The Pink Pepper Tree

by Muriel Bolger

Genres: Women's Fiction; Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

June Cusack is refusing to attend her husband Lorcan's funeral and everyone around her is wondering why: what kind of wife won't say goodbye to her husband of seven years? Her reasons for not attending the funeral will remain her secret, however. She has other secrets too - ones she shared with her ex-partner Peter, who she once thought of as the love of her life. Until their plans for the future fell apart. Now, she can't stop thinking about Peter - their dreams, their happiness - and comes to wonder what might have been. Could it be that he has spent their years apart thinking the same thing? Only time will tell, and a chance meeting that reveals to June that, just maybe, fate is giving them a second chance...

Release date: May 8, 2014

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 352

Sample

She stared across the bed and out the window at the stark, bare trees that were struggling to show any signs of spring. A lone pink camellia was promising colour at one edge of the lawn. A woman and a little girl walked back to their car. She’d seen them before. As the child opened the door, the wind whipped her scarf from around her neck and it flew across the tarmac, a splash of brightness in an otherwise monotone view. The woman ran to retrieve it. She tied it in a big knot under the upturned chin and scooped the little one up. Before they got back into the vehicle, the little girl raised her arm and they both waved back at the building. Then they drove off. June wondered who they were waving to, a cherished parent, a grandmother or granddad perhaps?

She shifted her gaze back to Lorcan’s bed, looking at his creased face with its greyish pallor and lank hair. It had been floppy, thick and blond when she’d met him, just eight years earlier, and he used to constantly run his hands through it to push it off his face. With his eyes closed, he looked much more than his fifty-two years.

The room was pretty for all its functionality, its technology and its alien machinery: the staff couldn’t have been nicer. He hadn’t had a kind word for any of them however, or for her. They all insisted that they understood – it often happened in these circumstances. It didn’t bother them at all. She’d sat patiently on and off over the past few months, bringing in little treats, favourite home-made biscuits, snippets from the papers that might interest him. She knew he was far too young to die, and that he must be resentful and frightened. There was a time he would have been able to admit that to her, but not now, not any more – not even to himself. He had been important in his world. But that world had become clouded with secrets and deception, and he was having difficulty separating the different elements. She was watching him shutting down.

As her mind roamed over their life together, he opened his eyes. ‘What are you still doing here? Didn’t I tell you to go home?’

‘Right. OK. I just thought I’d stay … in case …’ She reached her hand over his to offer comfort. He pushed it away.

‘In case what? I might disappear? I’m not likely to escape, am I?’ He closed his eyes again.

If June were taken aback, she didn’t show it. She had learned to cope with such insensitivity.

The door behind her opened. His son Sean came in and kissed her, and she stood up. ‘I’ll be back in a little while,’ she said, making a sign at him to phone her if there was any change in his father.

She went down the corridor to have a coffee.



A day later, she phoned his daughter. ‘Ashling, your dad has gone. It was very peaceful in the end – he just fell asleep.’

‘Oh, June, how are you? Were you with him? Was Sean there with you?’

‘He wasn’t. He’d just popped back to the office for a bit. I’m going to phone him now.’

‘He wasn’t supposed to leave you on your own.’

‘It wasn’t like that – he’d been there most of the time, but he didn’t go to bed last night. He needed to go home and change his clothes and call in to the office on his way back here.’

‘I wish I had stayed last weekend.’

‘You couldn’t have known. No one could.’

‘I’ll ring you and let you know what flight I can get on and I’ll be there as soon as possible.’



The death notice read:

February 27th, in the care of the staff at Orchard Hospice, Lorcan Sean Overend, Killiney, son of the late Marion and Timothy Overend, predeceased by his first wife, Carol, deeply regretted by their daughter Ashling, son Sean and his wife June. Missed also by his brother Patrick and sister-in-law, Tanya, and his niece and nephew, colleagues and friends. Humanist service tomorrow 11 a.m. in Blackberry Lane Funeral Home, Killiney, followed by private cremation. No flowers please.

There was a clutch of notices in the newspapers stating that various offices and clubs he’d been associated with would be closed for a few hours ‘out of respect’ for their former colleague/member.



