The Summer We Were Friends

by Fiona O'Brien

Genres: Contemporary Romance

Synopsis

Summer has arrived in Derrybeggs and the biggest event of the year, the annual film festival, is less than a month away. But as plans begin to unravel, tensions mount in the sleepy seaside town. Newcomer Dot joined the festival committee as a way of fitting in and as the first guests arrive to her newly renovated beachside B&B - TV star Molly Cusack and businessman Ryan Schindler - Dot becomes more determined than ever that her move be the fresh start she so desperately needs. Meanwhile heartbroken Merry has returned home to Derrybeggs and is back working at her parents' café. Everyone in town knows that her dream life in Florida tragically fell apart, but Merry is the only one who knows the whole story... When an intriguing American visitor turns up at The Seashell Café with no memory of who he is or why he is in Derrybeggs, Dot, Merry and the rest of the town's residents must come together to try to help him. But will they manage to do this while also saving the film festival?

Release date: May 6, 2021

Publisher: Hachette Ireland

Print pages: 320

Sample

One of the many ironies of old age, Peggy O’Sullivan observed, as she groped to turn off her phone alarm before it went off, was that, although she needed less sleep and could wake up ready to spring out of bed at a totter, if not a leap, there was far less for her to do. That meant the additional hours gained, especially now in summertime, could stretch ominously ahead if she didn’t plan her days with precision. Routine was everything – and she had hers down to a fine art. It was said you could set your clock by her. Looking out of her window, another beautiful June day seemed poised to unfold in Derrybeggs.

At this time of year Peggy would normally have been tying up details for the local annual film festival she had been involved with for many years, but younger people had taken over now and Peggy had deduced that her services were no longer required. This had not been articulated, of course – she was still on the committee, such as it was – but some of the younger women, particularly that blow-in from Dublin, Kate Carmichael, and her crowd had muscled in on the event, declaring it needed a cultural makeover to drag it into the twenty-first century. The makeover, as far as Peggy could determine, seemed to consist of vast amounts of energy being spent on finding a suitable celebrity to be guest of honour at the two-day event and very little else – even though the festival was due to open in three weeks’ time. Many other important details, Peggy knew, had been overlooked. There had been little advertising for starters, hardly surprising, Peggy thought, since they didn’t have a venue. The community hall where they used to show the films was unavailable due to fire damage, and the committee was now searching frantically for a suitable substitute. The shabby old golf club had disappeared, replaced by a new posh version complete with spa, but when they had relayed the request to the American headquarters of the property mogul who now owned it, the cost of renting it was ridiculously prohibitive. That was the problem, Peggy had pointed out, when transatlantic billionaires were in charge of a major part of Derrybeggs’s facilities. Oh, well, it wasn’t her place to interfere – no one was interested in her opinion any more.

But a distinct sense of panic was making itself felt in the village now. Local business depended on the economic boost of the annual festival, not least the Seashell café, which benefited from the catering contract. At least a celebrity had been nailed down as guest of honour. She hadn’t been the committee’s first choice (the American movie star filming in Dublin had politely declined) but Peggy was looking forward to meeting Molly Cusack. She remembered her as a child when she and her parents used to holiday in Derrybeggs, and Molly had gone on to become extremely successful on the British small screen, starring in several much-loved TV sitcoms over the years.

Peggy was heading out on her Rollator for her morning coffee when she saw him …

She could get about in her small flat with her walking stick, but she needed the security of something more substantial to make her way to the village and back. The Rollator was marvellous – a walking frame on wheels, Dr Rob had explained to her, with a bag for some light shopping, and if she got tired she could put on the brakes, pull down the small seat, sit on it and have a little rest. She did this quite often, not because she needed to but because she liked taking a little breather to pass the time and look about her – it made her feel more connected to things. It also meant she missed very little. It was amazing what you saw and heard if you were old and quietly observant – almost as if you were invisible.

