’Tis the season for second chances
Emma Heatherington
penguin books
Emma Heatherington is the Irish Times and international bestselling author of seventeen novels, including UK number one ebook This Christmas, as well as Amazon Top 10 and USA Kindle hits The Legacy of Lucy Harte, One More Day, The Promise and Secrets in the Snow.
Her novels are set in Ireland, each exploring life-affirming issues combined with heart-warming love stories. Emma’s distinctive style, full of poignancy and warmth, has developed a loyal and ever-growing fanbase.
Also by Emma Heatherington
One Night Only
Playing the Field
Crazy For You
All Over Again
Since You’ve Been Gone
The Legacy of Lucy Harte
A Miracle on Hope Street
Rewrite the Stars
A Part of Me and You
Secrets in the Snow
The Promise
One More Day
This Christmas
Maybe Next Christmas
As Emma Louise Jordan
Beyond Sin
The Truth Between
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First published 2025
Published in Penguin Books 2025 001
Copyright © Emma Heatherington, 2025
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For Jim and our children Jordyn, Jade, Dualta, Adam and Sonny.
With thanks and love for your strength, bravery and for all you do.
Then
Christmas Eve, 25 Years Ago
‘We did it,’ said Ben. ‘We really did it! I think you might be magic, Lou Doherty.’
The brand-new life we’d just delivered moments before lay within touching distance, covered in a blanket to protect her from the elements. She was all long legs and wide blinking eyes, while her skin was still damp and downy and her ears twitched and flickered as she adapted to her whole new world.
A world I was now a big part of at the tender age of sixteen. With the newborn baby foal beside us, Ben and I kneeled together in the shelter of the stable, the smell of damp hay and horses filling the air as the snow fell gently outside the open door.
It was already a Christmas Eve like no other, even if I’d no idea how this moment would end up shaping both of our lives forever.
‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything so beautiful in my
whole life before,’ I said, staring at the tiny foal, ‘or had a Christmas gift so special. That was amazing. It was like something from a movie.’
He laughed at my wide-eyed enthusiasm, but it was true. I’d never witnessed anything like it and believed I never would again.
‘We make a good team, Lou,’ he told me. ‘You handled every bit of that so calmly, so coolly. I’d have you on my side any day of the week, and twice at weekends. Same time next year?’
Even then, although I hardly knew him, Ben Heaney had a way of making me feel like I was the only girl in the world.
‘Same time next year, Ben,’ I joked in return. ‘I think we make a great team too. Thanks for making me help you out instead of running in the opposite direction like I was so tempted to.’
We sat for what felt like ages in comfortable silence as thick flakes of snow fluttered down on to the roof of Ballyheaney House in the distance, covering its sprawling lawns like a thick, white blanket.
Not far from the stable where adrenaline kept us warm and the baby foal purred under the watchful eye of her mother, the Ballyheaney House Charity Afternoon Tea was in full festive flow inside the Heaney family home, a stunning eighteenth-century house which was inspired by St Peter’s Cathedral in Rome.
But we had escaped from all the celebrations for just a little while.
‘I wonder has my mother noticed I’m gone yet,’ Ben
Every Christmas Eve
muttered, though I knew deep down he wasn’t bothered, considering what we’d just achieved with Sally, their adored mare.
‘Maybe we should go back?’ I suggested.
‘No, it’s fine. We can relax for another few minutes,’ he told me. ‘They’re all going to be so impressed when they hear of the new arrival. And besides all of that, I’d much rather be here with you than lifting glasses from tipsy guests who tell me how handsome and grown up I am since they saw me last year.’
It was exactly the reply I’d been hoping for. With Ben by my side, I wished I could bottle up that moment and savour it forever.
It had been twelve whole months since I had last laid eyes on Ben Heaney. A shy, awkward introduction and a brief conversation with instant chemistry was as far as we’d managed at last year’s party, but I’d dreamed of him ever since.
Yet nothing could have prepared me for this incredibly special, intimate and unexpected first chance to spend oneto-one time together, so far away from everyone else.
