They shook hands as if they were sealing a business deal, and Olivia wondered how it was that one moment you were dealing with the impact of your grandfather’s last will and testament and wondering how to call off your wedding, and the next you’d inadvertently come to the rescue of a little girl and were being thanked by her father, who carried an intriguing scent of sea spray and turf smoke and whose eyes were the color of good whiskey.
Ross Bailey had the appearance of someone who didn’t especially care what he looked like, or didn’t have time to worry about it, but looked good anyway. In jeans, a crumpled gig T-shirt, and a floppy beanie worn casually over shoulder-length hair he was a negative image of Jack—perfectly groomed, perfectly fragrant, perfectly ironed Jack. Intrigued by his crumples and stubble and eau de mer, Olivia held Ross’s hand a moment too long. Long enough to feel the hard edge of his wedding band against her palm. Long enough to feel a momentary pang of guilt at having taken off her engagement ring.
“Iris was very polite and brave,” she said, dropping Ross’s hand like a hot coal, and shoving hers firmly into her skirt pocket.
Iris beamed at the compliment, the color returning to her cheeks in perfect pink circles as she grasped her father’s hand. She was the image of him. The same lived-in eyes. The same quizzical eyebrows.
Ross ruffled Iris’s hair affectionately. “She’s always wandering off, this one. Daydreaming. Chasing cats and clouds. I guessed she might have come here. I’m a writer, so I often drop in looking for inspiration or a cup of tea. Mac makes a great brew!”
“You know Grandpa Cormac?”
“Mac’s your grandpa?”
Olivia nodded. Is? Was? How did you refer to the recently departed?
“Ah, he’s a great man. Always finding interesting books for me, and always has a few stories of his own to tell. Is he around?”
This was what Olivia dreaded the most. Having to tell people. Having to explain it all, over and over, as if somehow her grandfather’s death was her fault and she had to constantly apologize for it.
She turned to Iris. “There’s a shelf full of lovely children’s books over there. Do you want to have a look? I need to have a quick chat with your dad.”
Iris skipped off to the far corner of the shop as Ross looked at Olivia, confused.
“I’m sorry.” She dragged the words—those words—from the depths of her heart. “Grandpa Cormac died. A week ago.”
The color drained from Ross’s face. “No way. I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
“It’s okay. He’d lived a good life.”
It was a terrible cliché, and Olivia hated herself for saying it. Pappy had lived a quiet, gentle life, the life of a humble, hardworking man who’d given everything to make sure his family was happy—to make sure she was happy. In the days since his death, she’d thought a lot about who he’d been as a boy, as a young man in love, as a father at war. She’d never talked to him and Nana about those parts of their lives. Somehow she’d always sensed the past wasn’t a place they especially cared to revisit. Eventually she’d stopped asking. Now she would never know those parts of their story, and like an old book with missing pages, it troubled her.
Ross said again how sorry he was. “I can’t believe it. Mac was one of those people you imagine will go on forever. He was a good man. A really good man.”
“It was all very sudden . . . his heart . . .” Olivia couldn’t say the word stopped, unable to believe that a heart so big and strong could stop. “I just found out he left me the shop in his will.” She spread her arms in a sweeping arc. “This is all mine now.”
Ross whistled through his teeth. “Wow. That’s quite an inheritance. Are you a bookseller, then?”
She laughed. “No! I don’t know the first thing about selling books. I’m a bookbinder by trade.”
“Cool. So you, like, stick old books back together?”
Ross reminded Olivia of an eager puppy. She couldn’t help smiling at his enthusiasm. “Yeah. Something like that. I restore rare books. I’m contracting at the National Art Library at the V&A in London.”
“Sounds impressive. So, how does owning a bookshop in Ireland fit in with that?”
Olivia rubbed her fingers around the edges of the engagement ring in her pocket. “I’m not sure yet.”
Ross cast his gaze around the shop. “I’ve always thought this place was amazing. It’s like something from another time. You know? Hidden gem.”
“A bit too hidden. Typical Pappy, opening a shop where nobody can find it. He doesn’t even have a website.”
“Pappy?”
She blushed. “Nickname. It’s what I called him when I was younger.”
“Cute. I called mine Gumpa. Although I secretly called him Grumpa. He was a miserable old sod, God rest him.”
Olivia laughed. It was such a spontaneous, bright sound that it took her by surprise. As did Ross. A total stranger to Olivia, and yet not to Pappy, who had always been a good judge of character. Olivia wanted to keep talking to Ross—about Pappy and other things—because something told her he would listen and understand, not judge or condemn.
“So, what’s the plan, then?” he asked, peering over Olivia’s shoulder to check on Iris.
“I don’t have one.” It was the truth. She didn’t. Her plans were shifting by the minute, it seemed. “I haven’t a clue where to start, to be honest. It’s all a bit of a shock.”
“Well, these things usually happen for a reason. I’m sure you’ll work it out. Actually, now that I think of it, Mac was always talking about you—his Olivia. And Martha. How is she?”
Nana Martha. Olivia winced with guilt at the thought of her. “She’s doing okay. Some days are better than others. It’s not easy.”
Olivia hated it: Alzheimer’s. She hated to watch the agonizing demise of the vibrant woman she’d once known. She hated visiting the nursing home, not just because of the smell of the place or the quiet sense of defeat that hung in the air—she hated not knowing how Nana would be when she got there, hated not knowing whether Nana would recognize her. Olivia felt physically sick every time she walked through the nursing home doors, and that was where she was heading this afternoon.
Her thoughts were interrupted as Iris appeared at her side. “Who’s this, Olivia?”
Iris had one of the Conan Doyle magazine articles in her hand. The one with the picture of Alice and the fairies. After not seeing the image for so many years, Olivia found it upsetting and for a moment she couldn’t respond.
Ross took the page from his daughter. “Iris! You shouldn’t be nosing around in other people’s things.” He handed it to Olivia. “Sorry. Iris, say you’re sorry to Olivia.”
Iris blushed and stared hard at her feet. “Sorry, Olivia. I liked the picture.”
Olivia heard herself saying that it was all right. Not a problem. That it was just an old newspaper cutting. But it wasn’t. It was so much more than that.
Ross apologized again. “Too curious for her own good, this one.”
“Aren’t all children?”
Iris tugged at Olivia’s skirt, beckoning her to bend down and cupping her hand over Olivia’s ear. “Are the fairies real?” she whispered.