That morning Peggy took her usual route, turning right out of her front gate with Muppet, her beloved poodle/Yorkie mix trotting beside her. To her left, a low haze hung over the lake ‒ it would burn off later ‒ and a quartet of swans glided over the calm silver water. Along either side, ancient dry-stone walls were drenched with a scarlet trail of fuchsia. The village – when she reached it ‒ seemed quieter than usual at this time of the morning. It greeted her cheerfully, vibrant in its new summer best, brightly painted houses and shops seeming to jostle for attention. Lovingly tended flower baskets hung from awnings and lamp posts, and cascaded from newly purposed beer barrels. The place was a profusion of colour.

She had been looking forward to her first cup of coffee when she saw the café wasn’t open. For a moment she wondered if something was amiss ‒ never in living memory had the Seashell not opened on time ‒ then checked her watch. She was an hour early. How on earth had that happened? She never got the time wrong. For one horribly long second she wondered if she was losing her marbles – was this how it started? It gave her such a jolt she had to pull up on the pavement and sit down. She took out and lit a cigarette with trembling fingers.

That was when she noticed him. A younger man ‒ in his seventies, maybe. And handsome, a distinguished profile, but he looked down on his luck. He was peering into the café window, trying to work out if it was open, she assumed. She hadn’t seen him before – he definitely wasn’t local.

‘It’s not open,’ she said, pointing to her watch. ‘Doesn’t open till eight. I don’t know how I’m this early – I must have got the time wrong.’ She shook her head, blowing a plume of smoke from the side of her mouth.

He strolled over to her, smiling. ‘Are you all right there? Can I give you any assistance?’ He seemed concerned.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Or, at least, I would be if I hadn’t somehow muddled the time – and now I’m an hour early, which knocks my whole day out. I can’t think how I managed that. No wonder Muppet was surprised to be going out.’ She reached down to ruffle the dog’s head.

‘That’s a cute dog you’ve got there,’ he said. ‘Not open till eight, huh? That’s pretty strange. What kind of a one-horse town won’t serve a guy a cup of joe before work?’

‘You’re not from around here, are you?’ Peggy smiled up at him.

‘It’s a pretty place … nice to be by the ocean again.’ He gestured towards the sea.

But Peggy noted he hadn’t answered her question. ‘I’ve lived here all my life.’ She tilted her head. ‘And every day there’s a different view. Are you visiting?’

He smiled again, rather absently, as if he was lost in thought. Then he collected himself. ‘Say, can I help you at all?’

She thanked him, but said no, explaining that she sometimes liked to stop and sit for a while before continuing on her journey – or, in this case, that she would sit outside until the café opened. ‘No point going back now. Muppet and I will just enjoy the view.’

‘I understand.’ He nodded. ‘Good call.’

He was very nice, Peggy thought. Very gentlemanly. ‘I’m Peggy,’ she said. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Good to meet you, Peggy.’ He smiled. ‘I think I’ll be getting along now. You have a good day!’

She thought that a little odd. But then Americans could be odd.

Being fourteen sucked, Franny Relish decided, kicking a clump of pebbles out of the way as she settled under her favourite sand dune on the headland. So did having a surname like Relish but her mam should have thought of that before marrying an English guy with a silly name. But if she hadn’t, Franny wouldn’t have had Dad in her life – and that didn’t bear thinking about. Mam and Dad were the only good things in her world right now ‒ although they had their faults, of course, like all parents.

It was early morning, and Franny had an hour before her shift started at the Seashell café where she was working for the summer. That meant she could cut through the golf course on her way to work and sit for a while in her favourite spot, looking out over the ocean.

Franny wasn’t an ideal name either, her friend Sheena had advised her. Sheena was very well up on these things and advised Franny to change it to something more on trend – like Chesca or Frey, which would sound way better on social media ‒ but Franny had been christened Frances because her mam had promised to call at least one of her children after St Francis, and since her elder sister was Clare, and they had been hoping for a boy next, Franny had been saddled with Frances. When she had floated the idea of changing it, though, her mam had been uncharacteristically annoyed ‒ although lately anything that Franny mentioned to do with Sheena seemed to set her mam off. Franny suspected that this was because Sheena and her family were from Dublin and had only come to live in Derrybeggs because her dad had been posted here for work. Sheena’s dad, Don, was something to do with broadband facilities – but he’d liked Derrybeggs so much he’d built a second home here.

