And the good news kept coming. A call from the estate agent confirmed that an offer had been made on Bluebell Cottage, at the full asking price. The buyers were a couple with a young family who loved everything about it.
Henry and his nephew sat with Olivia to go over the details and the finances, assuring her the sale would cover Nana’s nursing home bills for at least another year, and would also allow Olivia to clear the outstanding debts on the bookshop and leave sufficient in reserve to cover the rent for a couple of years. When the sale went through, she would effectively be back in the black. Her heart exhaled with a wave of relief. The shop had been given a temporary reprieve, and while her personal problems still loomed beneath the surface, the good news was enough to buoy her for the rest of the day.
Partly to distract herself from thinking about Jack and weddings, and partly to celebrate the sale of the cottage, Olivia insisted on taking Ross for a drink. A couple of phone calls settled arrangements for Iris to have a sleepover with her best friend, and when the shop closed for the day, Olivia and Ross made their way to the Abbey Tavern.
“Thank God for the school mums,” Ross said as they walked down the hill. “They’re forever offering to take Iris for the day or the weekend. She’s a great kid, but it’s hard. You know?”
Olivia didn’t know, but she could imagine, having been a child of a single parent. “This is all most unlike me, by the way,” she said as they strolled.
“What do you mean?”
“I never invite people for a drink without having planned it for weeks.”
“So why did you?”
“I’m not sure. Good mood. Offer on the cottage. Fairies in the window . . .”
“Who needs a reason, anyway? We deserve it.” Ross held the door for her as they stepped inside. “So, what will it be? A glass of white wine for ‘the lady’? Tequila shots?”
Olivia elbowed him in the ribs. “I’ll have a pint, you eejit.”
They stayed longer than either of them had planned to. It was one of those unexpectedly perfect evenings when the conversation flowed as easily as the drinks, and neither Ross nor Olivia wanted to bring the night to an end. Ross made Olivia laugh. She made him drink gin and tonic. He talked about Iris a lot, and Olivia talked about books. After the fourth drink, she told him about her mother’s accident, and he told her about his wife’s short battle with cancer, after which they shared a packet of crisps and a moment of quiet reflection. Only once did Olivia consider telling Ross about Jack, but she didn’t want to spoil the evening, so she pushed him from her mind and said nothing.
After the fifth drink and a disastrous game of darts, Ross told Olivia about the book he was working on, and she confessed to her secret dream of buying the empty cottage next to Something Old and opening a shop for new books. Ross said she should call it Something New, which made them laugh hysterically for twenty minutes as Olivia tried to scribble it drunkenly onto the back of her hand so she wouldn’t forget.
After the sixth drink and a shot of tequila for the road, they stumbled back to the bookshop, where Olivia lit a dozen tea lights and Ross opened a bottle of Sancerre she’d been saving for a special occasion, even though it was described as having undertones of gooseberry, which made them both hysterical again as Ross checked the mirror after every glass to see if his lips were swelling up.
They sat together on the threadbare Turkish rug and drank the wine by candlelight while Ross played bad renditions of Van Morrison and Jeff Buckley on his guitar. By the time the bottle was empty, there wasn’t much about each other they hadn’t shared, their secrets and inhibitions falling from them like autumn leaves. There was just one secret that Olivia held tightly in her heart.
The end of the bottle came too soon, and Olivia kicked herself for not having another in the fridge. Their glasses sat empty on the floor beside them.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Ross said as he stood up and pulled on his jacket.
Olivia scrambled to her feet. “Sorry there isn’t anything else. I told you I hadn’t planned this.”
“Probably just as well. That second bottle is never a good idea.”
“Yeah. Probably just as well.”
“Probably.”
For the first time since they’d met, Olivia let her guard drop. There was no filter, no joking, no wondering. She was simply in the moment, her cheeks warmed by the glow of alcohol and candlelight and something else she couldn’t explain. She saw it in Ross’s eyes too. An acceptance. A letting go.