‘I’ve got your coat,’ Ashling said, holding it up.

‘I don’t need that. I’m not going to the funeral,’ June announced, moving aside.

‘What?’

‘I’m not going to the funeral.’

‘You’re not going to the funeral?’ Ashling echoed in disbelief. ‘You can’t not go. What do you mean?’

‘Exactly that. I’m not going.’

‘You can’t do that,’ Ashling repeated.

‘I can and I am. Now, you go and say your goodbyes to your father. I’ll do mine in my own way. Make sure you tell everyone they are invited back here afterwards.’

Ashling turned to her twin, a pleading look in her eyes. ‘Sean, you’ve got to do something.’

‘It’s June’s decision. I’m sure she’s given it a lot of thought.’

‘You can’t stay here on your own. I know it must be really hard for you, but you’re just panicking,’ Ashling said. ‘We’ll be there with you.’

‘I’m not going to be on my own, Ashling, Danielle’s on her way over. And I promise you I’m not panicking. Sean is right – I have given this a lot of thought. Now, go – everyone will be waiting for the family before things can get under way.’ She walked them to the hall door.

‘What’ll we tell people?’

‘Nothing, Ash. This is my choice. I don’t want to be there. That’s all.’

She waited until they were in the car before going back inside. She walked into the drawing room, her lovely blue and yellow room, and went to the picture window that overlooked the sloping lawn. In a few weeks, the fringe of daffodils and narcissi would redefine its wintery profile. It was from this vantage point that she always enjoyed the most glorious views of Dublin Bay. She turned away and thought, It’s over. Isn’t life strange? It’s not how I would have wanted it to end, but it has. I’m free.

It was a frenetic month at the wine importers. New lists were arriving daily and June’s bosses – two brothers – were just back from sourcing fresh labels and suppliers, covering wine shows, and doing vineyard visits. It had meant plenty of overtime for the ten staff.

June went to check that everything was set up in the tasting room for a session with the buyers from one of the big supermarket chains. She knew how important this was. Getting an order with these high players meant the difference between just surviving or having a bumper year – multiple orders even more so. There was still a bit of suspicion among some of the public that supermarket wines were not quite up to scratch, that somehow they might be buying something inferior, just to beat the off-licences in price. June knew this was not the case and together they had collaborated on wine-tasting evenings and educationals to get this message across. They were also considering starting a wine club to increase their own customer base.

‘That looks great, Kelly. Thank you,’ she said, taking in the room.

The glasses sparkled, ten in all at each place setting, arranged diagonally across the table with several polished silver spittoons in between. The red wines were already opened to breathe – plain numbered labels obscuring their branding and origins. The whites were chilling in the coolers. Pens and note sheets sat waiting for comments and observations.

‘Come on, Kelly. Time for a coffee before the posse arrives,’ June said.

Kelly came in when needed – she was their Jill-of-all-trades and could do the computers, the orders and the dispatches, as well as setting up and clearing away. She never minded what was asked of her and could fill in when anyone was away. She was older than the rest of the staff and was always cheerful.

‘Any holiday plans?’ June asked as they sat having their break.

‘Yes. I have. Instead of the usual painting holiday in the West, I’ve decided to go to Australia. I have family in Sydney and I’ve been promising myself for years that I’d go. I’m going to be fifty in November and think it’s time I did a bit more living.’

‘You’re absolutely right. High summer and all,’ June agreed. ‘You’ll love it. You might even end up with a bushwhacker.’

‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ she said. ‘What about you? Are you off somewhere exotic, as usual?’

‘I am, but the itinerary is still up for discussion. I’m meeting Danielle after work today to discuss that very thing. She has this harebrained idea that we should visit the places we were in as students – but with money in our pockets this time – staying in nice hotels along the way, none of your slumming it in student hostels.’

‘That sounds like a great plan.’

‘I’ve never been one for sitting still on a beach, so it does appeal. We’d be following the route we took ten years ago at college – that was the best summer ever. I didn’t need much persuasion to agree to do it again – nice hotels, good food and decent wine.’

