Secrets We Keep

by Faith Hogan

‘No, I mean, about before, about everything.’

  ‘Todd, I have a feeling there’s plenty of time to say all you need to.’ She smiled at him. ‘Friends?’ she said.

  ‘For now,’ he pulled her close, so she could feel the heat of him against her. For a moment, his lips lingered over hers; she caught her breath and felt him do the same. Life was good again, Kate knew. Life was good again.

  Epilogue

  Todd moved quickly once the band touched down in London. Heathrow was jammed with weary people making their way home and, for once, Todd was one of them. Unlike many of the jaded people he saw, he felt elated, as though, he was starting something new. Across the city, he had a plane chartered to take him back to Ballytokeep – he couldn’t wait to get home.

  ‘You sure you’re not interested in staying for a while, mate?’ Denny asked, only because he always said it when they got back from a tour.

  ‘No, will you tell Meg, I’ll miss her sausage and mash.’

  ‘Back to Ireland?’ Denny said with the resignation of one who knows he has lost. ‘Kate would be welcome to come over too, you know, Meg always had a soft spot for her. She always thought you were a bit of a klutz for dumping her.’

  ‘I know that, Denny.’ Meg had said it often enough over the years. ‘Looks like she was right all along.’ They both laughed at that – they knew she usually was, even if Denny didn’t like to admit it all the time. ‘Listen, mate, just because the tour is done, well, it doesn’t mean that we’re finished.’ They’d always be friends, but Todd was in a different place now. He’d started to write songs – he hadn’t done that properly in years. His own songs, and already they were creating a buzz. Without the whiskey, his mind was clearer and his conscience weighed lighter, or maybe it was just love, but he was filled with inspiration. Maybe that was what he’d do in Ballytokeep – if Kate didn’t put him to work in the hotel!

  ‘Seriously, you saw the lads, they’re as sick of it all as you are. Tell the truth, if you had to do one more night you’d probably hate it.’ Denny was smiling now.

  ‘It’s been a great run though, hasn’t it? I mean, we’ve gotten twenty five years out of it.’

  ‘Yeah, it’s been a good run all right.’ Denny shook his head. ‘I’m kinda glad we’re done if you want to know the truth.’ He smiled now, defeated, or perhaps caught out. ‘These last few years, I’ve been pushing you because I thought it was the right thing, not because I was enjoying it. I hated leaving Meg at home, staying in hotels, and all that foreign food was killing me.’

  ‘That’s funny.’ Todd smiled.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I knew you hated it, I suppose; I didn’t think you knew it though.’ Todd knew it from day one. Denny had organized them all, held their hands, but he hated touring. ‘We’re all getting to the stage where we’ve had enough of touring.’

  ‘Yeah, well, whatever about that, I’m glad to be taking things down a bit.’

  ‘Retirement?’ Todd thought the word suited Denny.

  ‘Maybe, mind, I don’t think I’ll be growing marrows any time soon.’

  ‘No.’ Todd shook his head. In his breast pocket, he could feel the ring he’d bought in Amsterdam. He’d picked it out alone, a simple band with a sprinkling of diamonds around a centre stone. The shape, when he saw it first, reminded him of a bird over the ocean, but in his hand, it seemed dainty and feminine. He hoped that Kate would like it. ‘Maybe soon you and Meg will come over, just for a weekend?’

  ‘Maybe.’ Denny didn’t sound too enthusiastic, like everyone else, he just wanted to get home and have a decent cup of tea and relax.

  *

  Knock Airport was as busy as he’d ever seen it when he landed later that day in Ireland. Kate was waiting for him and when he saw her something inside him flipped, as though he’d come home in a way he’d never understood possible before.

  ‘Hi stranger,’ she said, but he just held her close, he never wanted to let her go again. When he kissed her, it was as though the world around them melted away and everything at once seemed right and settled in his life.

  The little car that had once been Iris’s bounced along the country roads while Todd and Kate chatted happily. There was no catching up, not as there might have been in the past. Somehow, over the course of the tour, they’d become like Denny and Meg. Todd spoke to Kate several times each day. She kept him up to date on Archie’s progress back to health and her plans for the hotel. He heard all about the work at the bathhouse, the tides and the news from the village, although he hardly knew anyone there.

  The castle was cosy when they got back to it later that evening, Kate had moved in while the plumbers were sorting out the baths and replacing the old radiators at the bathhouse. Todd hoped to persuade her to stay in Rock Castle with him. These last few weeks, he started to think it would be a magical place to have a family. Outside, the winds howled loud and insistent, rain sheeted against the long narrow windows and he held Kate close so they both knew they’d never be lonely again.

  Later, he lay awake, listening to Kate’s light breath beside him. In the distance, he heard the sound of church bells in the village, ringing in a new day. Tomorrow, they would have dinner together, with Iris, Archie and Rita and he would ask Kate to be his wife.

  This time, he intended to turn up; after all, not everyone gets a second chance at happy ever after.

  We hope you enjoyed this book!

