Alicia Hope

The Café Birds

Similar in style to The Break by Marian Keyes, this upbeat small-town novel tells of friendship, secrets, and second chances as Paige and her friends confront conflicts that echo our own struggles and triumphs.

Ready to immerse yourself in a story that tugs at the emotions and inspires ... hope?

Then here's how it opens....

Chapter One: The Flock

CLICK.

The line went dead.

Paige stared at the phone as though trying to see her husband’s frowning face at the other end of the call.

That loud noise before the line dropped out, what was it? A mortar attack?

Had hostilities resumed?

Was Rick alright?

Biting her lip, she slumped back in her chair, stomach lurching.

Please don’t let those be our last words to each other. I didn’t get to tell … remind … him how important he is to me, and how much I miss him.

No, she’d been too busy taking umbrage at his words....

‘I’m glad your girlfriends keep you company when I’m away, babe, but I’m not really interested in hearing their life stories.’ Frustration had deepened Corporal Rick Connor’s gravelly voice. ‘And I know you’re only talking about them to avoid answering my question.’

At her silence he’d blown a long-suffering breath. ‘I asked when you’re going to admit this business venture of yours is a failure, and call it quits.’

‘Wow, that’s some vote of confidence. Thanks so much for the husbandly support.’

His exasperated sigh had whooshed along the phone line and into her ear. Heavy breathing, but not the thrilling kind like in the early days of their romance.

Look how far we’ve come – fallen? – since then.

While her thoughts had drifted off, his hadn’t.

‘Well what do you want me to say, Paige? That you should keep flogging that dead horse, and to hell with the money it’s bleeding?’

Oh, how she hated that emotionless, Corporal Connors-like tone he’d taken to using with her lately. Like she was one of his troops.

‘No, Rick.’ She swallowed her resentment but couldn’t keep the bitterness out of her voice. ‘That’s not what I want you to say.’

‘Then what, Paige? What?’ Another sigh. She’d imagined him raking fingers through his closely cropped dark hair. ‘Because I have no id—’

Then the explosion, and ... CLICK.

Silence. The fraught, stomach-knotting kind.

Slowly replacing the receiver, she bent her head to drag a hand over her lightly freckled face.

A face he used to describe as elfin.

She swallowed a sob.

Remember Rick’s advice – don’t assume the worst if communications are lost. Phone reception while on deployment is always dicey.

Pursing her lips, she blew the pent-up air from her lungs, wiped her eyes, and sat straighter.

Dwelling on negative thoughts could send an army wife crazy. What I need right now is some spirit-lifting company.

She glanced at her watch.

Four fifteen pm.

Good timing.

Reaching for her mobile phone, she sent off a hasty text message.

* * *

BRRRING!

Caitlin gave a start and touched a gloved hand to her chest, before sitting back on her heels beside the garden bed. She brushed her fringe aside, leaving a trail of damp compost on her forehead, and dug her mobile out of a pocket in her cargo pants. The on-screen message had her casting a furtive glance at her watch.

Four sixteen pm.

Rob wouldn’t be home for half an hour, or more if he was working late, which he was doing more often lately.

She read the message again.

Should she wait for him, or just get ready and go? It wasn’t as though he’d want to come with her. Hadn’t been invited either.

Picturing him standing hands on hips while she stuttered about Friday afternoon drinks with the girls, she could already feel the hot glare of his disapproval. The furrows in his brow would deepen and his lips tighten into the thin, pinched line she’d come to loathe.

That settles it.

Leaping to her feet, she marched into the house, peeling off her gardening gloves and flicking them onto an outdoor chair as she went. She’d have to hustle in order to be gone by the time Rob got home, so she shrugged out of her faded tee shirt while heading to the bedroom. Dropping the shirt and her mud-stained cargos on the bedroom floor, she opened the wardrobe and eyed its contents.

Was the grey skirt, plain black shirt and lightweight grey cardie really the best outfit on offer?

‘Not that old get-up again!’ Bestie Paige’s voice rang in her head.

Muttering, ‘’Fraid so,’ Caitlin grabbed the outfit and dragged it on, before slipping her feet into a pair of scuffed black pumps on her way to the ensuite. After splashing her face to remove all traces of compost, she reached for the imitation French perfume, ‘Essence of Paree’, Rob’s latest birthday gift to her.