Back inside his magnificent stately home, fine bone china cups would be clinking on matching saucers in a magnificent blue ballroom as chatter and laughter formed a symphony alongside a string quartet playing Christmas carols in the corner. Right through the centre of the room, a mouthwatering buffet was spread on a long table covered in crisp white linen, with silver candelabras circled in green holly and bright red berries foraged from the hedges close to nearby Lough Beg.
The Christmas Eve party was an annual sweet escape into a way I imagined my life could be one day. And if I’d the chance back then to travel the world or stay in that stable with him, I’d have chosen him every single time.
He was dashing, with intense green eyes and a bird’s nest of tousled dark auburn hair I longed to touch at any given opportunity. His body was lean and muscular, defined from seasons of training on and off the rugby pitch, but his most engaging feature was his tenderness, which defied his seventeen years. Most of all, to me he was a mystery, whether hidden behind the gates of Ballyheaney House, or far away at boarding school, or packed off to Europe on exchange trips throughout the summer.
To get a glimpse of any of the Heaney family was always a source of village gossip. They were different from us in so many ways, yet he and I were starting to form a bond that no one would know about for a very long time.
‘So, when do you leave for school in Dublin again?’ I asked, feeling silly for the ache in my heart I already felt for what was to come.
‘Don’t tell me you’re missing me so soon?’ he sighed. ‘You’ve got it bad. I knew it.’
I felt my cheeks flush.
‘I’m jesting,’ he continued. ‘Ah, look at your little face. I’m joking, I’m sorry.’
‘It was a very simple question,’ I reminded him, wishing the pink flush that always let me down would go away.
‘Well, school starts again in early January,’ he said, ‘so I imagine I’ll be sent off on the train as soon as the holidays
Every Christmas Eve
are over. Packed off and packed away, never to be seen again until half-term, when I’ll be off to help Uncle Eric on his farm in Wicklow as he embraces the weird and wacky world of fast cars, faster women and fine cigars.’
‘I see,’ I gulped, feeling very ordinary in comparison.
‘He isn’t like that at all. It’s rather boring actually, so I’d much rather come back here,’ he said, fiddling with a piece of straw. ‘I’d much rather be at Ballyheaney House so I can hang out like this with you.’
His eyes were sad for a moment, and once again I was reminded of how I lived such a different life, far away from the twinkling lights and the Christmas carols and the plush ballroom that had brought us together that day.
Ben’s home was an impressive former bishop’s manor tucked away in the rolling countryside, while mine was a modest bungalow close by the banks of Lough Beg. His school was a posh boarding establishment two hours away in Dublin where ambition was high and everyone’s business was kept to themselves. Mine was the local comprehensive down the road where everybody knew your name, your address and what you were having for dinner.
And because of this, an invitation to the annual Charity Afternoon Tea on Christmas Eve at Ballyheaney House was a huge treat for all the village – and now so much more than that to me. It was a chance to sit close to him, to talk to each other, to flirt and smile, to feel that maybe, just maybe, there might be a true connection between us that would one day defy the odds and bring us properly together.
‘Will you really miss me?’ I asked, knowing that the
thought of him thinking of me would keep me smiling for many, many nights to come. ‘Or was that just another jest?’
‘I will really miss you,’ he replied. ‘Truthfully, I mean it. Today has been very special.’
I thought my heart was going to burst when his hand found mine and he squeezed it, closing his eyes for a few seconds.
‘I’d like you to name her please, Lou,’ he said to me eventually. His suggestion almost took my breath away. ‘If you don’t mind?’
‘Me?’
‘Yes, you.’
A rush of excitement filled me from head to toe, and I could barely think straight.
‘But – but are you sure? Won’t your parents . . . ?’
‘My parents would agree that it’s the least I can do, given how much you’ve helped me today. I’ll tell them all about how you brought her into the world with so much calm and sensitivity while they were entertaining half the village,’ he said with confidence. ‘So, I’d like you to name her. Please.’
I gulped hard, unable to hide my beaming smile. We’d been talking earlier by the swing under the oak tree when we’d heard a cry from Sally the mare in the stable. I’d wanted to run in the other direction for help, but Ben had convinced me to stay. He’d told me we could do this together, and we did.
‘Are you sure it’s a “she”?’ I asked him.
He raised an eyebrow.
