Dont stop believing, p.1
Don't Stop Believing, page 1
DON’T STOP BELIEVING
FREYA KENNEDY
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
More from Freya Kennedy
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by Freya Kennedy
About Boldwood Books
For
My sister, Emma,
With love for all the inappropriate humour, support and best nephews and nieces in the world.
PROLOGUE
The afternoon air is crisp, and the sun hangs low in the sky, as if it would require too much effort to keep shining on this shortest day of the year. It may be a cold December day, but Ivy Lane is just as beautiful as it is on a summer’s day – perhaps even more so. It could be the pinch of red on the cheeks of the people outside, standing in their fancy coats as their breath curls in misty clouds towards the sky. It might be the sprays of red berries, of green leaves, of soft eucalyptus and mistletoe bound together – glittering with frost – tied with twine to the iron fencing around The Ivy Inn. It could be the candles flickering in lanterns hung from the trees, or the warm white fairy lights twinkling overhead, glowing brighter and brighter as the sun sinks, turning the sky first pink and orange, then a soft inky blue, before giving way to a blanket of stars.
The chatter among the guests fills the air, along with the clink of champagne flutes and the whooshing sound of the outdoor heaters keeping the worst of the chill at bay. The atmosphere is thick with expectation of what is to come.
There’s a certain magic about the wedding that is about to happen on Ivy Lane. It’s the climax of a love story that could only ever have happened on this street, between these people. It’s only fitting that the happy couple have decided the courtyard garden of The Ivy Inn is the perfect place to say their vows. With its wide wooden gates open, the assembled guests have a clear view of the bookshop across the street – and the flat above it.
The bride and groom have surprised just about everyone by forgoing tradition and getting ready together in the flat owned by their very dear friends, Libby and Noah – the last couple to get married on the Lane, who also happen to be the owners of Once Upon a Book and The Ivy Inn.
Wanting as little fuss as possible, and clearly not taking into consideration how fondly they are regarded, the bride and groom have decided to simply walk across the street together, hand in hand, to their ceremony.
Noah has arranged for the street to be closed and cleared of traffic for the evening, which has made it possible for it to be decorated so beautifully. He’s even gone to the trouble of having a red carpet laid across the cobbles – it wouldn’t do to have either the bride or the groom lose their footing should the evening turn icy.
‘I hope they aren’t too much longer,’ says Erin Donohue, the head chef at The Ivy Inn, as she shuffles from foot to foot on impossibly high heels that are very much not her usual footwear. ‘These shoes are strictly car to bar and I really want to make sure everything is going okay in the kitchen.’
Her male companion smiles at her reassuringly. ‘Everything will be fine in the kitchen. You left very precise instructions. And you checked just ten minutes ago. Before you put those shoes back on.’
‘And I can’t wait to take them off,’ she says. ‘They were a bad idea. You should’ve told me they’d be a bad idea.’
The man raises his hands in mock surrender. ‘It takes a braver man than me to tell the ever-powerful Erin Donohue her idea might be a bad one,’ he smiles. ‘But hang in there. They won’t be long now.’
Erin isn’t the only guest to be getting a little restless now, waiting for the main event. The happy couple should’ve arrived ten minutes ago. No matter how pretty the sparkling lights and how fragrant the cinnamon-scented candles, there is only so long anyone is prepared to stand out in the cold for. The patio heaters can’t work miracles on a midwinter night.
‘Maybe she’s getting cold feet?’ her companion whispers into her ear.
‘She wouldn’t be the only one,’ Erin says, looking mournfully at her feet. ‘I’d give my big toes for a pair of thermal socks right now.’
‘You wouldn’t look half as fetching though,’ he tells her. ‘And don’t forget, this is their big night. It’s important to them both that they have their ceremony under the stars. But hopefully it won’t take too long and we’ll all be back inside in no time, and you can go and annoy the kitchen staff.’
‘And I’m going to change into my Converse and stay in them,’ Erin says. ‘I’ll be throwing some shapes on the dance floor in comfort.’
‘You look good to me whether you’re in heels or trainers,’ he smiles, and she allows him to pull her closer so she can feel the warmth from his body, which adds nicely to the warm and fuzzy feeling she now has inside.
There’s more laughter and chatter now before a hush descends over the crowd.
‘I see someone coming,’ a voice shouts and everyone’s gaze turns to the book shop opposite, and the green door to the side from which the husband-and-wife-to-be are set to emerge.
At the creaking of the door to the side of the shop, music starts to play and the sound of the stunning Irish ballad ‘She Moved Through the Fair’, sung by the angelic-voiced Cara Dillon, fills the air.
But instead of a blushing bride walking through the door with her beau on her arm, there is a very flushed bookseller, her hand clamped to her swollen stomach. Her recently curled hair is already looking a little messy, her make-up streaked with sweat, or tears, or both.
Holding her up is her husband, Noah, whose face is ashen as he supports Libby, and tries to carry both her hospital bag and a baby bag into the street.