‘“Decent wine” – someone is talking my language,’ one of her bosses said from the doorway. ‘If we clinch these guys today, there’ll be bonuses all around.’

‘I’d prefer to take extra holidays, or leave of absence for a few weeks if that’s possible,’ Kelly said.

‘That shouldn’t be a problem. We’ll talk about it later,’ he said. ‘Now, is there any more coffee in that pot?’



Danielle and June had been friends since they first met in Montessori, when they were four years old. Their mothers had parked beside each other and even before they had been ushered into the classroom, the two pig-tailed adventurers were chatting to each other. While other children clung to their parents, some crying, it was their mothers who had misty eyes at relinquishing their daughters to a big new world.

They became inseparable, and even though they went to different secondary schools and made new friends, they never lost touch. Then, when on the first morning of Freshers’ Week they agreed to meet up on the university campus, the old rapport came flooding back. Even though they had opted for different courses – Danielle for languages and June for international business studies – they had plenty of opportunities to meet up. Danielle was now rangy and blonde, and her flint-blue eyes gave her a Nordic look. She wore prints and layers, velvet and beads, and pinned her hair up or twisted it to one side, often spearing it with a pencil to keep it out of her eyes at lectures. Beside her, June felt ordinary. She didn’t see herself as others did, a pretty, vivacious, funny, curious woman, full of zest and mischief – in fact, she was the ultimate denim girl – the one who looked good in painted-on and distressed jeans, who could turn casual into chic with a scarf. She was almost as tall as Danielle, but with velvety brown, almond-shaped eyes.

That first week, they joined every society going, induced and seduced by the promise of getting-to-know-you parties, the free beer and the degree of potential talent displayed by men who were trying to get them to join up. By the second month, they had dropped out of most of them, content instead to hang out with the group of friends they had formed – a group that fluctuated over the years, but who in the main stayed in touch.

Danielle fell in and out of lust and love quite frequently and June lost count of how often she’d sat and listened to the litany of ‘never again’, ‘what’s wrong with me’, ‘I’ve no taste in men’ confessions.

She didn’t change after they’d left college and moved out into the world. ‘You’ve just turned thirty and you’re still bending my ears with your tales of woe,’ June teased as they chatted on the phone, deciding where to go for dinner.

Happily, June also knew the recovery periods were short – nowadays a bout of retail therapy or a weekend away and out Danielle would be, interviewing for a replacement in jig time. Again. And it usually didn’t take her too long to find one either. The last one had been a classical musician who was ‘resting’, but it turned out he really wanted to rest in a nice apartment where he could practise and where someone else paid all the bills and supplied the meals and other benefits.

That evening, Danielle and June were meeting in a little Italian restaurant near the canal. Even though it was a Monday night, it was always popular for after-work rendezvous.

‘How did this morning go?’ Danielle asked.

‘Couldn’t have been better. We got our biggest order to date from that chain and everyone is delighted. I’ve even managed to get two extra weeks off, so what are the plans?’

‘Two weeks? On top of your annual leave?’

‘Yep, the guys both agreed because I had to man the place when they were away. They said I deserved it.’

‘I wish my board of management appreciated me like that.’

‘What are you talking about – with your long teachers’ holidays?’

‘Why do you think I opted for that career path?’ she laughed. ‘They never give me free wine samples though. Now, what are we going to do and where are we going to go?’

After they had ordered the speciality of the evening – carbonara – with Pinot Grigio, Danielle spread some brochures out on the little table. ‘We could start in Switzerland, and go back to the little inn we worked in near Lauterbrunnen and get our revenge by leaving our room in the state some of the guests left theirs – do you remember? Or we could head straight in to northern Italy and into the south of France – or do it in reverse.’

‘This is a bit like being a child at the sweet counter. Where do we begin?’

‘So much choice … it’s great, isn’t it? What does Peter think of you heading off for so long?’ Danielle asked.