‘We once had a cat called Pat with a swollen belly, who
Every Christmas Eve
later became Patricia when a vet told us that “he” was having kittens,’ I told him.
He threw his head back with laughter. Oh, how I savoured every ounce of him.
‘And there I was, singing your praises for how natural and calm you were,’ he said. ‘While you, on the other hand, question my ability to sex a foal. Now, what would you like to call her? Take your time.’
I did exactly that and he waited, tending to Sally as I thought of a name for this beautiful creature. I’d never been so close to nature in this way before.
And then it came to me.
‘Little Eve,’ I declared eventually, my eyes wide with excitement. ‘Maybe it’s a pretty obvious choice, but I like it. She’s so little. And she was born on Christmas Eve.’
‘Little Eve,’ he said, looking up at me with a smile. ‘I like it. Little Eve, the Christmas foal of Ballyheaney House.’
I felt a shiver running through me. My breath lingered in the cold air as I waited for him to say more, but then the most wonderous thing I’d ever witnessed with my own two eyes occurred.
Not even thirty minutes after I’d helped with her birth, the tiny foal shook her head, then leaned her weight on her brown, spindly front legs. My mouth dropped open in astonishment as she slowly found each of her back feet, one after the other. She stood up, wobbling at first, but her mother licked her tiny legs to encourage her until she stood tall.
‘Wow! Well done, Little Eve,’ I whispered with quiet admiration. ‘You are amazing! You really are!’
I looked at Ben as his green eyes glistened. Mine did too.
‘Little Eve, I love you already!’ he said with a warm smile that could have melted the snow outside. He stretched out his hand and Little Eve stumbled towards us, before falling on to the soft hay.
‘I’m so in awe of her,’ I cried. ‘What a little star. A Christmas star, that’s what you are, Little Eve.’
I leaned back on the cold stone wall in wonder at the blinking foal as she took in her new world.
‘And I’m in awe of you,’ he said to me.
I shivered again and he quickly fixed a blanket round my shoulders, then tilted my chin towards him.
‘Can I kiss you?’ he asked. ‘I’ve been wanting to do it for a whole year now.’
I did my best to play it cool, hoping my cheeks wouldn’t let me down again by flushing pink.
‘Um, yes. Yes, I’d like that very much,’ I replied, feeling like my heart might explode, then I slowly closed my eyes as his lips met mine. It was lingering, it was perfect, and it made my insides glow. I had dreamed of this moment a million times, I had longed for it, and now it was really happening.
‘We’d better get back inside, but before we go, please tell me something I’ll remember forever,’ he asked me. ‘Something I can think of when I’m learning Latin and French in a cold Dublin classroom in a few weeks.’
I turned towards him. Our gaze locked. I didn’t have to think fast. I knew exactly what I wanted to say to him, so I sat up straight and looked into his soul.
‘That’s easy,’ I said softly, feeling tears prick my eyes at
Every Christmas Eve
the thought of him being so far away from me once more. ‘Every Christmas Eve, let’s always think of this moment, and of our precious Little Eve, no matter where we are, for the rest of our lives.’
He pulled me close again, and I melted into the safety of his strong arms.
‘You, me and Little Eve.’
As we walked our separate ways minutes later, back to the sticky heat of the tea party where no one else knew of our bond, I don’t think I’d ever smiled so much in my life. Ben disappeared to tell his father the news of the foal’s unexpected arrival, and I joined my parents, who were already tipsy on the fizzy wine.
As small talk surrounded me and laughter filled the air, I knew in my young heart I could easily love him forever, but I also knew that life would have very different plans for us.
The youngest Heaney boy was worldly, whereas I was naïve and protected in my small family circle. He was gentle and kind but wild and carefree, and led such a different life from me.
Yet he’d agreed to our promise, and although we only had a few wonderful Christmas Eves together after that, before a final, heart-wrenching goodbye, I’ve never forgotten that very first kiss in the stable where we brought new life into the world before our very eyes.
These days I think of him just like we agreed to every Christmas Eve.
And I can’t help but wonder, wherever he might be, if Ben Heaney still thinks of me too.
