because it made her want to stuff things down like stodgy, rib-sticking dinners followed by creamy rice pudding, with a dollop of Mrs Baicu’s jam to sweeten it. Ah Jaysus, her mouth was already watering.

  ‘The Cathy to my Heathcliff. Are we destined to always be kept apart?’ Alasdair began to hum Kate Bush’s Wuthering Heights his hands fluttering to his heart.

  Aisling laughed as she unwound her scarf. ‘Get away with you. It’s freezing out.’

  His voice returned to its normal cadence as he held his hand out, ‘Here let me take your coat.’

  She unbelted it and divested herself of it, passing the coat to him along with her scarf. He draped them over his
arm. ‘Thanks. The fire looks lovely.’ Her expression was wistful as her eyes drifted across the restaurant to the fireplace aglow with dancing orange flames. Several patrons were basking in its warmth, enjoying the ambience it created as they savoured their desserts.

  ‘Well, why don’t you pull up a chair and put your feet up for a while, Aisling – I have no idea how your careen about town the way you do in those shoes.’ He looked pointedly at her black Miu Miu’s with their impossible high heels which meant she came up to Alasdair’s chin. Without them she’d be naval gazing. ‘Although, I have to say they are gorgeous.’

  ‘Thank you, they are my favourites.’ It was a half-truth. She loved all her designer shoes and had spent a small fortune collecting them over the years. They were all her favourites. ‘And I’d love to curl up over there.’

  ‘With a glass of vino,’ Alasdair said enticingly. ‘A cheeky little red perhaps?’

  ‘Oh, you’re tempting me.’

  ‘That’s the idea. You know you’re my favourite redhead.’

  ‘Ah now, there’s a fib if ever I heard one. The fella you were seeing last month, what was his name?’

  ‘Jamie.’

  ‘Yes, Jamie. I heard you telling him he was your favourite redhead.’

  ‘Ah but the fellas come and go, you, Aisling, my one true love, you are a constant.’

  ‘Flatterer.’ She grinned. ‘And I can’t sit and drink wine not when I’ve a wedding to be organising. Speaking of which, is he back from the suppliers?’ She inclined her head toward the kitchen.

  ‘He is, you’ll find him out the back prepping for tonight’s service.’

  She smiled her thanks and passed through the restaurant saying hello to Paula whose ponytail was flicking about the place as she cleared tables. A smattering of diners were dotted about the space lingering over their lunches even though they probably should have been back at the office long since. Her stomach rumbled at the lingering hearty smells and spying a man tucking into a bowl of Irish stew she fought the good fight not to pick up a piece of the crusty bread on the plate next to it. Oh, how she’d love to dunk it into his stew! Think of your dress, Aisling. No pain, no gain. Cindy Crawford, Cindy Crawford, she added for good measure. She pushed through the doors into the kitchen and narrowly missed being hit by a flying piece of carrot. ‘Hey, watch it!’

  ‘Sorry, Aisling,’ the sous-chef, Tony said. ‘I was aiming for him.’ He pointed to Quinn who was laughing.

  ‘What are you to up to?’ she asked taking in the scene.

  Quinn put down the piece of potato he’d been about to fire and held his hands up. ‘Truce?’

  ‘Truce, so long as I don’t have to sweep it up.’ Tony pointed at the handful of chopped vegetables on the floor.

  Aisling could see she wasn’t going to get an answer, besides it was obvious the pair had been having some sort of food fight and irritation pricked at her. Here she was run off her feet organising their wedding and yet Quinn had time to arse about in the kitchen. ‘You need a shave, Quinn Moran,’ she said, a little snappier than she’d intended as she noticed his blond whiskers glinting in the light.

  He didn’t notice her pique and homed in for a kiss causing her to squeal.

  ‘You’re all prickly!’

  Quinn grinned wolfishly before rubbing his chin on her cheek.

  ‘Get off, you’ll give me a rash,’ she said, pushing him away.

  He admitted defeat and headed to the sink to wash his hands. ‘You’re a hard woman so you are, Aisling O’Mara. Now then, is this a social visit or an official wedding visit?’ He didn’t know why he was asking given he knew the answer already. Aisling lived and breathed the wedding – it was all she’d talked about since they’d gotten engaged on Christmas Day. Truth be told she was driving him a little mad because you’d think they were Posh and Becks the way she was carrying on. He understood her insecurity where the wedding was concerned although it rankled she couldn’t shake the anxiety her eejit-ex Marcus had left her with. She should be able to move past what had happened because she knew he’d never do anything to let her down. For whatever reason though, she couldn’t and had insisted on a ridiculously tight window of time in which to organise their day. It wouldn’t have been so bad if she was happy to have a low-key affair but she wasn’t, she wanted the works. He turned the tap off and picked up the towel, drying his hands off as she answered.

  ‘I’m here on official wedding business,’ Aisling said, rummaging in her bag and pulling out a piece of paper. She didn’t ask whether he had time to take a look at the photograph because if he had time for horsing around with Tony, he had time to help her make an important decision. ‘Here, have a look at this. I’ve come from lunch with Leila and she showed me some fabulous ideas for table settings but this was the one I liked the best. What do you think?’