She leaned forward first.
The kiss was inevitable and unexpected and different from any kiss Olivia had ever known. It was a kiss of a thousand days of sadness lost in a single moment of tender, searching connection. It was a kiss full of question and doubt and fear. It was a kiss of life, each of them breathing hope back into the other, and despite the many reasons she shouldn’t, Olivia grasped the moment and held on to it as if it were the only thing that mattered.
Whether it would matter only for that night or for a lifetime, she didn’t know. What she did know was that she had floundered for far too long, and in that brief, perfect moment as Ross Bailey, Writer, cupped her face so gently in his hands, she felt wildly, wonderfully alive in a way she had never felt before.
It was only later, as she lay alone in the dark, staring at the stars spinning in the clear skies through the skylight, that her conscience taunted her. She hadn’t told Ross a lie, exactly, but by saying nothing about Jack or her impending wedding, she hadn’t exactly told him the truth, either.
She remembered her mother had once told her that a lie told often enough can become its own truth. Over the past few weeks, she had distanced herself so entirely from her life in London that it had now become the lie. A lie she had been living for too long. Now, as she lay in a blissful fog of illicit kisses and alcohol, watching the unfathomable enormity of the heavens spinning above her, she found the answer she’d been searching for.
She could not marry Jack.
Twelve
Ireland. Present day.
Nana was wearing her blue coat, red hair licking around her face like flames. Olivia held so tightly to her hands that her fingers ached. Nana was all she had now.
The church fizzed with silence. It pressed in on her like the moody heat before a thunderstorm. Everything was magnified. Her footsteps echoed off the flagstones. Someone coughed. Someone sobbed. Someone sneezed. She could smell lilies and the other flowers Mammy liked. She didn’t know what they were called, but the colors reminded her of rainbow drops and candy bracelets. She kept walking, her hand gripping Nana’s as they reached the front pew.
She sat on the hard bench and blinked back her tears.
The casket was made of glossy wood; a garland of flowers trembled on top as the pallbearers set it down on a table with too-thin legs. What if it buckled under the weight of everyone’s sadness? It was all she could think about as the priest said Mass. At one point, she gasped and wondered if her Mammy could hear her.
The hymns and the prayers from the congregation went on and on, droning like bees. She wanted to scream.
As everyone filed back out of the church, Nana hugged her and whispered that it was over now. But Olivia knew this sadness, this dark ache in her bones, would follow her everywhere.
It would never be over. Her mother’s absence would be with her, part of her. Always.
LEADEN GRAY RAIN arrived as Olivia woke on the Monday morning, bringing with it the anniversary of the accident. Another year without her mother. Another day to be a little more aware of her absence.
She picked up the photograph from the windowsill. The one of herself as a baby, gazing adoringly at her mother. It was one of only a handful of photographs of the two of them together. So much love, captured by the click of a button.
She settled back against the pillows, watching the raindrops slipping down the windowpanes, imitating the tears that fell down her cheeks as she sang their favorite song. “‘There are fairies
at the bottom of our garden! / It’s not so very, very far away; You pass the gardener’s shed and you just keep straight ahead— / I do so hope they’ve really come to stay.’”
She lay in bed for an hour, thinking, remembering, and cringing after Friday night’s unexpected developments with Ross. At least they’d had the good sense to stop with the kiss. Ross had walked home and Olivia had fallen asleep fully clothed. They hadn’t contacted each other over the weekend. Their kiss remained the lovely, spontaneous thing that it was, and Olivia was glad it hadn’t been spoiled by either of them overthinking it.
But her conscience pestered her.
Loose ends remained.
Truths must be told, despite the inevitable consequences.
WHEN ROSS ARRIVED for work, Olivia was relieved to discover that she was neither love-struck nor mortified in his presence. She was just pleased to see him, and Iris, who breezed into the shop like a daisy in yellow and white, her red wellies squeaking against the floorboards. A hassled-looking Ross skulked in behind her, saying he had a huge favor to ask.