Sheena’s mum, Kate, was finding it hard to adjust to living in a small village – but Franny’s mam said that Kate’s habit of airing her opinion about everything that was wrong or needed improving wouldn’t endear her to anyone anywhere. Either way, Franny had more important matters on her mind ‒ changing her name was the least of her worries. She chewed her thumbnail. What did your social-media profile matter when the world was ending before your very eyes and no one in charge was doing anything about it? If it wasn’t for Greta Thunberg and their generation, the world would probably have ended already.

This was the only subject she and Dad disagreed over. Dad said not to be worrying her head about it, that the world would be around long after everyone was gone, which didn’t make Franny feel any better. But it was all coming to pass. Even her favourite spot here in the sand dunes might be taken from her. The local golf course had been bought and redesigned by its new American owners and was almost ready to open. Everyone was very excited about it, except Franny. The clubhouse was finished, apart from the snag list, and had been transformed into a cutting-edge example of modern architecture, all wood and glass and sweeping curves that blended cleverly into the brooding hills and mountains behind. Franny’s dad, Mike, was one of the electricians working on the clubhouse contract. And some American was coming in to sign off on it all.

Franny was concerned. Her mother Sheila was on the film festival committee and when they had tried to get the new luxury golf club as a venue, the American owner had quoted an impossible price. Rich Americans didn’t care about small village life outside their business interests, Franny’s mam said. Franny had been more worried about the rabbits and the Vertigo angustior snail, whose habitat might be under threat, but the ecological laws had all been strictly complied with from the outset – so her snails were safe. All the same, Franny’s mind was not at rest. What if they decided to expand the golf course even further?

She was so lost in thought that it was a moment before she realised someone was speaking to her. ‘Excuse me,’ the old guy was saying. ‘Could you direct me back to Main Street? I seem to have lost my bearings.’

He was an American – she could tell by his accent. She pointed the way. ‘Are you someone to do with the golf course?’

‘Excuse me?’ The question seemed to take him by surprise.

‘You’re American – I was wondering if you’ve something to do with the golf course?’

‘Oh, uh, I’m just passing through.’ He scratched his head, looking into the distance.

Franny frowned. The stranger was being evasive. Franny preferred clarity.

‘That’s a good spot you’ve got here.’ He smiled. ‘Pretty part of the country.’

‘Not for much longer.’ Franny said darkly. ‘They’ve redesigned the golf club into a fancy resort.’

‘Is that so?’

‘Not that it matters now ‒ everything’s ruined for people our age.’

‘How’d you work that out?’

Franny looked at him to see if he was making fun of her, but he seemed genuinely interested. ‘We’ve nothing to look forward to except climate change ‒ extreme weather and mass extinction.’

‘That’s a pretty sweeping statement.’

‘It’s true,’ Franny said. ‘Previous generations have ruined it for us.’ She didn’t say, you people, although she wanted to.

At least he didn’t contradict her, Franny conceded, watching his reaction. He was nodding to himself, looking out to sea.

‘Guess you’re pretty concerned about this?’ He turned to her.

‘Wouldn’t you be? If you were my age?’

‘Probably.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘How old are you?’

‘Fourteen.’

‘Thing is, most things you worry about don’t actually happen. That’s a fact. Ever heard the expression Cometh the hour, cometh the man? Or, indeed, woman?’

Franny hadn’t. ‘What’s it mean?’

‘It means that throughout history, just when things seem worst, when everything seems hopeless, someone always comes up with a plan to fix things – to save the day ‒ just at the right moment.’

‘Do you really believe that?’ Franny frowned.

‘Sure. Human beings have been around for an awfully long time, young lady, and that’s what we’re good at. We might make some pretty stupid mistakes along the way, but we’ve always figured things out sooner or later.’

‘So you think we can fix this?’

‘Sure we can. Someone will ‒ might even be you.’ He smiled. ‘I’d better be getting along now. Thank you for pointing me in the right direction – I hope I didn’t disturb you.’

She watched him stroll off towards the village, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune. There was something reassuring about him, Franny thought. Maybe he was right. He was way old, older than Dad, and seemed very wise. Maybe things could get better. Anything was possible – even Sheena was always saying that.