At first thrilled by his thoughtfulness, she’d soon discovered the ‘imitation’ had a nasty tendency to grow stale once exposed to the air, a fact her mother took pleasure in teasing her about. That was, until Catlin informed her the scent had been a gift from Rob, who could do no wrong in his mother-in-law’s eyes.

Noting its peeling label with a grimace, Caitlin set the bottle down without misting herself with the dubious scent. She gave a wry snort. ‘Essence of compost’ would have to do. Taking a quick glance in the mirror, she frowned at the condition of her straw-blonde hair.

I should’ve washed it last night, but lately I just can’t be bothered worrying about my looks. And Rob certainly doesn’t seem to notice ... or care. Not lately, anyhow.

Dragging her hair back into a limp ponytail, she leaned closer to the mirror, eyes roving over her face. It was so colourless and drawn….

About to reach for her makeup bag, she glanced at her wristwatch.

Any moment now Rob could pull into the driveway, in that pretentious Lexus of his.

So what if she looked washed-out? She wasn’t trying to impress anyone.

I need to escape while I can.

With a final wince at her wan reflection she whirled around, snatched up her bargain-bin vinyl handbag, and sprinted from the room.

* * *

At the sudden blare of the Veronicas’ song You Ruined Me from her mobile, Megan groaned, rolled over, and peered at her watch.

Four thirteen pm.

As she grabbed her phone from the bedside table, she knocked one of the empty wine glasses onto the carpeted floor.

Damn!

Scowling, she held the mobile in front of her face and blinked at the screen, before stabbing a crimson fingernail on the DECLINE CALL button. As the intrusive sound ceased she blew a grateful breath, and was about to set down the phone again when it chimed.

A text message this time.

Rubbing her eyes, she read the message and sat up, tugging the sheet higher to cover her bare breasts. She barely noticed the dark-haired arm that had been slung over her body slip to the mattress. When its owner gave a grunt and made as if to pull her close again, she flashed a tight smile and moved out of his reach, ignoring his grumbles.

Rising, she gathered her suit and blouse from the chair where she’d slung them and marched into the bathroom, closing the door behind her with a firm click.

On catching sight of her reflection in the full-length mirror, she took a moment to check her appearance.

Body still firm … ish. Waist slim above a well-rounded – make that shapely – derriere. Breasts still pert enough to go braless under satin.

All still passable … I guess.

Risking a peek at her face, she gave a satisfied sniff at her smooth, double-cream complexion. But when her eyes fell on crimson lipstick smudges around her mouth, evidence of the afternoon’s illicit rendezvous, her brow furrowed and she hastily rubbed the smears away. Pressing her lips together, she raked fingers through her glossy square bob and tucked it behind her ears. Would the regular straightening she insisted on having take its toll on her dark hair’s natural lustre?

But now was not the time to ponder that. She had to dress and make her exit with more poise than she felt.

Hard to appear poised with self-loathing swirling in your gut.

Damn self-talk! Why don’t you just shut up.

Still buttoning her blouse, she bustled back into the room and with one hand, scooped her designer leather handbag off the floor.

‘Wait,’ the man on the bed said thickly. He lifted himself onto one elbow, winced, and fell back again with a groan. ‘I should know better than to mix my drinks.’

Surely he didn’t expect sympathy?

With a silent snort, she snatched up her patent high heels and, hopping on one foot at a time, slipped them on.

From the bed the man peered groggily at her and ran a hand over his face, mumbling, ‘When will I see you next?’

Flashing him a look, she sucked in an angry breath and snarled, ‘I told you not to wear that … thing … when we’re together.’ She glared down at him, uncaring that the bed sheet only partially hid his naked form.

The man froze, and then tugged at the gold band encircling his ring finger. ‘Sorry, I … forgot.’

Indignation joined the guilt filling her throat. Snapping, ‘Don’t forget again,’ in a strangled voice, she strode to the door and opened it a crack to peer out. ‘Or there won’t be a next time.’

Behind her, the man gave up trying to remove the ring from where it was stubbornly embedded in the flesh of his finger, and sank back against the pillows. ‘Gonna get the damn thing cut off the first chance I get.’ He twirled a hand to indicate the rumpled bed. ‘These sessions ... oh, and you, of course,’ and he winced, ‘are totally worth it.’