Olivia raised her eyebrows and wished he would stop looking so casually handsome.
“Is there any chance you could mind Iris for a few hours? I’ve a meeting with my editor, and school’s closed for teacher training or something. I forgot, because I’m an idiot. It’s only for a few hours. I wouldn’t ask, Liv, but I’m really stuck.”
He couldn’t have known that today of all days wasn’t the best for Olivia, but she couldn’t say no when the child was already standing beside her and besides, Olivia liked Iris. Perhaps it was that she saw a lot of herself in her: head always in a book, endless questions, the knowing sense that she was different now, forever changed beneath the gaping absence of her mother.
“It’s fine. Go on. But you owe me.”
He went to hug her but changed his mind, and what might have been a lovely embrace became an awkward sort of chest bump. “You’re a star, Liv. Thanks a million.”
Olivia turned to Iris. “You don’t mind hanging out with me for a while, do you?”
“Nope. Can I watch cartoons?”
Olivia looked at Ross, who nodded his consent. “Go on then. I’ll come up in a minute.”
Iris followed Hemingway upstairs to the flat, leaving Ross, Olivia, and Friday night’s kiss alone in the shop.
They both started to speak at the same time.
“Listen, about Friday night . . .”
“I hope you’re not . . .”
Olivia waved Ross’s explanation away. “It’s fine. A drunken mistake. Don’t worry.”
He smiled shyly and said that was a relief. “I’ve been thinking about it all weekend, worrying that you might be expecting a marriage proposal! Thanks for being cool about it. I told you gooseberries were bad for me.”
Olivia wished him good luck for his meeting and closed the door behind him. As the bell fell silent, she felt utterly deflated.
Why hadn’t she told him about Jack? Why had she let it all get so complicated?
IRIS WAS A pleasant child, but she was still a child, and after an hour spent trying to keep her occupied while she got on with some work, Olivia realized she couldn’t indefinitely keep a seven-year-old entertained in a small bookshop. To her relief, Henry appeared—as he was apt to do whenever she needed him—and offered to mind the shop while Olivia took Iris out for some fresh air. Monday mornings were always quiet, so Olivia agreed, grabbed her coat and bag, and left Henry to it. It was Iris’s idea to go to the Fairy Tree in Marlay Park. It was a long journey, but she promised Olivia it would be worth it.
By the time they arrived, the rain had stopped, leaving sunshine and puddles for Iris to splash in as they walked through the park.
Iris pulled Olivia along, eager to get there as quickly as possible, leading her along a shaded path that wound through the trees until she took a left turn down an even narrower path, and there it was: an ancient-looking tree trunk in a clearing, with castle turrets on top. Around the side of the tree, spiral steps led up to tiny windows, dainty washing lines suspended between them. At the foot of the tree was a miniature door. Iris stood on tiptoe to peer into the windows before crouching down to knock on the door, whispering secret messages. Olivia’s attention was drawn to the things pinned to the trunk.
“What’s all this, Iris?”
“Those are the wishes. For the fairies.”
Olivia took a closer look at the strange collection of trinkets tied to the tree: baby soothers, pictures, flowers, and messages. “I wish for Mammy to be better soon.” “Dear fairies, please look after my baby brother what’s in heaven.” “Thank you for bringing the money for my tooth.” Such simple, beautiful sentiments.
Olivia asked Iris if she wanted to make a wish.
“I already did,” she said. “I always wish the same thing.” She came closer to Olivia and whispered, “I wish for Mammy to come home.” Olivia’s heart broke as Iris grasped her hand. “But I don’t think the fairies can hear me, because it never comes true.”
Olivia bent down and placed her hands on Iris’s cheeks. “Oh, sweetheart. Some wishes are just too big, even for the fairies.”
“That’s what Daddy says. He says Mammy is with the fairies now and that they’re all looking after me, even if I can’t see them.”
