The House On Willow Street (36 page)

Brian behind the counter mumbled “hello,” which was the equivalent of an effusive greeting from him. He was so painfully shy that Mara felt sorry for him, therefore she always did all the talking for the two of them.

“Morning, Brian. Isn’t it a lovely day? I love the low December sun when it comes. Lifts your spirits, doesn’t it?”

Brian mumbled something in reply and Mara’s eyes spotted the Swedish cinnamon buns that Lorena, Brian’s mother, had recently begun selling. Giving up Danish pastries didn’t mean she couldn’t try Swedish buns, did it?

“I think I’d like one of those buns, too, Brian,” Mara went on. “Very bad for me, I’m sure. Or is that the low-calorie version?”

Mara’s eyes twinkled as she looked up at Brian, and he smiled nervously back, then hurriedly turned away to busy himself with the coffee machine.

“I’ll grab that empty seat before anyone else gets it,” Mara added, and wriggled through the crowded café to the single vacant spot.

“Is there anybody sitting here?” she asked.

“No—sit away,” said one of the two women, before turning back to her friend to resume their conversation.

The person opposite lowered the motorbike magazine he was reading as Mara plonked her bag on the seat and began
removing her winter parka, a giant duvet-like garment that looked ugly but felt snug. From out of nowhere, a big masculine hand reached across to help her wriggle out of the coat.

She blinked as she saw who it was. The flirtatious Kiwi cowboy. He wasn’t wearing his ridiculous hat today, which was why she hadn’t spotted him first.

The idea of having her elevenses snack as a takeaway suddenly appealed, but Mara decided she wouldn’t be run out of the café on account of a man. She’d had enough of fleeing because of the vagaries of men, thank you very much.

“I can manage to get my coat off,” she snapped, and did some more struggling with the parka.

The café was so full with tables jammed next to each other that the long duvet coat thwacked at least three people at nearby tables before Mara had it under control.

Crossly, she stuffed it onto the seat and marched off to get her coffee, looking all the while for another place to free up.

At the counter, she paid Brian, smiled thanks and took her small tray grudgingly back to the table.

She sorted herself out and was about to take a bite of cinnamon bun, when the two women decided they were leaving. Mara and the Kiwi cowboy were alone at the table.

He put his magazine down and smiled at her.

“Hi, Red,” he said, in that velvety Southern hemisphere accent.

Honestly, she thought, was he ever going to take the hint? She was Off Men.

“Don’t bother,” she snapped.

“Do you hate all men or is it just me?” he asked engagingly.

Mara was about to snap,
It’s just you
, but held her tongue.
Ignoring him, she concentrated instead on checking the sugariness of her chocolate.

Cici would definitely like him, Mara decided. He was much more her style. Mara liked the lean, elegant types like Jack, men who wore nice suits and had an aura of elegance about them even when they wore casual clothes. Cici had always gone for the macho guys with big muscles; the type of men who exuded animal magnetism and probably played sports morning, noon and night. That was this guy to a T.

He had that sort of face, marked by smile lines and fresh air. He’d probably never used moisturiser in his life.

“I’m only making polite conversation,” he remarked.

“Well, don’t,” she snapped, inwardly shocked at herself. That had been harsh. Okay, Jack was a bastard; that didn’t mean all other men were. She had now veered from mildly brusque to downright rude. “Sorry,” she said. “That came out all wrong.”

Mr. Cowboy said nothing, but he continued to smile at her. She struggled to think of something to say—a rare phenomenon where Mara was concerned.

“You’re clearly not local,” she decided upon. “Do you live here or are you passing through?”

“I live here,” he said.

“What do you do?” Mara asked.

“I run a business with my brother—custom-made motorcycles,” Rafe explained.

“Oh,” said Mara. She knew precisely nothing about custom-made motorcycles. She had a vague recollection of Jack watching some American TV program about it once. But he wasn’t a bike sort of man. No, Jack was a Porsche sort of man. That’s what he really wanted: a Porsche. He was determined to own a 911. A red one, with a black leather interior.

Mara wasn’t sure about red for a car, particularly a sports car. It seemed a bit flashy. Loud. But then, who was she to comment on vehicle colors when she was the proud possessor of a bright green Fiat Uno? Bright green was more of a happy statement than a shiny, red sports car. That was a bit of a macho cliché, surely.

“And what do you call the business?” she asked.

“Berlin Bikes,” he said. “That’s my surname: Berlin. Rafe Berlin.”

“Oh, like the city! Cool! I like that,” said Mara.

“I could show you around,” Rafe said.

“I’m too busy to be shown around,” Mara said quickly, and then realized she had ventured right back into ultrarude territory again. Where men were concerned, it was as if her manners had been surgically removed the day Jack dumped her. A Dumpectomy. “Sorry, that came out wrong. It’s simply that I have a lot of things on. I’ve taken a mad busy new job.”

“What do you do?” asked Rafe, which was a reasonable question under the circumstances. Mara toyed with a variety of answers: a trapeze artist in the circus, a burlesque dancer, a secret agent—but if she told him that she’d have to kill him. She went for the truth.

“I . . . I used to sell houses, I worked in a property agency. Now I’m working for the man who’s just bought Avalon House—and living with my aunt, who runs the post office here.”

Damnit! That was far too much information to give away. She’d definitely never make it as a secret agent. One hot chocolate and she’d spilled everything. Secret agents had to be able to drink triple vodka martinis and lie brilliantly.

“Kind lady, long hair, lots of cool jewelry—that’s your aunt?” said Rafe.