Molly checked her appearance in the hall mirror before heading out to the waiting taxi to take her to Heathrow airport. She didn’t bother with dark glasses ‒ the feeblest disguise employed by people who really did want to attract attention to themselves: the curled dark grey wig would be more than effective, particularly when coupled with a light raincoat and sensible shoes. For now, she took a last look at her shoulder-length layered blonde bob, before it disappeared under the wig, then hid her slim figure under the dowdy coat. Her normally dewy complexion was concealed under a heavy dusting of face powder. Usually Molly employed makeup to help her look younger. Ageing herself made a change but it was also alarmingly easy. The forecast was good – she had checked before leaving ‒ but June was always unreliable, especially in Ireland. In London they were having a particularly warm spell, and underneath the wig her scalp prickled uncomfortably.

It wasn’t that she was terribly famous, more irritatingly familiar. Over the years she had featured in enough weekly TV dramas and sitcoms for people to feel compelled to stop her in public and ask the inevitable questions – ‘Don’t I know you? Aren’t you that actress who …?’ Mostly she was more than happy to stop and chat. After all, if you were going to invade people’s living rooms on a regular basis, she felt, the least you could do was say hello to them in real life.

In the back of the taxi, on her way to Heathrow, Molly scrolled through the email from her agent on her phone and felt another dart of panic. It was just under three months since Larry had suggested she write a memoir and at the time it had seemed like a good idea. Now he was cheerily asking about the word count. There was a time, Molly reflected, as she hastily clicked out of the email, when the notion of writing a memoir would have brought her out in a nasty rash. The very thought of it had made her insides curl. Memoirs, she reckoned, meant life as you knew it was behind you, along with your career. Your shelf life was over and all that remained was to record the luminous moments, deflect or sensationalise the less than pleasant episodes, slap it between two covers and hope that it would bring in a few bob.

But then, so stealthily that she had hardly noticed it ‒ not unlike some unwelcome hormonal upheaval – acting work had begun to dry up. That, and the horrible coincidence of Molly losing her two best friends in quick succession, had led to Larry suggesting the memoir as a possible stopgap while she considered her career options. Molly could still hardly take in that her dear friend and contemporary Julia Hepworth had had a stroke and was confined to a nursing home for the foreseeable future. Beautiful Julia, darling of stage and screen, with an accent that could cut steel and an attitude that could level cities, was now without speech and paralysed. Julia and Molly had attended RADA together in the seventies, and embarked on a lifelong friendship. Just a month later, Molly’s other cherished friend, darling Nigel, who had been her on-screen husband for the run of a hugely popular TV series, and a lifetime friend and ally, had been found dead at the foot of his stairs. It was too cruel, too unreal. Molly had counted on marching irreverently into old age with Julia and Nigel.

Finally, to cap it all, a role she had been assured of, one she had been prepared to throw herself into – relied on to get her through this awful time of grief and loss – had gone to another actress. A forty-seven-year-old actress. That the role in question was to portray a sixty-five-year-old business maverick (Molly was a well-maintained sixty-three) was apparently inconsequential. The woman in question, her usurper, was a good actress ‒ Molly was an admirer of her work – but she looked and acted like a teenager off screen, and was (Larry reliably informed her) on her third face lift. ‘Seriously, Moll, this came from totally out of left field. Alex swore the part was yours.’ Larry had been furious. ‘The contract was—’

‘Oh, never mind,’ Molly said, when she got her wind back. ‘It’s not as if someone’s died.’

‘Well, no, but—’

‘I’ll take it as a sign.’

‘A sign of what?’

‘That I need another career.’ She was only half joking.

‘Don’t be silly.’ Larry smiled. ‘This is just a tricky patch.’ He looked at her over his glasses. ‘You’re too old for leading lady and too young for old dame. Although I have been thinking.’ He leaned back in his chair, wearing his I’ll just try floating this idea out there expression.

‘What?’

‘How would you feel about a writing a memoir?’

‘What ‒ now?’

‘You’ve led a very interesting life, Moll, got legions of devoted fans – they’d lap it up – and I know just who to pitch it to. It’ll be nicely lucrative too.’

‘I’m not sure I could do it.’ Molly was reticent. She allowed the suggestion to linger.

