While Ginger Murphy completes her music studies, childhood sweetheart and neighbor, Brad O’Sullivan betrays her with the new girl next door. Heartbroken, Ginger escapes as far away as she can go—to Australia—for five long years. During this time, Brad’s shotgun marriage fails. Besides his little boy, Jamie, one other thing in his life has turned out sweet and successful—his pastry business.
When her mother’s diagnosed with heart failure, Ginger has no choice but to return to the green grass of Ireland. As a sought-after wedding flautist, she quickly establishes herself on home soil. Although she loves her profession, she fears she’ll never be more than the entertainment at these joyous occasions. And that she’s doomed to bump into the wedding cake chef she tries to avoid. Brad broke her heart once. She won’t give him a chance to do it again.
A gingerbread house contest at church to raise funds for the homeless has Ginger competing with Brad. Both are determined to win—Ginger the contest, Brad her heart. But when a dear old saint challenges that the Good Book says the first shall be last, and the last first, Ginger has to decide whether to back down from contending with Brad and embrace the true meaning of Christmas—peace on earth, good will to all men. Even the Irishman she’d love to hate.
Excerpt:
GINGER
MURPHY had vowed never to return to Ireland.
News of a sick mother will overturn the impulsive declarations of a broken
heart.
She moved her
hand and let the lace curtain fall back. How many hours of her life had she
wasted gazing from her bedroom window at the house across the street? Far, far
too many. She wouldn’t let old habits creep back in. Not now. It had taken five
long years to heal her heart.
Being back home
was wonderful. And hard. So many memories lived on that lane and in the fields
nearby and beside the Liffey. The walks along that meandering river with its
tea-colored waters were the best. Brad close to her, holding her hand. And
those picnics beside its buttercup-lined banks… She trailed a finger over her
bottom lip. After all this time, she could still feel, still remember, his
kisses.
How had it all
gone so wrong?
Her fingers
curled around the thin lace again as she pulled back the fabric for one last
look, one last reminder, lest she be tempted to forget. Her gaze shot to the
house next door to the O’Sullivans. The day she’d
moved in had been the day the foundations of her world began to crumble.
Remember that. Always.
The curtain
swayed back into place as Ginger released it. She checked her makeup in the
mirror, and then fluffed the fiery curls that tumbled over her shoulders. Brad
had always loved the color of her hair…until he discovered he preferred
brunettes to redheads. Not collectively—just a particular one.
Stop it. No
thinking about Brad. But how could she not? It was impossible not to wonder
whether he still lived on the other side of the tarred strip separating their
houses. Mam and Dad didn’t say, and she hadn’t asked. The subject of Brad
O’Sullivan had long not been permitted as a topic of conversation—with her
parents, or her friends. Enduring six months of snippets about Brad was enough.
She’d no longer wished to hear about his happy little life, with his perky
little wife. More like pesky. Like a troublesome bug, Claire Madden—her
nemesis—had infected Brad.
If Brad still
lived in that white semi-detached house that had been a part of her life since
she could remember, she’d find out soon enough. In the week she’d been home,
the place had remained in darkness. But last night, two cars had parked in the
driveway. The red van, branded ‘All Things Nice’, had been missing since early
this morning. Brad’s van, or some stranger’s? Sugar and spice, and all things
nice… Had Brad followed his dream and opened his own pastry business, or did
the vehicle belong to someone running some kind of shady operation?
Maybe she
should’ve allowed her family and friends to continue keeping her in the loop.
The chocolate
brown chiffon of her layered dress swirled as she turned. She loved the color.
Probably because she loved chocolate. Ginger grabbed her clutch purse, flute
bag, and music stand, and placed them into a canvas carry bag, Australia
printed repetitively across the fabric. She slid the bag’s strap onto her
shoulder, and then hooked the ankle straps of her high-heels around the fingers
of her free hand. She’d put those on downstairs. The block heels clunked
together as she headed for the staircase. If she didn’t get going now, she’d be
late. And she was the distraction to keep anxious guests entertained until the
bride stepped onto the aisle, and the wedding march began to play.
“You look
beautiful,” Dad said as he lowered his newspaper. “You sure you’re not the
bride?”
Ginger sat down
opposite him at the kitchen table. “Last time I looked, Daddy, brides wore
white.” And they had a man in their lives—one who wanted to marry them and be
with them forever.