Chapter One Lou now
Sixteen
Days to Christmas Eve
I hold my lukewarm mug of hot chocolate with both hands and stare up at the azure late afternoon sky, its crescent moon hanging above Jupiter, just over the steeple on Church Island in Lough Beg.
‘A sign of positive decisions, perhaps,’ I ponder, swaying slightly in the cutting winter breeze. ‘I have made the right decision coming back here, haven’t I?’
Maybe the more times I say it, the sooner I’ll end up believing it.
It’s been a bitterly cold day in our village, yet reasonably calm for December, with only the odd drizzle of icy rain now and then. Nana Molly, who is due here any minute, is delighted there’s no snow yet despite the reports, but I can’t help wishing for some proper frosty weather to get us all in the Christmas mood.
More Christmas spirit means more shoppers, which is better for all of us in this tiny corner of the world.
The festive tree is standing proud in the village, there’s a huge crib in the local church and I’ve spent the entire afternoon busting my guts to decorate Buds and Beans, my florist’s-cum-coffee bar, with lights and candles on anything that will hold them. And with only half an hour till Monday’s earlier closing time, I’m already thinking of how I’d murder a foot rub and a glass of something bubbly back at my cosy new cottage as a reward for all my hard labour.
The glass of bubbles I can sort in a heartbeat. The foot rub – well, that part’s a bit trickier to arrange unless I do it myself.
‘You always were a daydreamer, even at school, Lou Doherty.’
The older man’s raspy voice stirs me at first, but I smile as I recognise one of my favourite locals. ‘Caught again,’ I say, feeling a rush of heat go to my cheeks at being discovered waffling aloud, and not for the first time today. I hope Master Campbell didn’t hear more than he needed to. I really should stop talking to myself, at least in public places like the main street of our village where everybody likes to know your business.
‘Are you still open?’ he asks me, his words holding the weight of time in every syllable. ‘I believe there’s a cinnamon latte and a chocolate treat with my name on it if it’s not too late?’
‘I’ll always make time for you, sir,’ I reply to the dapper, recently retired schoolmaster. ‘Isn’t the crescent moon
Every Christmas Eve
stunning? It looks like it might scoop up the old church ruins on Lough Beg and take her away.’
But Master Campbell doesn’t even glance up to the sky in response. Instead, he steps across the threshold, mumbling to himself about how he thinks it’s now cold enough for snow, and follows me over to the coffee dock.
His tailored, knee-length navy overcoat matches his once sparkling blue eyes, and his voice never fails to bring me back to my days at primary school when my only worry in life was how soon I could press fast forward and get a job in the real world.
And now here I am, right bang in the real world, where I sometimes wish I could go back and start it all over again. Only this time I’d do it very differently, avoiding all the challenges and pitfalls I’ve faced, having just about survived to tell the tale.
Or would I?
Never in my wildest dreams did I imagine that at the age of forty- one I’d be back in the village I grew up in, serving coffee to faces both familiar and new, soothing weary souls and aiding celebrations of people I don’t even know with a bright bouquet of fresh flowers delivered to their door.
‘This place is becoming more like a church confessional every day,’ Mum likes to remind me at every opportunity, but I know she loves it here at Buds and Beans since she left her job at a local engineering firm to help me out. ‘You must have one of those faces, Lou. You know the type. You don’t even have to utter a word and, within minutes, locals
and strangers are spilling their hearts out to you over an oat cappuccino.’
She is spot on with her observations, and Master Campbell is a case in point.
‘I was dreading turning the page on the calendar this morning,’ he says as I serve him his cinnamon-laced drink with his favourite pain au chocolat. ‘Another day closer. Ah, I used to say I hated Christmas, but now I realise how much I loved it when Agnes was with me. What a difference a year makes.’
He puts his head into his hands, so I pull out a chair and sit with him to hear him out, thankful that it’s almost closing time and the place is quiet except for the sounds of Wham’s ‘Last Christmas’ softly lilting in the background.
‘Agnes would have to drag me around town to shop for the grandchildren,’ he tells me, wiping his nose on a freshly pressed handkerchief. ‘Bless her, she’d panic-buy for the two of them then send me to the post office that very same day, making sure we didn’t leave it too late so the parcels would get to our Eamonn and the wee ones in New Zealand on time. I complained far too much, but I secretly enjoyed it, especially when we’d hear the gifts had arrived on the other side of the world.’