‘Worth making up some explanation if she notices your wedding ring’s gone?’ Megan arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Don’t bother on my account. Just don’t wear it in my presence. And as for our “sessions”, if you so much as whisper about them to anyone—’

‘I know, I know.’ He sounded peeved. ‘I want to keep us a secret just as much as you do, remember. Maybe even more.’

‘Good, so you won’t forget. Oh, and there is no “us”. Don’t ever make the mistake of thinking there’s anything more than,’ and she flicked a derogatory hand to indicate the room, ‘this between us.’ Blowing him an airy kiss, she turned, stepped into the hotel corridor, and let the door swing shut behind her.

* * *

‘You’ve been home a lot the past few days, what’s the go? Not volunteering anymore?’ Sauntering into the lounge room, Kristabelle sank into one of the armchairs as another voice began a string of mournful croaks that sounded something like, ‘B-aaack t-aa oh-ffin.’

Juanita’s head flew up and she eyed the crow perched on her teenage daughter’s black-clad shoulder. ‘Oh Belle, do you have to dress like that?’ Rewarded with a roll of darkly kohled eyes and pursed black lips, she gritted her teeth. ‘And did that horrid bird of yours just speak?’

The girl’s lips twitched but in true Goth style she suppressed the grin. ‘Mm. I taught Sheol to say “back to the coffin”. Isn’t he clever? Oh, and thank you for calling him horrid.’

‘Humph!’

Into the stony silence that followed, Kristabelle prompted, ‘So, why aren’t you out doing your “charitable duty”, Nita?’

‘Oh, that’s another thing! Why have you stopped calling me “Mum”?’

‘Why shouldn’t I call you Nita? Everyone else does.’

‘Everyone else isn’t my daughter.’

With a careless shrug of a shoulder, Kristabelle droned, ‘So, Mum, have you given up your oh-so-noble charity work?’

Nita frowned and blew a long breath.

Should she just say yes, or admit that she’d copped a starchy ‘We’ll call you’ when enquiring about her next shift at the centre?

And yes, that call never came.

She’d been sacked.

Let go.

Terminated.

From a totally volunteer, totally unpaid job. And just because she’d made a few blunders? Three, that she could be sure of....

There was the ‘scruffs’ incident. And yes, calling them that was gaffe number one, earning her a sharp, “We use the term clients,” from the centre coordinator.

How was she to know the scruffs ... er ... clients were homeless? All she knew was that they were lingering in the centre at closing time, casting furtive glances into dark corners as though hoping to spend the night there. So she’d asked them, ‘Don’t you chaps have a home to go to?’

On to gaffe number two.

All she’d said was, ‘Here, I’ll give you a hand,’ when offering to help one of the centre’s more miserable-looking clients pack up his gear. How was she to know the recent amputee was struggling to come to grips (and yes, she’d fired that missile too) with being one-handed for the rest of his life?

And then came blunder number three, involving a long-time ‘client’ affectionately known as Wheelchair Bob. Unable to speak or move, apart from a few facial expressions and grunt-like sounds, Bob had been coming to the centre for years, accompanied by his assigned carer.

With those earlier blunders dogging her, Nita saw a chance to redeem herself the day Bob’s carer called in sick. She offered to take him on his afternoon wheelchair stroll around the park-like grounds – after first disinfecting the chair’s handles, of course – and despite her obvious misgivings, the increasingly steely-eyed centre overseer had accepted the offer.

Out they went into the garden, where Nita parked Bob in a shady spot to enjoy the flowers, butterflies, and birds. Sitting with him in the quiet of the garden, broken only by an occasional ‘ouch!’ when a blood-sucking march fly (also known as horse flies, or tabanids to the more scientific among us) sank their teeth into her bare ankles, Nita’s eyelids drooped. So she was pleased to be roused by the receptionist beckoning her to the office to take an important phone call.

Of course now she knew she should’ve taken Bob. But thinking he was fine where he was, she’d left him to hurry inside. The call took longer then expected, and on returning she found Bob moaning loudly and arching his torso against the wheelchair’s back.