‘We haven’t exactly discussed the time frame – I mean, he knows we’ve been thinking about it. I didn’t get a chance to tell him about the extra leave as he’s been at meetings all day. You know how easy-going he is, though, he’ll just say, “Off you go and enjoy yourself.” There’s no way he could get away this summer with the renovations at the restaurant. He has to be there to oversee it all. He might fly over and join us somewhere along the way if he can, and I’ll keep a week free to do things with him later on.’

‘That sounds great.’

‘Let’s have a think about the places we most want to visit, make a list and meet up at the weekend to put some shape on this adventure. It’s such a broad canvas, we can’t do it all, and while we should have a vague idea of where we’re headed, we can change our minds as we go along.’

‘I can’t wait,’ said June. ‘I want to go next week!’

‘I’m afraid I can’t get the department to change the school holidays to facilitate you, madam, so you’ll just have to be patient.’



Peter came around to June’s the following evening. They’d been together more or less for four years, having met when June had gone to his restaurant, The Pink Pepper Tree, one night with Danielle and two now long-forgotten boyfriends. He’d been on front-of-house duty and had looked after them very well. A few times during the evening, she had caught his eye and he’d smiled. He had a boyish look and jet-black curly hair. She thought he might have Italian blood in him, but she later learned that his grandfather and father were Portuguese and that he owned the restaurant.

The next time they met, it was just her and Danielle eating at his restaurant, and he asked her out. It was a very comfortable relationship. When she had asked him how he chose the name for the restaurant, he said, ‘It’s after The Pink Pepper Trees that grow on our farm in Portugal, in Alentejo. I think they came from Peru originally. Maybe some day I’ll take you there and you’ll see for yourself.’ She had laughed at him. She never thought he would, but he did. That was the beginning.

She loved him to bits, but she often wondered if it was enough. ‘What’s the difference between being in love and loving someone?’ she’d asked Danielle early in their relationship.

‘You’re asking me?’ Danielle had replied. ‘How should I know? I’d give anything to have what you have with Peter.’

Now June knew. She had grown to love him unconditionally and she knew it was special. It was being in love – and that was so much more than loving someone. She missed him when he wasn’t around and just thinking about him brought a smile to her face. They were very good together. He was thoughtful and caring, and they had a great sex life. At the start of their relationship, they had both been sure that they didn’t want too much commitment, and yet they had fallen into an easy and eventually exclusive relationship.

They laughed a lot, shared the same interests, had the same friends. They liked murder novels and movies, and they both enjoyed cooking. They each had clothes and possessions in the other’s place. That hadn’t been a conscious decision, more an evolution over the years as things were left behind after their nights together. Peter had proposed a few times, but they had always been light-hearted, and June had never accepted – though he’d never felt rejected either. Both were very happy and easy with the arrangements they had and they both knew they’d end up together, when the time was right.

Peter stayed over the night before the girls’ departure and after a passionate love-making session, while they were still wrapped around each other in a steamy afterglow, he asked, ‘How am I going to manage without you? I’ll miss you like crazy.’

‘Me too, but it’s only four and a half weeks.’

‘Five and a half. I’m going to Portugal to visit my folks once the work on the restaurant finishes. So I thought I’ll hold off on the grand reopening until after then. Knowing the builders, they’ll probably overrun anyway. I might even be able to persuade the folks to come back for it too.’

‘It would be nice to have them both there.’

‘Is there any point in proposing to you again before you desert me?’ he said, lifting himself up on one elbow, and running his hand over her smooth shoulder and down to her breast. She stroked his inky chest hair.

‘Now that’s what I call a romantic proposition. No down on one knee, no string quartet, no champagne. Have you even got a ring?’ she teased.

‘Woman, what more do you want? I’ve just given you my life force – and I’m sensible enough to know that naked-boy-on-bended-knee might not be my best look. So what about it? Is it the right time for us?’

‘Maybe … probably … yes, definitely … ask me when I get back from the trip!’ She sat up and kissed him and they made love again, slower this time, before falling into a deep sleep, curled up together.