He pauses to gather his thoughts.
‘If it’s any consolation, my dad used to moan about Christmas shopping more than the government and that was a lot,’ I tell him, feeling a pang in my own gut for days gone by when my father’s one-liners were legendary. ‘Some people don’t enjoy this time of year, and that’s fine, sir. I have to
Every Christmas Eve
say I can think of a million things I’d rather do than bump into strangers while we all spend more money than we can afford to.’
But Master Campbell is still silent, lost in his own trip down memory lane.
My heart breaks for him, but just when I’m about to attempt to offer some more unsolicited advice, he takes a second crisp white handkerchief from his pocket, dabs his eyes and sits up straight.
‘Anyhow, that’s enough of my maudlin,’ he declares, sniffing and wiping his nose. ‘I’m sure you’ve got far more important things to be doing than listening to an old man like me yearn for times past.’
‘You can always find an ear here with me,’ I tell him.
He smiles, his bushy white eyebrows meeting like two thick caterpillars in the middle. I’m not sure if it’s my imagination, but his eyes look brighter already.
‘We’re all so very lucky to have you back in the village where you belong,’ he replies, tucking the hankie back in his pocket.
‘That’s nice to hear,’ I say quietly. ‘Even if I still doubt if I’ve made the right call by leaving New York.’
‘You have made the right call,’ says my mother gliding past, broom in hand. ‘It’s still early days, Lou. Be patient.’
I only wish I had her confidence in my decision. There’s so much I love about being back here on my home turf, but the loneliness engulfs me sometimes when I think of my daughter so far away.
‘Ah, Christmas will be different for both of us this year,
that’s all,’ says Master Campbell. ‘Is Gracie coming over from New York to see you? That’s something to look forward to.’
I meet my mother’s eye, wondering if she is thinking what I’m thinking.
‘Yes . . . Gracie will be here for Christmas,’ I reply, but my voice is tinged with uncertainty. ‘At least, I’m hoping so. At twenty years old, my daughter doesn’t believe in laying down roots yet. She has the travel bug well and truly alive and kicking inside her, but who am I to argue with that?’
Master Campbell nods with a smile.
‘Like mother, like daughter,’ he says with a hearty chuckle. ‘And travel far you did, and brave and buoyant you were, Lou, but more like the swallow than the swift. I knew you’d one day find your way home.’
‘I think you know me too well, sir,’ I reply, patting his hand.
‘A teacher knows his pupils for life,’ he responds, delighted to have said his piece. ‘Your Gracie will come home for Christmas, just you wait and see.’
‘I only hope you’re right,’ I mumble.
It’s been six long months since I left New York and everything I’d built there within a leading interior design company, and not long after, Gracie set off for her final year at college. For months before I’d been pondering my decision to move back home to Bellaghy, the tiny Irish village I’d grown up in, but when the gorgeous Katie’s Cottage came up for sale, my mind was made up instantly.
‘Well, look who it is!’ I hear from the front door as the bell rings at the arrival of my always charming Nana Molly.
Every Christmas Eve
‘Good afternoon, handsome Edward. Now don’t you cut a fine vision on this December day. Oh, and Lou, I simply adore your decorations. I’m glad you took my advice on the coloured lights instead of those boring plain white or gold ones. The whole place is so cosy and festive. Well done!’
Nana Molly, as usual, is like a ray of sunshine from the moment she enters the room, even on this chilly afternoon. At almost eighty, she defies her age, living her life with zest and energy – and sometimes against doctor’s orders.
Her secret? A shot of brandy every night and her daily walks around Longpoint Wood by Lough Beg.
‘Seeing you all has made my day,’ chuckles my old schoolmaster, almost dizzied at the sight of Nana Molly. My late grandfather used to joke how he felt invisible in her company. I can easily see why.
‘I bet you say that to all the girls,’ Nana Molly says with a cheeky wink as she pats Master Campbell’s shoulder. ‘Once a charmer, always a charmer. We need more of that round here. Thank you, kind sir.’