Most of the bike stuff was delivered by couriers and turned up in giant vans or lorries. The post office wasn’t a place he was overly familiar with, but he was prepared to become their best customer if it would help him get to know this crazy girl whom he was liking more with every moment. He liked the rudeness of her, the sheer difference. Rafe had had girls throwing themselves at him since he was fifteen. This quirky girl was different.

“Rafe Berlin, nice to meet you,” he said, holding out a hand.

Mara took it. “Mara Wilson,” she said, before fixing him with a gimlet glare. “Are you married? Engaged? Going out with anybody? The father of a passel of children, perhaps, on the run from paying maintenance?”

“What’s a passel, exactly?” Rafe inquired.

“I don’t know,” revealed Mara. “Loads. So, are you any of those things, otherwise connected with another woman?”

“No,” said Rafe truthfully.

Mara narrowed her eyes at him. “Tell me the truth,” she said, channeling her inner secret agent.

“That
was
the truth,” Rafe said. “Why? Have you recently fallen victim to some married dude with a passel of children who won’t pay maintenance?”

The brief flicker of pain behind Mara’s eyes told him he wasn’t too far from the truth.

“Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to be intrusive.”

“No,” said Mara, apologetic, “it was my fault. I have been giving you the third degree.”

“Why do they call it the third degree? Everyone says that around here,” said Rafe. “I don’t get it.”

Mara shrugged, “One more weird Irish custom you’ll have to get used to,” she said. “Us Irish are a mysterious race with a proud tradition of being poetic and given to flights of
fancy.” There, that all sounded mad enough to put him off her.

She gestured as she talked and he liked looking at her. Liked the way her eyes lit up. Liked the way those red curls bounced around and the lips, in that glossy fire-truck red, moved as she spoke, like she was creating a story out of thin air.

“What brought you here, Rafe? Seems like an out-of-the-way place to start a business.”

“It’s a long story,” Rafe said, his merry eyes looking somber. “My brother was badly injured in a bike accident. I came here to help him keep the business going.” He pushed back his chair. “Gotta run, Red. Would you like to have dinner with me?”

Mara was momentarily at a loss for words again. She stared at him. “Dinner?” she repeated.

“Yes, dinner,” said Rafe. “A meal we Kiwis traditionally have in the evening. Is there a mysterious Celtic way of saying this perhaps?”

She smiled at him for real then. Mara’s smile had the power to make anyone fall in love with her. Rich, warm, marvelous. “You’re asking me out to dinner?” she said, as if the whole idea was both unexpected and totally delightful. “Dinner.”

Some madness possessed her. Dinner with another man: yes, that was the way to de-Jack her soul.

“Dinner . . . I think I’d like that.”

“And you can tell me about the married man with the passel of children.”

“Not married at the time, though he is now, which is the problem—he didn’t choose me as the bride,” said Mara. “Please, let’s not talk about him at all.”

“Fine by me,” said Rafe. “Any weird food allergies, before I decide what to cook?”

This left Mara nonplussed. “You’re going to cook for me?”

Jack didn’t know how to do anything but heat microwaveable meals or cook steak and baked potatoes. Red meat or “pierce the film and microwave for four minutes on high.” Nothing in between.

“I love cooking,” Rafe said, with a grin that revealed white, even teeth. His eyes were a hypnotic gray blue.

Going to his house seemed a bit risky, though.

“No, let’s eat out,” she said. “If you’re really nice, you can cook me dinner next time.”

As if there would be a next time.

Rafe drove the jeep down the drive and parked it outside the workshop. He always felt a surge of pride when he looked up at the big sign on the doors:
BERLIN BIKES—CUSTOM-MADE MOTORCYCLES.

So far as the locals were concerned, this was simply a small business run by the two Berlin brothers. But to bike aficionados, Berlin Bikes ranked up there with Orange County Choppers. The Berlin brothers had more clients in the U.S. and the rest of Europe than anyone in Avalon would believe.

Jeff’s jeep was in his spot and Karen’s car was parked up at the house. The house itself was lit up. Karen had the gift of homemaking. When she and Jeff had first moved in, the house had been nothing but an empty shell; five years later, it was a home. With Christmas approaching, string lights twinkled from the eaves, while Scandinavian-style decorations made the wooden interior cozy and bright.

Only the other day Karen’s mother had rolled up with
yet another bag of red gingham hearts to hang on the tree, causing Jeff and Rafe to exchange amused grins.

“I’ll never understand these Avalon women,” Rafe muttered.

“Best not to try to understand them—just love them, that’s my advice,” Jeff said.

Jeff’s love for an Avalon woman was the reason they were all there. She’d been pregnant with their first child when he had the accident. Not many people survived motorbike collisions with drunk drivers, so Jeff was lucky to be alive, but the spinal injury he’d suffered had left him paralyzed from the waist down.

It changed all their lives. Jeff and Rafe had originally planned to set up their own business in California, home of custom-bike culture. But with a husband confined to a wheelchair and a new baby, Karen needed the support of her family in Avalon. So Rafe had given up his dream of life in Los Angeles and the brothers had set up Berlin Bikes in the small Irish town instead.

“You’re looking pretty pleased with yourself,” Jeff said, pencil in one hand as he expertly rotated his custom-made wheelchair around the specially lowered design table where he was working on a new commission from a guy in Switzerland.

Rafe grinned. “You could say that, bro. I’ve met this amazing girl in the coffee shop . . .”

On Saturday morning, Mara had the most marvelous lie-in. Waking to a sunny but crisp December morning, she put on her fluffy socks to go into the kitchen in search of coffee. There was no sign of Danae. It had to be one of her mysterious Saturdays, Mara thought, with a little irritation. Why wouldn’t Danae confide in her? What secret could be that bad?