‘Of course you can. You’d be a lovely writer – I know you would. No one tells a story like you do when you’re in full flight. Writing’s the same as talking – it’s all about the voice.’

‘Do you really think so?’

‘Definitely. In fact, the more I think about, it the more certain I am. And’ – he held his best card till last – ‘you’d be able to tell all those wonderful anecdotes about Julia and Nigel and the scrapes you got into over the years. People would adore to read about them.’

‘That’s true – it’s a shame to keep them to myself.’ She chewed her lip. ‘All right ‒ I’ll do it!’

‘Marvellous!’ Larry’s intake of breath followed by a rush of relieved enthusiasm told Molly everything she needed to know. That for a while, six months at least, her acting career, or lack of it, wouldn’t be Larry’s problem.

‘Any thoughts on a title?’ Larry was clearly keen to get down to business.

Molly hadn’t, but one came to her now. ‘Acting Out?’

‘See? You’re a natural! I love it!’ said Larry. ‘Hurry up and write it and send me your first draft – I can hardly wait.’

In the event, she hadn’t had to write a first draft – just a sample chapter and a vague outline had been enough for Larry to secure her a deal – but now she needed to get down to work.

Buoyed up by Larry’s enthusiasm and her own impulsivity, Molly had happily thrown herself into her new project. She’d exchanged her rather dated old laptop for a razor-thin shiny new one, downloaded some snazzy software ‒ she wasn’t quite sure what it was for, but people on forums seemed to rate it ‒ and spent quite a lot of time flicking through on-line writing courses, often getting lost for hours in distracting links. She’d had no idea writing could be such fun. She even ordered some gorgeous new cashmere loungewear so she could look the part – pyjamas, although handier, would have been a step too far, and not quite as glamorous.

When she signed the contract, Larry took her to lunch in their favourite Soho haunt and they celebrated with champagne. Now it was real. She had a new career, starting right now. The trouble was, when all the excitement was over and she was back in her flat, with a deadline to work to, Molly found the blank page very uncooperative. She had made notes, lots of them, scribbled in various notebooks and journals over the years – but as soon as she began to write a piece in earnest she decided before she reached the end of the page she didn’t like it. The problem, she felt, was that writing a memoir about her life when it didn’t seem quite over was proving tricky: it was getting in the way – blocking her.

Then the days began to slip by, sneakily, gathering momentum just when she wanted them to slacken to their previous interminable rhythm. She began to panic. It occurred to her that perhaps all she needed was a change of scene. Then ‒ as if to facilitate such – the invitation had arrived. Molly opened the envelope. These days her post seemed to consist of either bills or obscure theatre promotions, neither of which she felt inclined to study. But this, forwarded from Larry, turned out to be a strangely formal invitation asking her to be guest of honour at the annual film festival in Derrybeggs.

Molly was so surprised she had to sit down. Derrybeggs! Her eyes filled as she looked at the invitation in her hand and the memories came flooding back. A trip to Derrybeggs would be like going home. Molly’s late parents had hailed from Dublin, but every year the family had holidayed in Derrybeggs, staying in the old family hotel on the lake. Molly had spent many happy summers there and, since the invitation’s arrival, she had been counting the days until she was back in the little village just a stone’s throw from the Atlantic Ocean.

In under a week Molly had organised a house-sitter for her London flat, and found what looked like an idyllic writer’s cottage in Derrybeggs. She booked it for a month – that way, she figured, she could have some time to herself, get a feel for the place again, and begin work on her memoir before the opening night of the film festival, which was in three weeks’ time. It would be a relief to be somewhere different, somewhere she could reflect with unbiased perspective, somewhere that the absence of her two dearest friends wouldn’t be waiting for her around every corner, in every favourite haunt.

Ireland was far enough away, yet close enough to get home in a couple of hours if she was needed. This was unlikely, though, as the two people who had needed her most were now unreachable. That was what happened when you were a single woman of a certain age: beloved friends ‒ her ‘team’, as she liked to think of them ‒ began to be picked off, one by one … It wasn’t that her age made her feel invisible to others, as so many women complained, more as if lately she had been feeling like a ghost in her own life. Of all the many and varied roles she had played on screen she was least prepared for this one, the final act, on her own. There was no rehearsal and no script to follow. She would have to make it up as she went along.