She leaned
forward to put on her shoes. “But, thanks.” She glanced up, her father filling
half her view, the table the rest. “I made a mac and cheese this morning for
you and Mammy for dinner. Pop it in the oven at a moderate heat for thirty
minutes when you’re ready to eat. I’ll try to get home as soon as I can, but
I’m booked to play until after the main course. Then the DJ takes over.”
“Thanks, Ginger.
’Tis so good to have you back home. I’ve missed my freckle-faced girl.”
“I’ve missed
you, too.”
He smiled.
“Thank you for giving up your new life in Australia to come home and help me
with your mother.”
“Five years
isn’t exactly a new life.”
“Aye, that’s why
I know the decision wasn’t an easy one.”
It sure wasn’t,
despite how difficult it had been to adapt to a new culture, even though she’d
stayed with her aunt and uncle. Ireland would always be in her blood.
Would Brad
O’Sullivan?
She hoped not.
He was married, with a child…who’d be turning five in a few months.
Ginger rose,
standing three inches taller in her heels than her usual five feet. She stepped
to her father and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Bye.”
He grasped her
hand and squeezed. “Have some fun, love.”
She wrinkled her
nose. “Unfortunately, I’m there to work, not to play.”
“I thought you were there to play…” A laugh bubbled
from Dad’s throat.
Ginger laughed,
too, before she pulled back her hand and turned to go. “Well, I’ll be away
then.” At the threshold, she paused and glanced over her shoulder. “It’s good
to be home. Really.”
Ninety minutes later, the haunting melody of Ginger’s
flute floated across the Orangery at Killruddery House. Sunlight filtered
through the high glazed dome above. The late September weather had cooperated
with the bride’s plans. What an amazing venue—the first of many she’d lined up.
With her reputation in Australia as a wedding and corporate flautist, it hadn’t
been difficult to be booked up almost every weekend until Christmas before
she’d even stepped on the plane to Dublin—a few introductory emails to Irish
wedding planners was all it took.
Soon as the ceremony started, Ginger gathered up her
flute and her folded music stand. She tip-toed out of
the Victorian conservatory to set up in the courtyard outside the 18th century
barn conversion where the reception was to take place.
She gazed toward
the large trees in the distance, beginning to morph into their autumn colors.
Then she headed down the path beside the terraced lawn toward the sunken
lavender and rose garden bordered by green hedging. She strolled along the
gravel pathway. The spindly purple blooms and full peachy-pink English roses
begged to be sniffed. Ginger paused to savor their fragrance. As she walked by
the large pond in the center of the symmetrical garden, she dipped her fingers
in. Ripples spread out as the cool water refreshed her fingertips. How peaceful.
If she could
only stay there longer.
Taking the path
to her right around the pond, she headed for the charming octagonal Victorian
structure. The tea room. She stepped inside to enquire if she was headed in the
right direction. She could not afford to get lost on this large estate and
tarnish her reputation at the first wedding by arriving after the guests she
was hired to entertain. The smell of coffee and zesty citrus cakes beckoned her
to stay, and she made a mental note to return on a free weekend. Perhaps she’d
bring her best friend, Tara.
After an
affirmation by the young lady working the till, as well as an explanation of
the rest of the way, Ginger arrived at the reception venue moments later. She
stepped inside to have a look at the décor before setting up. And the cake.
Much as she’d
tried not to over the years, she’d found herself on numerous occasions
wondering what Brad would’ve done with the wedding cake had he been the pastry
chef. He’d always been good in the kitchen, especially with sweet things. A
miracle she’d managed to keep her petite figure through her teens.
She stared at
the towering masterpiece—four tiers of decadent chocolate. Perfect. Must’ve set
the father of the bride back many euros, although nothing about this wedding
was cheap. Including her.
Ginger ran her
tongue between her lips as she gazed at the smooth dark brown shine of the
ganache. A tall, elegant bride and groom made of porcelain topped the cake
while deep red roses edged each tier. She leaned forward and inhaled, expecting
a repeat of the rose garden’s aroma.
Nothing.
She took a
closer look. Icing? How was that possible? The blooms were so lifelike.
“’Tis not time
to cut the cake, yet.” A cuckle followed the deep brogue of the familiar voice.
Her knees
weakened. No. It couldn’t be. But
there was no mistaking the sound. She’d heard that voice whisper sweet nothings
in her ear since she was a teenager.
There was
nowhere to run.
Pulse pounding,
Ginger sucked in a breath and spun around. Deep-set blue eyes and a dimpled
smile greeted her. “Brad O’Sullivan.”
Amazon US
Amazon UK
Comments