I catch a fleeting glance of the former schoolmaster, whose solemn frown now suggests he might feel he has said too much, but soon he is smiling again as Nana Molly keeps everyone’s spirits up.
She lifts a mug and taps it with a long teaspoon.
‘So, I have news,’ she announces.
She makes her way behind the counter, helps herself to a coffee and pops a few pound coins into my cash box as she does so. A statement like this, especially from her, is enough to make all of us sit up and listen.
‘Is it gossip or news?’ I tease. ‘There is a difference, so be careful, darling grandmother.’
Nana Molly ponders my question for a few seconds.
‘Both,’ she replies with an almost wicked smile. ‘Oh, you’re not going to believe this. This is big news. This is very big news.’
Master Campbell is all eyes and ears as Nana holds up one hand theatrically. She is wearing a faux-fur beige coat, a bright yellow polo-neck jumper and a pair of flared light blue jeans that belong back in the seventies, where they probably came from. A blinding, potentially awful combination, yet it suits her to a tee with her slim little figure and short, curly, dark brown dyed hair with a tinge of red.
We wait with bated breath.
‘The village Christmas Fayre will have to be cancelled this year due to venue constraints,’ she announces. ‘And the lead sponsor pulled the pin, so they’re completely screwed. With just over two weeks to go, they don’t have the time or the contacts to make it happen.’
‘Ah, now that’s a crying shame,’ says Master Campbell. My mother, who takes off her green apron and reaches for her coat, is much less sympathetic.
‘Is that it?’ she cries. ‘Is that the news?’
Nana raises her pencilled eyebrows.
‘What do you mean, is that it ?’
‘The Christmas Fayre is cancelled?’ says Mum, in mock fluster. ‘Is that it? Sure, we can go to the one in the next village, or the next, or the next. I thought it was going to be something more exciting, that’s all.’
Every Christmas Eve
‘Well, I hadn’t finished my news,’ says Nana Molly with her hand on her hip and her lips pursed tight. ‘Honestly, it’s hard to have a conversation with you two declaring disappointment and interrupting me constantly. At least you’ve the grace to pretend to look disappointed, Master Campbell.’
My old schoolmaster shifts in his seat, doing his best not to laugh out loud.
‘I haven’t said a word!’ I plea.
‘Tell the truth, Lou. You don’t give a toss either,’ Mum says, doing her best not to give in to a fit of the giggles.
Master Campbell chuckles in his chair by the window. I’m so happy to see him smile.
‘OK , so what’s the punchline, Nana Moll?’ I ask as I dry up some cups and place them on the wooden shelf on the wall. ‘The Christmas Fayre is cancelled and . . . ?’
She lets out a deep sigh.
‘The punchline is that Mrs Quinn from the Christmas Fayre committee has written a pleading letter to Tilda Heaney.’
She pauses for effect, knowing our mouths have now dropped to the floor, including Master Campbell’s.
‘Tilda Heaney?’ asks Mum, puzzled. ‘Why on earth would she write to Tilda Heaney?’
Nana can’t help but smile at the look on our faces now she’s got the reaction she expected.
‘She has written to ask the Heaney family to help raise spirits within our community this year by bringing back . . .’
‘No,’ I whisper.
‘The Christmas Eve Charity Afternoon Tea Party at Ballyheaney House.’
‘You’re joking!’ says Mum.
‘I’m not,’ Nana replies.
My stomach goes to my throat. I grip the small counter, feeling faint. I might be sick. My eyes glaze over.
‘Can you believe it?’ Nana continues, her voice now shrill in my ear. ‘I mean, talk about setting yourself up for a fall! Christmas Eve Afternoon Tea with the Heaneys! As if that’s what we need, and as if that family would ever dream of bringing it back. Sure, there’s only Tilda and eccentric old Eric left. Well, I know I won’t be going, that’s for sure.’
I glance at my mother, who seems to have drifted off to another planet. She certainly isn’t on the same one I’m on right now.
‘Gosh . . . wow!’ she says at last, clasping her hands together. ‘I think that would be just what we all need. Oh, I can’t help but picture it all. Their home is so beautiful. This is wonderful news! A party at Ballyheaney House on Christmas Eve is something to look forward to.’