At Passport Control she got a quizzical look from the bloke behind the screen, as he glanced at her passport and back up at her altered appearance. But he simply raised his eyebrows and waved her through.

On the plane with the rest of the Dublin-bound passengers, she claimed her window seat and took out her iPad. She was joined by a rather overweight man in the middle seat and a young girl in the aisle seat, who immediately began to type furiously on her laptop. The man shifted in his seat and smiled at her apologetically. She felt his gaze linger on her and made the mistake of looking back at him.

‘You’re very familiar,’ he said. ‘Do I know you?’

In reply she smiled, shook her head, and put on her headphones.

‘I could swear…’ were the last words she heard.

Dot was checking her Airbnb page when she flicked over to Facebook and smiled at the latest post from her daughter, Laura, with her three little girls, all perched at various heights up a climbing wall, their faces turned to the camera gleeful with triumph. They were due for a visit home this Christmas from Perth, and she couldn’t wait to see them. Technology was wonderful, but nothing beat the warm embrace of the all-encompassing hug she longed to give her granddaughters.

Scrolling down the page, her balloon of pleasure was rudely deflated when she saw Kate Carmichael’s latest post. She and her sidekick Ellen Markey were at a table in the Seashell, raising glasses of wine to the camera and grinning aggressively. The post was tagged ‘more great ideas for the #filmfestival’. Dot let out a long breath, if only it were true – but she knew it was more fake news. She was tempted to comment beneath the post ‘It’d be nice if you let the rest of the committee know’ but thought better of it. There was no point in stooping to Kate’s level – but, and not for the first time recently, Dot was beginning to wonder if she had made a mistake in moving to Derrybeggs.

She had thought joining the committee for the film festival would be a good way to meet people and make some new friends but it had very quickly become clear that Kate Carmichael was an arrogant, ignorant woman who, with her pal Ellen Markey, clearly wanted as little to do with Dot as possible. She had felt quite hurt by their attitude until Peggy O’Sullivan had told her not to let it upset her. ‘That Kate one’s a blow-in – and so are you but you’re a better class of one!’ Peggy cackled. ‘She knows you have real taste – you’re showing her up for what she is, a jumped-up Celtic Tiger wan whose poor husband has more money than sense. Sure look at that awful McMansion of a house they built compared with what you’ve done here.’ Peggy indicated Dot’s beautifully restored home. ‘She knows you see through her – like I do – and that you’d be bound to come up with better ideas. That’s why she’s keeping you at arm’s length. Take it as a compliment – I would.’

Dot had tried to be friendly to Kate and Ellen – and had been left in no doubt that her overtures were not appreciated. Thankfully, the rest of the committee and the other locals she was slowly getting to know were extremely welcoming, although she understood you had to be patient to be accepted into any new community.

The news hadn’t been received well when she had informed her adult children she would be selling the family home in Dublin. The objections and laments came thick and fast across various oceans and time zones.

‘You can’t, Mum!’ Laura gasped, then wailed, from her beachfront house in Perth.

‘You’re not serious?’ Patrick said, in clipped tones, from Boston. Then, collecting himself, he followed up with ‘Are you sure that’s wise?’

Only her younger boy, Mark, had expressed any faith in her or understanding of her situation. ‘Ah, no, Ma,’ he’d said from somewhere in Thailand. Then, ‘Hey, it’s your life, Ma – you gotta do whatever works for you.’ That simple acknowledgement from the other side of the world had almost brought her to tears.

In the event, the house, a lovely family home in an affluent suburb, had sold quickly, snapped up by returning ex-pats and their soon to be five children (the woman was expecting twins). Dot was delighted a young family had bought it and that children would be tearing around the place again. She had worried some builder might buy it and turn it into an apartment block or cram several townhouses onto the lovingly tended garden. But the new owners had no such plans. Having just sold their tech start-up company for a great deal of money, they could afford their dream house back home and, apart from ‘updating the kitchen and maybe doing a little decorating work’, they planned to leave it pretty much as it was.

Dot wished them well. It was their home now, not hers, and although it had been a beautiful family house, it had not always been the happy home for her that others might have assumed.

Three years had . . .