Read The House On Willow Street Online
Authors: Cathy Kelly
The House On Willow Street
CATHY KELLY
and her novels are loved around the world
HOMECOMING
“A thoughtful panorama of four women doing their best to soldier on through tough times.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“An absolutely fabulous read, a warm, touching, funny, and poignant page-turner.”
—
Irish Independent
“A warm and engaging tale of love and belonging.”
—
The Sun
“A cracking novel that ticks all the emotional boxes.”
—
Woman and Home
ONCE IN A LIFETIME
“This top-notch storyteller once again cuts to the quick of modern women’s lives and their relationships.”
—
Woman and Home
“Wise, warm, compassionate, full of characters that I loved and identified with, it’s like having a great gossip with your best friends.”
—International bestselling author Marian Keyes
“Vintage Kelly territory—it’s a book for those who believe in love.”
—
Irish Evening Herald
“Entertaining, moving, and as vivid as a screenplay—presents a picture of the lives of Irish women which, like all good fiction, brings the truth into sharp relief.”
—
Irish Independent
LESSONS IN HEARTBREAK
“Kelly cleverly subverts women’s fiction clichés and delivers some excellent and unconventional plot twists. The conclusion won’t leave a dry eye in the house.”
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Publishers Weekly
“Kelly reels you into this addictive tale.”
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Woman and Home
“Crosses generations and continents to tell a sweeping . . . story of love and betrayal.”
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Booklist
“A must for Kelly’s many fans; a warm and moving read.”
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Daily Mail
WHAT SHE WANTS
“Empathically communicates highly charged yet recognizable emotional issues through resilient and realistically drawn characters.”
—
Booklist
“Tart with Kelly’s sexy, bracing humor . . . as warm and satisfying as Irish oatmeal.”
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Publishers Weekly
“Warm and delightful.”
—
New Woman
PAST SECRETS
“Kelly’s evocation of the mother-daughter relationship shines, and her handle on romance storytelling combined with her characters’ feel-good, empowering evolutions make this a satisfying novel.”
—
Publishers Weekly
“Totally believable.”
—International bestselling author Rosamunde Pilcher
“Bursting with emotion, heartache, and dreams. . . . Realistic and likeable characters that meet life-changing events head on.”
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Ireland on Sunday
“Summer Street is the new Wisteria Lane.”
—International bestselling author Marian Keyes
ALWAYS AND FOREVER
“A soap opera of tears and laughter.”
—
Daily Mirror
“Kelly’s skill as a storyteller and the rounded nature of her characters captivates and seduces.”
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Irish Evening Herald
“Warm and delightful.”
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New Woman
JUST BETWEEN US
“A compulsive read.”
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Women’s Weekly
“Plenty of sparky humor.”
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The London Times
“Warm and chatty.”
—
Daily Mail
BEST OF FRIENDS
“A warm and cozy comfort read. . . . ”
—
New York Times
bestselling author Pat Gaffney
“Touches lightly on simple truths, sensitively on death and on the destruction of relationships, and optimistically on the limitless potential of friendship.”
—
Irish Independent
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To my darling husband, John, and our wonderful sons, Dylan and Murray. And the Puplets of Loveliness, Dinky, Licky, Scamp, who were there for all of it.
D
anae Rahill had long since learned that a postmistress’s job in a small town had a lot more to it than the ability to speedily process pensions or organize money transfers.
She’d run Avalon Post Office for eighteen years and she saw everything. It was impossible not to. Without wishing to, the extremely private Danae found herself the holder of many of the town’s secrets.
She saw money sent to the Misses McGinty’s brother in London, who’d gone there fifty years ago to make his fortune and was now living in a hostel.
“The building work has dried up, you know,” said one of the little Miss McGintys, her tiny papery hands finishing writing the address she knew by heart.
Danae was aware the hostel was one where Irishmen went when the drinking got out of control and they needed a bed to sleep in.
“It must be terrible for such a good man not to have a job any more,” she said kindly.
Danae saw widower Mr. Dineen post endless parcels and
letters to his children around the world, but never heard of him getting on a plane to visit any of them.
She saw registered letters to solicitors, tearstained funeral cards, wedding invitations and, on two occasions, sad, hastily written notes informing guests that the wedding was canceled. She saw savings accounts fall to nothing with job losses and saw lonely people for whom collecting their pension was a rare chance to speak to another human being.
People felt safe confiding in Danae because it was well known that she would never discuss their personal details with anyone else. And she wasn’t married. There was no Mr. Rahill to tell stories to at night in the cottage at the top of Willow Street. Danae was never seen in coffee shops gossiping with a gaggle of friends. She was, everyone in Avalon agreed, discreet.
She might gently inquire as to whether some plan or ambition had worked out or not, but equally she could tell without asking when the person wanted that last conversation forgotten entirely.
Danae was kindness personified.
And yet a few of the more perceptive residents of Avalon felt that there was some mystery surrounding their postmistress because, while she knew so much of the details of their lives, they knew almost nothing about
her
, even though she’d lived in their town for some eighteen years.
“She’s always so interested and yet . . .” Mrs. Ryan, in charge of the church cleaning schedule and an avid reader of Scandinavian crime novels, tried to find the right words for it, “. . . she’s still a bit . . . distant.”
“That’s it exactly,” agreed Mrs. Moloney, who loved a good gossip but could never glean so much as a scrap of information from Danae. The postmistress was so tight-lipped that the KGB couldn’t have got any secrets out of her.
For a start, there was her name: Danae. Completely strange. Not a proper saint’s name or anything.
Dan-ay, she said it.
“Greek or some such,” sniffed Mrs. Ryan, who was an Agnes and proud of it.
“I don’t even know when her husband died,” said Mrs. Moloney.
“If there ever
was
a husband,” said Mrs. Lombardy.
Mrs. Lombardy was widowed and not a day passed without her talking about her beloved Roberto, who grew nicer and kinder the longer he was dead. In her opinion, it was a widow’s job to keep the memory of her husband alive. Once, she’d idly inquired after Danae’s husband, because she was a Mrs. after all, even if she did live alone in that small cottage at the far end of Willow Street with nothing but a dog and a few mad chickens for company.
“He is no longer with us,” Danae had said, and Mrs. Lombardy had seen the shutters coming down on Danae’s face.
“Ah sure, he might have run off with someone else,” Mrs. Ryan said. “The poor pet.”
Of course, she looked different too.
The three women felt that the long, tortoiseshell hair ought to be neatly tied up, or that the postmistress should maintain a more dignified exterior, instead of wearing long, trailing clothes that looked secondhand. And as for the jewelry,
well.
“I always say that you can’t go wrong with a nice string of pearls,” said Mrs. Byrne, in charge of the church flowers. Many years of repeating this mantra had ensured that her husband, known all over town as
Poor Bernard
, had given her pearls as an anniversary gift.
“As for those mad big necklaces, giant lumps of things on bits of leather, amber and whatnot . . .” said Mrs.
Lombardy. “What’s wrong with a nice crucifix, that’s what I want to know?”
Danae was being discussed over Friday-morning coffee in the Avalon Hotel and Spa, and the hotel owner, one Belle Kennedy, who was very light on her feet for such a large and imposing lady, was listening intently to the conversation.