  For a preview of Faith Hogan’s My Husband’s Wivesread on or click the image

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  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About Faith Hogan

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  Author’s Note

  The village of Ballytokeep does not exist, however, just a few miles from my home is the lovely town of Enniscrone in Co. Sligo. It is a small summer town that fills with tourists when the sun shines. Many years ago, it had two bathhouses catering to visitors who wished to experience the health benefits of seaweed. Still today one operates, Kilcullens, where you can avail of baths and various other treatments and finish up with afternoon tea.

  The Cliff Baths, a small white castellated building is no longer in use, and although it is still white, it is greatly enhanced by my imagination. It was built on an outcrop of rock in 1850 by the Orme family. There is, to my mind at least, few things to surpass walking along Enniscrone beach on a dry and crisp winter’s day, the sun glinting on the water and the bathhouse in the distance, and who knows, maybe someone will resurrect it too one day!

  http://www.enniscrone.ie/cliff_baths

  Acknowledgements

  Once more, it has been an absolute joy to work with Caroline, Sarah, Nia, Yasemin, Heike, Jade and Blake – the Aria Ladies – you make everything so easy. Truly, a dream team, thank you.

  Thank you to Judith Murdoch, my wise agent who I still can’t quite believe is at my side – I am indeed very lucky.

  Thank you to the only person I would trust with a first draft – Bernadine Cafferkey, no matter how much I’m doubting she manages to be gentle and critical all at once.

  Thank you to Christine Cafferkey – for so much more than I could ever write here.

  Thanks also to Seán, Roisín, Tomás and Cristín – you just have to be yourselves to make everything perfect!

  I’ve dedicated this book to my personal PR. team, almost pro-golfer and avid plane watcher – James Hogan, I couldn’t have done it without you.

  Finally, I would like to thank you – the reader who picked this book and chose to spend some time with the people in it. I’ve spent almost a year with them, Kate and Iris, Archie and Todd – wandering about in my imagination. If you enjoy them as much as I did, I’d love to hear about it,

  Till then,

&n
bsp; Faith x

  About Faith Hogan

  FAITH HOGAN lives in the west of Ireland with her husband, four children and two very fussy cats. She has an Hons Degree in English Literature and Psychology, has worked as a fashion model and in the intellectual disability and mental health sector.

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  Read on for a preview of My Husband’s Wives:

  Paul Starr, Irelands leading cardiologist dies in a car crash with a pregnant young women by his side.

  United in their grief and the love of one man, four women are thrown together in an attempt to come to terms with life after Paul. They soon realise they never really knew him at all.

  The love they shared for Paul in his life and which incensed a feeling of mistrust and dislike for each other, in his death turns into the very thing that bonds them and their children to each other forever.

  As they begin to form unlikely friendships, Paul's death proves to be the catalyst that enables them to become the people they always wanted to be.

  Can’t wait? Buy it here now!

  Prologue

  2016

  ‘Mum, there’s a funny old lady at the door who says she’s married to Dad?’ Delilah wore an expression that sat somewhere between amused and unsettled. Grace supposed anything was better than bored and indifferent. It seemed that had been the permanent expression since she turned fifteen a few months earlier.

  ‘She’s at the wrong house,’ Grace said absently. They were going for a picnic. The sun was shining and Grace hoped a day at the seaside might recapture some of the closeness she’d shared with her daughter before it was just the two of them here.

  ‘No, she’s sure. She says her name is Evie…’ Her usually ambivalent voice held a note of perplexity. ‘Evie Considine Starr – but Mum, I think, she’s a generation out.’ She stuck a finger to the side of her head and wound it around. It was her shorthand language for mental health issues. Grace tried to discourage it, but still never mentioned the antidepressants deep in her own handbag.

  ‘Oh. Evie?’ The name registered deep in her brain; still, it sounded strange on her daughter’s lips. ‘Evie is here?’ Grace’s hand shot up to smooth her hair back, an involuntary movement, hated herself for it. Why did she care what Evie Considine thought of her? ‘At the front door, now?’

  ‘Well, yes.’ Delilah stumbled over her words, for once thrown by her mother’s reaction. ‘You know her? She’s actually…’ The words petered out, same as Paul’s – Evie Considine it seemed was still an unfinished chapter in Paul’s life.

  Grace stood straight, imagined herself being pulled by an invisible central rope, lengthening her out, just as the nuns had taught her. She threw her shoulders back with more confidence than she really felt, and made her way to the front door.

  ‘Hello Evie.’ She stuck out a hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you at last…’ It was a lie, but only a white one.

  1

  Grace Kennedy

  Paul Starr was tall – well, anyone was tall to Grace – he might have been gangly, but his thick dark flop of hair and chestnut eyes distracted her from noticing. His smile was easy, his voice low so it made her lean closer; she was charmed instantly. He was the most successful surgeon in Ireland. He was confident, sophisticated and, rumour had it, married. Grace knew who he was. Everyone in Ireland knew who he was. It was said that he was responsible for keeping a former U.S. President alive, as well as half the royal family over sixty.

  ‘You don’t want to believe everything you read,’ he said, and she realized that she’d never felt so equal to anyone who towered over her so much. She was used to being the short one; five foot just, before she put on her heels. She fingered the amulet that hung always at her neck. It was her father’s; a token to enhance the artist within. Its green gemstone brought out the emerald of her eyes and it made her feel safe, as though her father was still near.