‘Shit!’ he proclaims. ‘Bloody, shitting shit.’
The music screeches to a halt before the enchanting tune has even had the chance to really get started.
There’s a moment or two of silence as the assembled crowd process the scene in front of them, before the sound of Libby, moaning in pain, jolts everyone into action.
‘Why in God’s name did we think it was a good idea to close the street and have everyone park somewhere else?’ Noah babbles.
‘I was supposed to have another week at least,’ Libby sobs as Erin rushes over to her and pulls her into a reassuring hug. ‘Everyone said first babies never come on time, never mind early. I can’t believe I’m going to ruin the wedding.’
‘You’re not, Libby,’ Erin tells her. ‘You’re just going to make it even more special.’ Slipping into organisation mode, she continues, ‘Noah, go get the car. Right, you guys,’ she says, pointing at the other guests, ‘some of you clear the road of these lanterns, flowers and the traffic cones at the top of the street, so Noah can drive down. Libby, let’s get you sitting down. This is going to be the best day of your life. You’re going to be a mama!’
‘But the wedding…’ Libby sobs.
‘The wedding can still happen,’ Erin says. ‘If that’s what the happy couple want. And it will still be amazing. You’ve helped them plan the most perfect day, but now you’ve more important things to be doing.’
Libby sniffs, but she knows Erin is right. Erin is always right. The last six months have proven she’s a one-woman tour de force who could run the entirety of Ivy Lane if she put her mind to it. She is, as the Irish saying goes, ‘some woman for one woman’ – feisty, a little bit bossy (but in a good way) and exceptionally determined. Libby knows she will be wasting her time to even think about arguing with her friend.
As another contraction tightens across her stomach, she realises nothing is going to stop this baby from making an appearance and there’s no point in worrying about anything else just now. Apart from, that is, how long it will take Noah to get back with the car and whisk her to Altnagelvin hospital on the other side of Derry so she can get some gas and air!
1
SIX MONTHS EARLIER
All Erin wanted now was a long, cool shower, a bowl of ice cream and prime position on the sofa, with Aaron ready and willing to rub her aching feet. Today had been, in her own words, ‘a nightmare of a day’.
An early summer heatwave had brought drinkers out in their droves to The Ivy Inn. Derry people are not accustomed to beautiful weather. The north-west of Ireland is not famed for its sunny weather. So, when the sun shines, the locals waste no time in making the most of it. As a consequence, there hadn’t been a spare seat to be had, either inside the pub or in the beer garden, and absolutely everyone seemed to want to be fed. Monday nights were not usually so full on, and if Erin was honest, she’d been hoping for an easy shift with the possibility of closing the kitchen earl y and maybe – just maybe – getting to enjoy an ice-cold cider in the beer garden before walking the short distance home.
But the fates had other ideas and not only was it the busiest night they’d had since, well, forever – leaving her, as head chef, scrabbling to meet the demand for food – but the air-con and extractor fan in the kitchen had also decided to go on strike. By the time she had closed up the kitchen at nine, her chefs’ whites were saturated with her own sweat, she was verging on severely dehydrated, the cupboards were bare and her face was as red as her hair. Almost an hour later, as she had finished cleaning and what little prep she could do for the following day, all Erin wanted to do was get home.
Overheated and overstressed, and having forsaken any notion of a cold cider, she had longed for a distinctly unseasonal snowstorm to hit just as she walked home. She’d happily stand and let the thick snow cover her until she could no longer feel the tips of her fingers or the ends of her toes. She’d welcome the blissful cold, and happily surrender to making snow angels on the ground.
But there was no snow. Or even the hint of a cooling summer shower. There was just a wall of heat and the sun had yet to set. Erin was well aware she was known for her occasional dramatics, but if she hadn’t been so dehydrated, the thought of the walk home would’ve brought her to tears.
At least, she thought wryly, she wasn’t going to have to hope Aaron hadn’t used up all the hot water before her post-work shower. She lost herself in a glorious fantasy in which she happily stood under icy cool streams of water as she washed the sweat from her body, maybe while she sucked on an ice cube and soaked her swollen feet in an ice bath.
The dream of drying off after, and slipping into her cool cotton shortie PJs, before lying prostrate on her bed with a fan pointed directly at her, kept her going as she walked the few streets home. The smell of barbecues from neighbouring gardens assaulted her nostrils as she passed by. On a different day, the smell may have made her mouth water, but she’d had enough of food and all its aromas for one day.
The only stop she made was at Harry’s Shop, the small convenience store a few doors up from the pub, to pick up a tub of Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. The arrival of Messrs Ben and Jerry was fairly new to Ivy Lane. The introduction of new stock lines was very much part of the modernisation of the long-established store – which was now under the careful management of Harry’s grandson Lorcan. Gone were the sun-faded posters and stickers in the windows dating back at least twenty years, and the battered shelves and fridges. It now gleamed and had lost the faint smell of ham that had seemed ever-present. But it still managed to hold its charm and hadn’t morphed into a carbon copy of a small chain store. It had been quite a feat. Erin had to hand it to Lorcan for pulling the store into the twenty-first century while still retaining much of its local, traditional feel.
