Propping herself up against her pillow, she watched the hypnotic ribbons of sunlight that streamed through the window and cast a sheen against the peach silk curtains. Her mind flipped from London to Ireland and back again, her thoughts racing over the lists she had made and remade in recent months: flowers, wine, favors, gifts for the bridesmaids, band, DJ . . . She’d only wanted a small wedding. Close family and friends. How had it become so big and time-consuming? The Wedding and The Dress were all anyone ever talked about so that she—Olivia—was a mere afterthought, an accessory. As she stared up at the purple lampshade that had accompanied so many of her dilemmas over the years, she felt nauseated at the thought of returning to that life, and exhilarated by the prospect of not.
There was nothing especially wrong with Jack, other than the fact that there was nothing especially right about him. An unlikely partner whom she’d met after being stood up on a date, he had completely surprised her with a proposal the following Christmas Eve. Most surprising of all was the yes Olivia had heard herself saying. A yes formed from shock and other people’s expectations and the unavoidable sound of her biological clock ticking. Marriage, family, a mortgage—it was time she settled down, wasn’t it? Yet that was the part troubling her the most. The settling down. Making the best of it. Being content. Content? The word alone filled her with a deep malaise. Contentment was a poor substitute for the fulfilling, enriching life she’d imagined, but how could she get back to that? Pappy used to say that an explorer without a map must become a mapmaker. It sounded so romantic: plotting a different course, charting new waters. That was the life she wanted. Not the paint-by-numbers predictability she found herself in the middle of now.
Stepping out of bed, she opened the curtains, blinking against the glare of the sun as it bounced off the sea. She grabbed her sunglasses and pushed up the casement window, savoring the purity of the air, the briny tang, the sense of well-being that flooded her body with every breath. In the harbor the boats bobbed gently in the swell, while above, wispy clouds raced the seagulls and chased shadows across the water. The clang of mast bells and the snap of rigging drifted back on the breeze. Olivia’s senses were attuned to the environment here, where they always felt numbed in London, smothered by the unrelenting pressure to live the perfect life.
She washed and dressed and made her way downstairs.
The house was hesitant and cold. It, too, was grieving.
She pulled up the kitchen blind, glad of the sunlight that streamed through the slats and pooled on the table like melted butter. She filled the kettle, switched on the heater, flicked on the radio. A lively piano concerto filled the silence with purpose and energy. She walked through to the sitting room, where an army of condolence and mass cards marched across the mantelpiece. “We are sorry for your loss.” “In deepest sympathy.” Several had toppled from their perch, forming a puddle of grief on the hearth rug below. Olivia gathered them up until the mantelpiece was cleared and the cherished family photographs that had sat there for decades were revealed once again. Among them was her favorite photograph of herself as a baby with her mother, the tips of their noses just touching, a look of absolute adoration in her mother’s eyes. So much love, captured by the click of a button.
A knock at the back door disturbed her thoughts.
Dropping the collection of sympathy cards into the kitchen bin, she opened the door, delighted to see Mrs. Joyce, the neighbor who never seemed to age and had always reminded Olivia of a Russian doll with her headscarf and rouged cheeks.
Olivia threw her arms around her. “Mrs. Joyce! It’s so lovely to see you.”
“I’m not disturbing you, am I? I won’t stop. I saw the curtains open and said to Joe I’d look in on you. ‘I hate to think of that young girl all alone in there,’ I says.” She handed Olivia a Tupperware container. “Brownies. Fresh out of the oven.”
“You’re very good. Come in. The kettle’s just boiled.”
“Grand so, but I’ll not stop. Just one cup.” Mrs. Joyce stepped inside, rubbing her hands briskly together against the morning chill. “I like your hair, love. It suits you. Brings out your eyes.” She hesitated a moment before adding, “You look just like your mam. The spit of her.”
They sat together at the kitchen table, drinking sweet tea and eating brownies as the notes from a violin solo mingled with the steam that drifted in spirals from their mugs. Olivia was in no hurry—happy to find an excuse to put off the things she had to face up to—and neither, it seemed, was Mrs. Joyce. Her “just one cup” became a second pot as Olivia told her about Pappy’s letter and the fact that he had left her the shop.
Mrs. Joyce wasn’t surprised. “You always loved that shop. Martha used to say you would live there if you could! You’ll do a grand job, love. I know you will.”
Olivia didn’t mention Jack or the threatening letter from the solicitor. She didn’t admit that apart from her passion for books and her skill in restoring them, she felt totally unqualified for the task.
“Have you started clearing things out yet?” Mrs. Joyce asked. “Never a nice job, sure it isn’t, but best to get it done rather than letting it hang over you.”
“I promised myself I’d start today. I’m dreading it, to be honest.”
She couldn’t bear the thought of rummaging through drawers and cupboards, disturbing the private places where Nana and Pappy kept their secrets. She’d done it before when she’d helped Pappy sort through Nana’s things, sifting through her life like museum curators, choosing the best pieces to display in her new room at St. Bridget’s. Pappy had insisted on at least one of her china dogs going with her. The doctors said familiar things would create a sense of home for Nana and make the transition easier. Olivia wasn’t convinced it had done either.
Mrs. Joyce’s eyes glistened with tears. “No wonder you’re dreading it. God love you. He was a good man, Cormac. I always said it to Martha. ‘He’s a good man, that Cormac Kavanagh.’”
They sat in thoughtful silence, just as they had after her mother’s accident. Olivia remembered how she’d pushed a spoon around a bowl of lime jelly that she couldn’t eat and how, as she’d watched Mrs. Joyce sob into her handkerchief, she’d realized that the sadness wasn’t all hers to bear alone. She felt it again now, as Mrs. Joyce patted her arm.
“Will you let me help? I’ve nothing much on this morning and we’d get through it much faster with two.”
Olivia was so grateful. “Would you mind?”