‘I totally agree, Liz,’ says Master Campbell, who is rubbing his hands and grinning, but I don’t respond. I can’t. And I’m glad that none of them have noticed how my cheeks are burning, or how beads of sweat are forming on my forehead as I look around for a place to hide.
I fear I might be sick.
‘Wonderful? Why exactly?’ exclaims Nana.
‘Wonderful and exciting and everything else along those lines,’ says Mum with glee as she dances around the florist’s with a tea towel as her partner. ‘Oh, those really were the
Every Christmas Eve
good old days in this village, right up until it all came to a very abrupt ending with no reason, rhyme or explanation.’
Master Campbell clears his throat. ‘Wasn’t it because Mr Heaney died?’ he suggests.
‘He was a dead weight for years before that,’ says Nana Molly.
‘Nana!’ I cry. As much as I’m in a state of shock, there’s no need for that. ‘Mr Heaney died years after the last Christmas Eve party, so it was nothing to do with him.’
I’m glad they don’t quiz me any further, knowing I probably have inside information from those days.
‘Ah, the exquisite live music,’ continues Mum. ‘The fairy lights on the trees, the delicious food in the blue ballroom, like a banquet. The fashion sense of Tilda Heaney and her gorgeous family. The glitz and the glamour . . . not to mention the money raised for charity. I can see it all happening! I can feel it already! Am I there yet? I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Master Campbell pipes up from behind his coffee cup. ‘I wonder would the son and daughter come home for it if it did happen?’ he ponders.
I fear I might choke.
‘Now, wouldn’t that be something else?’ says Mum. ‘Our Lou and Ben had quite a thing back in the day.’
I raise my eyebrows.
‘He hasn’t been seen much in this village for ages,’ Master Campbell continues. ‘And his sister lives in Spain, I believe? Or is it Portugal? I often wonder about them both. It would be a fine homecoming for them too.’
‘Do you think they would?’ I ask, unable to hide the tremor in my voice. ‘Do you think they’d come back?’
My legs are playing a blinder by still managing to hold me up now the conversation has got this far.
‘Wouldn’t that be crazy seeing him again after all these years,’ says Mum. ‘Your old sparring partner, Lou! You used to live for your days at Ballyheaney House. Wasn’t it so incredibly sad what happened to Ben’s poor—’
‘Mum, please stop,’ I say, finally showing my face from behind the coffee machine.
My mother’s mouth drops open.
‘You two were never that serious, though?’ she says. ‘No,’ I mumble. ‘No, we weren’t serious at all.’
I feel bad for lying and for cutting her off mid-sentence, but I can’t disguise my fears as the past comes back to haunt me all over again. Serious? We were very serious until it all came crashing down, but Mum and Nana don’t know the half of it. I couldn’t bear to talk about it for a very long time.
But now, all I can see with such clarity and beauty, and all I can feel from the deep clench of my gut, is the face of the man I loved more than anyone I’ve ever known.
He was the man who broke my heart the worst. The man I really did think I’d marry one day, in so much more than just a young girl’s dream. The man who said he’d never marry another, and that he’d wait for me, even if it took forever.
I knew deep down that by moving back here our paths might cross again one day, but I’d blanked it out as highly unlikely and carried on with setting up my new home and
Every Christmas Eve
my new business, saying I’d cross that bridge if or when I came to it.
And now the bridge is being built as we speak. The highly unlikely is sounding quite likely, and with even a whisper of it happening, I already want to run away back to New York and never show my face around here again.
Chapter Two Ben
‘It’s OK , sweetheart. You can cry it all out. Take your time. I’m right here.’
I sit on the edge of my daughter’s double bed, doing my best not to show how with every tear she sheds, Ava’s heartbreak is quietly killing me inside. There are photos of yesteryear strewn across her duvet and pillow while she clutches a framed favourite in her hands, her fingernails painted a deep shade of pink just like her mother used to do for her every Christmas when she was very little.
Fairy lights hang around her headboard, a bookshelf which needs reorganising reminds me of how fast she is growing up, and a miniature lit-up tree sits on her bedside locker – a last-minute addition at her request as she battles to embrace December and all it brings.