“And I think he’s right.” She hugged Iris and wished she could take away some of her heartache. “You know, my mammy went to play with the fairies, too, when I was only young.”
“Does she still look after you?”
“She does. All the time.”
“I wish Daddy had a fairy to look after him. I think he’s sad.”
“Well, we’d better do something about that, then.” Olivia rummaged around in her bag until she found an old envelope and a pen. “Here. Make a wish for your Daddy. If you leave it at the tree, the fairies will read it.”
When Iris had written her note, Olivia helped her push it into a knot in the tree. Iris stood back to admire it before rushing off into the trees beside them.
“Where are you going?”
“To find a flower. You have to leave them a gift.”
She returned with a handful of bluebells, which she laid at the door.
Olivia hoped with her whole heart that the fairies were listening and watching, because of all the little girls she had ever met, she couldn’t think of one who was more deserving of her wish to come true than little Iris Bailey in her red wellies.
IT WAS ONLY when Olivia was locking up the shop for the day that she noticed a package on the desk. It was addressed to Olivia Kavanagh, Something Old, Little Lane, Howth, County Dublin. It must have arrived while Henry was minding the shop and he’d forgotten to mention it to her.
She opened the padded envelope and removed an early edition of Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens. Inside the frontispiece was an inscription. “For Olivia. ‘And that was the beginning of fairies.’”
There was no signature. No date. No note.
There never was.
A book had arrived on every anniversary of her mother’s death, secretly, quietly, without fuss or flourish. Sometimes it was left on the bottom of the bed. Sometimes she would find it in her schoolbag. Sometimes it was sitting on the stairs, and always there was a simple inscription to her inside, but never a note saying whom it was from. She knew they were from Pappy, although he never admitted it. He admired the books when she showed them to him, joining in the charade of the mystery. And yet this couldn’t possibly have come from him. So who was it from?
The rain returned during the evening, casting everything into an autumnal gloom. Glad to be alone after she’d locked up, Olivia kicked off her shoes and took the Peter Pan book upstairs to the flat, where Hemingway had made himself at home on the foot of the bed. She wriggled beneath the duvet and started to read.
It was nearly dawn when she reached the final pages: “Jane is now a common grown-up, with a daughter called Margaret. . . . When Margaret grows up she will have a
daughter, who is to be Peter’s mother in turn; and thus it will go on. . . .”
Olivia thought about the family photographs lined up on the mantelpiece in Bluebell Cottage, the memories safely stored away behind the glass frames: great-grandma Ellen on the doorstep of the cottage in the woods with a baby in her arms; Nana Martha with her baby daughter in her arms; the photograph of her own mother cradling her in her arms, their whole uncertain life stretching out before them like the sea in the background. Four generations of women, each of their stories continuing through each other. Four generations of women, of which Olivia was currently the last—and always would be.
The reality of it all hit her hard.
Finally, she let go of the anguish she’d carried since reading the letter from the consultant. She let go of all the hours spent in consulting rooms being prodded and poked, and all the hours spent lying awake at night, hoping for a different answer than the one she received. It seemed especially unfair that after losing her own mother in such traumatic circumstances, she was now unable to become a mother herself.
Silently, the tears came. One by one, they slipped onto the pillow, each taking away part of a future she’d always imagined—assumed—would be hers. She would have been a good mother, in honor of her own. She would have created special memories for her children to collect and keep in buckets of their own. She would have done the best she could.
As her tears subsided, she lay back against the pillows and read the final words of the book. “Of course in the end Wendy let them fly away together. Our last glimpse of her shows her at the window, watching them receding into the sky until they were as small as stars.”
That night, in her dreams, she sat on the harbor wall, legs cool against the concrete, cheeks reddened by the sun, heart warmed by the shape of her mammy beside her.
And while she slept, a note from Henry sat unseen where it had fallen beneath the desk downstairs.
A note saying that someone had called in earlier, looking for her.