June was sitting in the kitchen of the home where she had grown up. The home where music had always been a feature, where, every night, her father would play the piano after dinner to relax. He had taught her too and she often found it a great way to escape. Her mother could also play but June hadn’t heard her for a while. Sometimes, she still expected to hear the tinkling of the notes drift around the house when she visited. Tonight, though, it was the aroma of roasting vegetables, warm garlic and pork filet that were concentrating her mind, as her mother poured some of the wine that June had brought over.

‘Whoa – if I drink all that I’ll have to stay. You’re very heavy handed.’

‘You know where your room is. Relax and enjoy it. To us,’ her mother clinked. ‘Mmm – that’s delicious. Thanks, love.’

‘Perks of the job.’

June made a point of going back once a week, usually on Tuesdays, for dinner and a chat to hear what her mum and her cronies had been up to. This usually took some time. Branch had lots of people around her – between her bridge friends, her book club friends, which they now referred to as the prosecco club, her supper society friends, friends of the National Gallery, those in her local history classes and at the charity shop where she worked one morning a week, she was rarely left at a loose end. Lately, she’d joined an active retirement group. Any time she mentioned this, she prefaced it with, ‘You only have to be over fifty-five to join; it’s not for fossils, you know.’ She was sixty-one.

Everyone called her Branch now, though it was her husband who had started it. Her name was Olive, and she was the peacemaker, always trying to smooth things over for everyone. When June was at secondary school, Branch, with time on her hands, had filled in for her husband’s secretary when she’d gone on maternity leave. Branch had loved it and the patients had loved her. When the secretary went on to have two more babies in the following two years and had decided to become a stay-at-home mum, Branch had stayed on. She’d now been widowed for several years and, it had taken her a long time to accept losing her husband. They had been good together and although she still missed him terribly, she enjoyed her own company and had made a life without him. It was never dull, and she always had some tale to tell about someone June knew – or who she though June should know.

‘You must remember Mary McCambridge – her sister was that tall woman who used to dye her hair that awful mahogany-red colour; it used to look like a helmet, and she had that dreadful pea-green raincoat. She lived down the road from Maura Governy and they all used to go on holidays together. Do you remember they went to the same place in Greece every year? Can you imagine anything as boring – with the whole world to explore – to keep going back to the same place all the time.’

At this point, June had usually forgotten why the story had been started in the first place, but she let her mother prattle on happily.

‘Now, tell me, where are you pair going to go? It’s a pity Danielle couldn’t come over this evening as well.’

‘I know, but she was asked to give some kid a grind for his exams for the next two weeks and the money is great. Apparently he’s a spoiled little brat who mitches half the time. I told her to come over later if she feels like it. Anyway, we’re still deciding, and every time we think we have a plan, we end up changing it again. We want to revisit some of our old summer-job haunts. Danielle wants to go to do the French Riviera and go to some of the places she went to when doing her Erasmus year. We have to see which end we’ll start from and join the dots up in between.’

‘You must go on the canals at Midi.’

‘Why? That isn’t even on our list.’

‘Henry Slevin – he’s in the local history group – did that last year and still raves about it, so much so I’ve added it to my bucket list. I’d love to steer a barge through those locks. That, and do a bit of inter-railing. Billy and Margaret Murphy, in the active retirement group, were talking about organising a cruise next year, but I think I might try and get them to go inter-railing instead.’

June laughed out loud.

‘What’s so funny?’

‘I’m just visualising Billy and Margaret Murphy on their walkers with their fluorescent backpacks.’

‘I told you, we’re not all fossils. Besides, that pair could well afford to go on the Orient Express if they wanted to, but they’d probably show their free travel passes first, just in case they could get a discount.’ She took the bottle and topped up their glasses.

‘Now, what does Peter think of it all?’ Branch continued. ‘Doesn’t he mind you going off like this?’

‘No. He’s great – and he thinks it’s a great idea too. He’d love to be coming along.’

‘What’s happening there? Or should I not ask questions like that of my only daughter?’

‘Funny, he asked me that last night too, and I told him to ask me again when I come back from the holidays.’ She grinned. ‘I’m not saying any more and I don’t want you to either! Promise.’

‘Oh, darling, nothing would make me happier. He’s a really decent, open guy. I loved him the minute I met him.’