  She waited, eager for his response, while he looked at the picture.

  ‘A wise man agrees to everything,’ Tony said going back to dicing his carrots.

  It was a sentiment Aisling had to agree with.

  However, it would seem Quinn wasn’t feeling wise because instead of the expected, ‘It looks great, Ash, go for it,’ she was waiting to hear he pulled a face and said, ‘It’s a bit, you know?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he shrugged, already sensing this was not going to go down well, but it was too late now. ‘A little over the top, I guess.’

  Aisling snatched the paper back inspecting it. She couldn’t see what was over the top about it. It was beautiful was what it was.

  ‘Sorry, Ash, but you wanted my opinion.’

  She hadn’t. She’d wanted his agreement. ‘Well what did you have in mind then?’ She couldn’t help the belligerent air creeping into her voice.

  ‘Something laid back, simple I suppose.’

  ‘Yes, that’s all well and good, Quinn, but you’re not giving me any examples, are you? I mean do we even bother having a head table or are you talking a picnic blanket on the fecking floor.’ Her pitch had amped up several notches. ‘Or, you know we could go the full hog and do a Pam Anderson, Tommy Lee job and wear our swimsuits and head off to the beach.’

  ‘Bit cold, don’t you think?’ Quinn tried to make light of it. He didn’t get where she was coming from. He was sure if she had longer to organise their nuptials, they’d be saying ‘I do’ in a castle and she’d have him in a purple suit like the one your man Becks wore on his big day. He’d seen the shiny photos thanks to his mammy having shoved the Hello magazine under his nose. She’d laughed and said if he wasn’t careful his bride-to-be would have him decked out in similar gear and had he any thoughts on getting the highlights done because they looked ever so well in the photographs? No, he had not, he’d replied, failing to see the humour because it was all a bit too close to home. He risked a look at Aisling, she hadn’t cracked a smile. ‘Ash, don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away.’

  Tony’s chop, chop, chopping picked up pace and he kept his head down. Aisling wished he’d disappear and as the door burst open and Paula walked through her arms laden with dirty dishes, she wished she could click her fingers and make both her and Tony disappear. She didn’t want the staff gossiping about her and Quinn. She took a deep breath.

  ‘I’ll get back to Leila and see if we can find something plainer.’

  Quinn backtracked. ‘No, don’t do that. I want you to be happy with everything. It’s grand so it is and sure, I’m a fella, what do we know about table settings and the like?’

  The tightening in Aisling’s chest eased as he offered her the olive branch. She took it.

  ‘We’ll find something in between,’ she said, finally smiling. Quinn grinned back, pleased to have sidestepped an argument. Aisling made her excuses to leave saying she was needed back at the guesthouse and as she kissed him goodbye, she penned one of her letters to self.

  Dear Aisling,

  I’d like some advice please on the best way to tell my fiancé t
hat the pumpkin shaped carriage I’ve my heart set on to take me to the church on our wedding day looks likely to be in the bag. I’m asking because he seems to have his heart set on a low-key day and there’s nothing low key about a horse and carriage.

  Yours faithfully,

  Me

  Chapter 7

  Noreen

  Noreen looked in the mirror of the fitting room. Shopping had been much more enjoyable when she was young. Mind there wasn’t much money for shopping back then. Her mammy had made most of her clothes when she was a youngster and Noreen had been a dab hand with the sewing machine too. She’d even made her own wedding dress, repurposing the fabric from her mammy’s gown into a modern style with a bolero jacket. Everybody had said she looked a picture. The old singer machine their dear mammy had sat hunched over until her eyes were no longer up to the task had gone to her. Rosamunde her younger sister had not objected but then she’d had a hard time putting so much as a pillow case together the year they’d done home economics! She conjured up an image of herself on her wedding day. The memory of how she’d nearly skipped up the aisle to stand next to her Malachy, so tall and handsome in his suit never failed to make her smile. How full of hopes and dreams for their future they’d been!

  Life’s not worth living if you don’t have dreams when you’re young Noreen often thought. She’d been heard to remark on occasion too that this was what was wrong with the youth of today. They had no oomph, no spark, worst of all no ambition. She’d seen spark in Rosamunde’s daughter Emer’s eyes from a young age and she’d found a kindred spirit in her niece. She’d felt back then, Emer would grow up to do great things and she closed her eyes for a moment remembering.

  1961

  ‘Here she is then.’ Rosamunde pushed open the door to the shop, her oldest daughter Emer carrying her overnight bag by her side. ‘Sure, you’re a saint, Noreen.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Noreen straightened, her hand automatically going to the small of her back to ease the ache always lodged there from bending over. She’d been tidying the morning papers and the counter display while it was still quiet. ‘Sure, I’m in need of someone to help me in the shop today what with Uncle Malachy away off to Galway for the races.’ Malachy wasn’t much of a betting man and she counted her blessing he wasn’t a drinker like poor Bridie McAuley’s husband, Tom, but he did like a flutter at the summer gee-gees and who was she to begrudge him that? ‘Are you up to the job, Emer?’