She’d be lying if she didn’t breathe a long sigh of relief to see that Harry was not on his usual perch behind the counter. Much as she had a deep fondness for the old man, his habit of launching into twenty-minute monologues about whatever was on his mind that day was not something she was in the mood to face. No, Harry must’ve already gone home and Lorcan was alone and, it seemed, just starting to lock up.
‘Oh great, I’ve got here in just in time,’ she said.
‘I’ve just cashed up actually,’ Lorcan replied with a smile. ‘But I know better than to get on your bad side. As long as you’re quick, grab whatever you need. I’m meeting Jo at The Ivy for a drink and the only woman who scares me more than you is her!’
Erin laughed, despite her exhaustion. She liked Lorcan – he was kind, smart, caring and, it had to be said, exceptionally handsome. He was the perfect partner for her best friend, Jo. The pair had been together for two years, just a year less than her relationship with Aaron. Who was also kind, smart, caring and… well, maybe not as gorgeous, but handsome all the same. ‘I’m scared of Jo a bit myself,’ Erin replied. ‘Especially with this deadline she’s on. She’s almost feral at the moment.’ A successful author, Jo was working on her third novel and was feeling the pressure of an approaching deadline to submit it to her publisher.
Lorcan smiled, a soft, dopey grin – the kind that only came from being truly in love – and said, ‘Yeah, I do love a bit of feral Jo though. As long as I approach with caution and bring Maltesers, it usually ends well.’
Opening the tall freezer at the back of the shop, Erin took a moment to let the cool air wash over her before scanning the shelves for her favourite Phish Food flavour. It appeared the hot weather must have had everyone on the hunt for ice cream and the freezer was close to empty. She could’ve cried with relief when she spotted one lonely but lovely tub left at the very back of the shelf. As she paid Lorcan, she thought she’d never before been as happy to hand over her hard-earned money.
‘If you want, and for no extra charge, I can give you an abridged version of Grandad’s speech on how six quid for a tub of ice cream is a “sin before God” and how in his day he’d be lucky to get a scoop of vanilla with some watery jelly on his birthday, and he’d be grateful for it,’ Lorcan said.
‘I think I’ll pass if you don’t mind,’ Erin replied with a smile. ‘It’s never the same unless it’s Harry himself ranting.’
‘It’s true.’ Lorcan shrugged his shoulders. ‘I am no match for his greatness.’
‘You’ve time to grow into the role of Lane curmudgeon yet,’ Erin told him. ‘But if I don’t get home, showered and sitting down soon, I’ll be fighting you, and Harry, for the title.’
‘You’re not even going to let me try and foist some just out-of-date tinned goods on you? Eighty percent likely to be perfectly edible?’ Lorcan laughed as Erin waved goodbye, a smile on her face. Harry’s habit of gifting out-of-date items to his friends and neighbours was a thing of legend on Ivy Lane.
Minutes later, as she turned her key in own front door all she could think was that she really hoped the ice cream hadn’t melted entirely on her walk home.
‘Well, that was a tough one,’ she announced as she closed the front door behind her. ‘I swear those fans better be fixed tomorrow morning or I’ll be shutting the kitchen and telling everyone they can get pizza delivered instead.’ She kept her voice light, not wanting to start the rest of her night at home with a tirade. ‘Noah says he has people coming to look at it first thing, so fingers crossed. I’m going to have to go in early though – we were much busier than expected and I’ll need to go and stock up on fresh ingredients to get through another service.’
There was no response. Actually, when she thought about it, there was no noise at all. No TV sounds, or gentle hum of the washing machine. No shower running or the podcast Aaron normally listened to when he was drying off. Just silence. Very unusual silence.
It was possible, of course, that he was in bed already – but it was still early and Aaron was known for being something of a night owl and never settling down until the wee hours. But Erin supposed there was always a first time.
Popping her ice cream in the freezer, she paused to look around the kitchen. It was unusually clean and tidy. There was no trace of Aaron’s evening meal preparation, no empty cups or glasses on the worktop by the sink and, in fact, everything was just how she had left it that morning.
She felt a prickle of something run down her spine and this time she was pretty sure it wasn’t just another bead of sweat.
Something was amiss.
‘Aaron?’ she called out, kicking off her trainers and socks and padding through to the living room. She half expected to find him conked out on the sofa, the TV silently running through the save screen of whatever game he had been playing on the Xbox. But he wasn’t there, and again the room was suspiciously tidy. There was not a cushion de-plumped, nor a discarded mug to be seen anywhere. And, she realised with a sinking feeling, there was not even an Xbox, or the framed picture he kept on the shelf of him and his best mates on a stag night in Amsterdam.