‘That was mutual. If you weren’t my mother, I’d have been jealous. Not a word to anyone though till I get back.’

‘I promise. Not a word. But it would be lovely to be a grandmother. If only so that I could bore all the others who have been boring me about their little darlings for years.’

‘Thanks, Mum, that sounds like a real good reason for me to reproduce.’

She smiled indulgently at her daughter.



June and Danielle’s plans continued to change every time they met. After a while, they became more realistic and decided to concentrate on the French Riviera, instead of trying to visit everywhere they had been in the past. There was only a week to go when June got a call from Peter.

‘I have to go to Portugal. Dad’s had a bit of an accident, though it’s not too bad, fortunately. Someone drove out of a side road right into his car and he’s a few broken bones. But he’ll be out of commission for a bit.’

‘That’s dreadful. I hope he’ll be all right.’

‘He will, but I feel I should go over for moral support. See that he has enough help with the stables and around the place to stop him worrying – and to stop Mum fussing about him overdoing things.’

‘Of course, you have to go. Be sure and give him – give them – my love.’

‘You’ll be gone by the time I get back, so make sure you two have a great trip – and don’t you worry about me at all,’ he laughed.

‘I’ll try not to. And good luck with the builders. I’ll be dying to see the new place when I get back. Be good. I love you, Mr Braga.’

‘You’re not so bad yourself, Miss Cusack! Take care of each other.’

‘We will.’

‘Monte Carlo here we come,’ Danielle said to June as they sat in the back of the taxi on the way to the airport. ‘We’ll be sipping champagne by lunchtime.’

But they weren’t. The French air-traffic controllers were at it again, and neither of them had thought to check before leaving for the airport that the threatened two-hour stoppage mid-morning was actually going ahead. Consequently, as the flight from Nice hadn’t even left for Dublin, they had to spend most of the day hanging around the overcrowded departure lounge. The planned pre-lunch arrival in Nice became an early evening one. By the time they’d negotiated their transport it was well past eight o’clock when they arrived at their boutique hotel in Monaco.

Tired from a frustrating day, they were really looking forward to a shower, a relaxing meal and a glass of wine. They had planned to stay in superior luxury on a handful of nights during the trip, and had chosen some very up-market establishments, with full spa facilities and all the trimmings of decadence and indulgence. They had carefully picked this five-star hotel in Monte Carlo for the first few nights to put them in the mood for their ‘grand tour’, as Danielle kept referring to it. In between, they’d booked some auberges and family-run places, and, for the rest of the time, they’d stay wherever their fancy took them.

At the Hotel Metropole Monte-Carlo, the uniformed doorman led the way for them and another carried their bags in to a palatial foyer. The warm air outside contrasted with the air-conditioned calm inside.

‘Nice, very nice,’ Danielle muttered. ‘This smells of wealth and opulence. I like it!’

‘We have a reservation,’ June said, handing over her passport to the soignée receptionist, who typed something on her keypad. She excused herself and disappeared behind a mirrored door. She reappeared minutes later with a manager in tow.

‘Mes dames, I regret to tell you that we have given your room away. We were expecting you before lunch and as we had no communication from you, we assumed you were not arriving. We have just given your room to another couple, less than an hour ago. Je regrette mais we are completely booked out.’

They looked at each other in disbelief.

‘Haven’t you anything at all? Or can you find us an alternative place? We got caught up in the flight delays because of the strike. We left our homes at seven this morning. We’re tired and hungry and in need of a shower,’ June pleaded.

‘Je regrette. That is not going to be easy. There is Pharma Week here in Monaco. There are three international medical conferences on and the music festival – and it’s high season – everything has been booked for months. There isn’t a room anywhere. We’ve already been looking for others and every phone call we get is from our fellow hoteliers looking for rooms. Can we offer you something to eat, or drink perhaps, while you decide what to do?’

June was trying to hold it together. She nodded, buying time. ‘We don’t really have much choice, do we?’

The man came out from behind the desk. ‘Come with me,’ he said, and led them to a quiet corner in an anteroom off the lounge.

‘I know it’s not as you planned, and it is highly irre. . .