  ‘Who said I’d be reading about you?’ She couldn’t help fidgeting with her long dark hair any more than he could stop his eyes drinking in every moment of her.

  ‘This is impressive.’ He waved a hand about the exhibition. It was her second in a year. She felt she’d rushed it, but maybe some things were meant to be. They stood for a few minutes, making small talk. He wasn’t a collector – she could spot them a mile off – not of art anyway. She was about to move away, but he reached out, touched her lightly on the arm. The silver stacking bracelets that she wore jangled, the only sound between them that mattered in the crowded room. The effect was electrifying. ‘I’m just looking at this one…’ He walked towards a watercolour she’d painted two winters earlier, a stark white lighthouse against the rocks and grey waves of the western coastline. ‘It’s breathtaking.’ He caught her eye as he murmured the words. The look sent ripples of what she supposed was desire through her; she’d never felt anything like it before in her life. ‘I’m making changes,’ he said, moving closer to her so his voice was little over a whisper. ‘Making changes and it might suit; do you think anyone has their eye on it, yet?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ she smiled at him, flirting in some strange subconscious way, couldn’t stop herself, even though she’d spotted his wedding ring immediately. ‘You’d need to talk to Patrick.’ Her eyes skimmed the room for Patrick Marshall. Usually she could find him easily – he was never far away. His languid easy pose tended to dominate whatever space he was in, and she spotted him now surrounded by a coterie of enchanted hangers-on, regaling them with one of the funny stories he always had to hand. He was all she had here; Patrick knew this without ever having to mention it. ‘Oh, he looks busy. Anyway, you can always leave your name with the gallery.’

  ‘Perhaps I could commission a piece for my rooms,’ he smiled, catching her by surprise, ‘…at the clinic.’ His voice was light, she guessed they were a similar age, but she had a feeling he knew much more of life than she. He reached into his pocket; he wore an elegant off-the-peg navy jacket that moved fluidly. ‘Take my card. Maybe you could drop by, if you’re passing. We could…’ his eyes held an unmistakeable promise, ‘…have coffee.’

  Grace wasn’t sure how she managed to walk away from him, but she made it to the other side of the room, her legs like jelly, her stomach a wasp’s nest of restless commotion. She silently cursed herself. The last thing she needed was to fall for a married man. She’d stay well clear of him, or so she told herself. She sipped sparkling wine gently – there were still speeches to be made, people to talk to, sales to close. Even if there weren’t, she’d had enough of being attached to people. She’d spent a lifetime taking care of her sisters and her mother. Her father had taken the easy way out – a double barrel, kept for foxes, in the end. She’d been the one who found him in his studio. He’d probably wanted it to be her. ‘You’re the strong one, Grace.’ He’d said it so many times.

  In the end, it was all she could remember of him. She’d spent almost ten years being the one who had to hold it together. All the time, her mother descended further into a bleak haze, clouded by prescription drugs for a series of spurious health problems, one of which would surely stick, someday. Grace got out at twenty-three. It took almost two years to make the break completely, for them to understand that they were on their own. She did what she could. It was either get away or die slowly, as her mother seemed intent on doing.

  Painting saved her. It made no demands, beyond those she was prepared to sacrifice and it gave her solace when she had nowhere else to turn. It kept her world together, and now it was her life.

  This was her biggest exhibition yet and she’d been nervous when Patrick suggested it. It made good sense, he said last time round, the paintings were picking up a minimum of ten thousand a canvas; of course it made sense. Once she had said yes, Patrick came up with the venue. She had a feeling he’d had it
up his sleeve for a while, what she couldn’t understand was why he’d decided to let her have it rather than some of the bigger names he represented. The Dublin City Library and Archive had only reopened months earlier after a total revamp. She had to concede as she had stood beneath its imposing façade – it was overwhelming. The exhibition room seemed vast when she’d come here first. A daunting space filled with echoes of great Dubliners lingering within the repointed stone and polished timbers. How would she fill it? Could she really be good enough to sit with collections like Yeats and Stoker and Swift? Somehow, the building made her nervy and calm all at once. A strange mix of expectation and complete confidence ran through her and propelled her from the moment she set foot in the great hall. She’d pulled out some of the work that she’d started years ago. It added poignancy to the exhibition, she thought. True, it was darker than her more recent work, but it held the loneliness of her past, something that seemed to draw people. The first exhibition had been an unexpected success; it was the reason Patrick suggested a second.

  ‘What do you expect when all you do is work?’ Patrick had said when they’d met a few months earlier. ‘Note to yourself, Grace Kennedy: get a life.’ He flapped his arms about in that theatrical way he had, so she only half took him seriously and never took his advice, unless it was professional. This was as close as Grace got to friendship. ‘What about family?’ Patrick asked her one bleary night after they’d been drinking wine in her little studio; she, feeling creatively stuck, he, depressed because he’d lost the love of his life. To be fair, every man he dated seemed to be the love of his life for the first six weeks, and then…