The centre overseer must’ve heard his plaintive cries, for she was at his side moments before Nita. Together they stared in horror at the march flies latched onto the exposed skin of Bob’s ankles, arms and neck. Trapped in his chair and powerless to shoo them away, he could only writhe, open mouthed and wild-eyed as the voracious insects bit into his pale, tender, unprotected skin.

Three strikes and you’re out appeared to be the rule of thumb for the overseer, who obviously concluded Nita’s gaffes weren’t simply flashes in the pan.

If that’s the way it has to be, the officious so-and-so can just run the place single-handedly for all I care.

‘Well?’ Kristabelle clearly wasn’t about to let the subject drop.

Nita released a long breath. ‘Yes, I gave it up.’

Moaning, ‘Oh, great,’ Kristabelle tilted her head back as far as it would go. ‘So that’s why I have to put up with Frank Sinatra playing over and over again, every single day.’

‘Tsk! I don’t play him that often.’ Nita thrust both hands on her hips. ‘As you well know.’

‘Often enough to annoy those of us who have to live here, hey Sheol?’ Scratching her crow’s head with a black-tipped finger, Kristabelle flashed her mother a shrewd glance. ‘Dad’s been gone a long time. Why don’t you find some different music to enjoy?’

Nita frowned.

How to respond?

She loved Sinatra’s music because of the memories it invoked. Kristabelle knew that, but would never understand how badly her mother needed to keep those memories alive.

The song Fools Rush In sprang to mind, along with the heart-swelling memories of dancing with Jack on their first date. If she closed her eyes and listened to Sinatra crooning the words, Nita could almost feel Jack holding her in his arms….

She gave a start when her mobile beeped with a text message, and whipped the phone from her pants pocket. After a quick scan of the text, she got to her feet and checked the time.

Four sixteen pm.

Squaring her shoulders she announced, ‘I’m going out. Can you and it,’ and she flicked a disdainful finger at the crow, ‘arrange dinner for yourselves?’

Busy blowing air kisses at Sheol, Kristabelle gave a careless shrug in reply.

As Nita left the room with a meaningful roll of eyes at the polished brass urn on the mantelpiece, she was farewelled by another raspy croak of, ‘B-aaack t-aa oh-ffin.’

* * *

Grace’s bling-encased mobile vibrated to life, belting out an excerpt of the band’s latest number, a cover of Rhianna’s We Found Love. She answered the call just as her other, equally sparkly mobile lying on the passenger seat chimed with an incoming text message. She glanced at it while pressing the first mobile to her ear, to hear a deep voice rumble, ‘Hey, that you, baby?’

‘Jake? Yeah, it’s me.’

‘How’d it go?’

‘How’d what go?’

‘You know, the thing with Daniel.’

Damn.

She bit her lip. ‘Sorry, can’t talk right now. I’m driving—’

‘I just wanna know it’s done. That you gave him the flick. ’Cos I don’t want him turnin’ up unexpectedly or makin’ a scene if we happen to run into him somewhere.’

Grace clicked her tongue. Men shouldn’t nag, it made them seem needy and pathetic. And who could have the hots for a pathetic man?

‘I get it, but “running into Daniel somewhere” is hardly likely in the circumstances is it, Jake? So quit worrying. Look, I’ve gotta dash. I’ll call you later.’

When he took an audible breath as if to argue she pressed the End Call button and dropped that phone onto the passenger seat. Scooping up the other one to read the message, her expression cleared and she noted the time.

Four seventeen pm.

She grinned. ‘Impeccable timing, Paige.’ Slipping the makeup purse from her designer handbag, Grace checked her lipstick and eyeliner, brushed her blonde tresses to a gilded shine, and gave herself a quick mist of Givenchy perfume. Humming a tune as she pulled out of the car park in her sporty red roadster, she flicked the indicator and joined the flow of traffic.

Ready to continue the rollercoaster ride? The full novel is available in ebook and/or paperback from all good retail sites, by clicking here.

And here's what one review had to say about it:

'You've ... orchestrated an entire suburban menagerie of drama, friendship, and hidden pastries! I mean - five women, each with their quirks, secrets, and (possibly imaginary) romance ... you've basically created a reality TV show that doesn't need cameras, just readers ready to sip cappuccinos while chaos unfolds!'