It’s been six years since we lost Stephanie, yet since the turn of December and as Christmas comes closer, it’s like the reality of not having her mother is suffocating Ava all over again. There’s very little I can do, except to stay close to her when she wants me, and step back when she needs some space.
I’d been warned about this from other parents in a similar situation to mine, especially as Ava is an only child, with no siblings to lean on. I was told it would come in waves, but that after a while those waves would get lower and the time between them would increase. That is happening for sure, but today it’s time for another wave to hit the shore, and we’ll have to go with it until it passes again.
‘I just get so angry sometimes, Dad,’ she sniffles, clasping a wet tissue now in her fist. I offer the palm of my hand. She passes me the tissue and I hand her a fresh one in a routine that has become all too familiar. ‘Freya said something in school about her mum taking her into Dublin city to see the lights tonight and do some Christmas shopping. They’re having a girly day. It totally set me off. Like, why did she have to die, Daddy? Why did my mum have to die?’
I picture the happy families who will make their way into the city this month for some festive treats and Christmas shopping under the sparkle and shine of all the decorations lighting up the night sky. I can already hear the buskers as they stand on Grafton Street, their hands bright red with the cold and their warm breath filling the air as they belt out ‘Fairytale of New York’ on every corner. I can smell the street food, the sticky chocolate, the crêpes sizzling on hot griddles and the swirls of cream that melt before you take your first bite.
I can hear the children’s laughter. I can hear the arguments too. All part of the hustle and bustle that makes some of us love Christmas and others dread it.
Every Christmas Eve
‘Life can be so unbelievably cruel, baby,’ I whisper to my only child, pushing her thick auburn hair out of her eyes. ‘I so wish I could take all your pain away, Ava, I really do. And I know it’s not the same, but I’d love to take you to Dublin to see the Christmas lights. We could go up this evening if you want to? I’m not the best at shopping, but we could . . .’
She glances at me, a look of both pity and disgust on her scrunched-up face.
‘Dad, thanks but . . .’
‘OK , look, erm . . . forget I even said that. How about we take Roly out for a run on the beach at Sandycove with our torches?’ I suggest instead, wide-eyed with a sliver of hope that this might be a goer. ‘We can wrap up warm and watch him run riot on the sand until he tires himself out like he always does?’
‘I dunno,’ she mutters, twisting the tissue in her hands. ‘I’m not sure I’m in the mood for a beach walk.’
‘We could get fish and chips on the way home?’ I suggest, doing my best to think of what we could do on what’s essentially a school night. ‘And eat in the car down by the pier before homework? Roly would love some fish and chips, I’m sure.’
Our golden retriever bounds into the bedroom at the sound of his own name. I’ll swear that dog has super senses I’ll never quite understand.
‘Thanks, Dad, but I think I’m going to just have a lie-down for now and watch some animal YouTube videos to take my mind off things,’ she tells me, gathering up the photos before
our dog destroys them. ‘Will you put these away, please? Sometimes her pictures make me happy. Sometimes, like now, they make me sad.’
‘Sure,’ I tell her, as a million questions flood my mind on grief and how it all works. Ava was so young when Steph died. My biggest worry at the time was whether she’d even remember her mother, and after the shock of the first few months it seemed like my biggest worry might be coming true as our daughter readjusted her sails and appeared to be adapting much quicker than I was. But since she went to big school last year, it’s like the old wounds have opened all over again. I’d hoped last December was a one-off, but here we are once more. So this year I’m going to do something about it. I can’t just stand by and watch as she goes to pieces in the run-up to Christmas.
‘I hate this time of year so much,’ she announces. ‘And I hate that I hate it, because we used to love Christmas when she was here, didn’t we, Dad? Didn’t Mum love Christmas? Didn’t she love decorating the tree and cooking lots of nice things for us?’
I nod in agreement. ‘She did, baby,’ I say. ‘She loved it all.’ Roly whimpers in what sounds like support but is probably his way of letting us know how he’d love to be up on the soft duvet, casually tearing apart the photos Ava has taken from an old family album.
I gather up the photos, doing my best not to look too closely at the smiling faces that stare back at me. Our first Christmas as a family of three, then four when Roly came along as a puppy a couple of years later. It was Stephanie’s
