After another restless night, disturbed by the same curious dream of a little girl and a woodland stream, Olivia woke to dazzling sunlight and the glaring realization of what she’d done. She lay still, her hands on her stomach, feeling her breath as it rose and fell in synch with the distant pull and push of the tide. The tightness in her chest had eased. Her body—her heart—felt lighter. Extending her stay in Ireland was just the start, the loose end of a messy tangle she would have to unravel if she was serious about making these seismic changes to her life, but as Nana had always said when she was winding a skein of wool, finding the end was the hard part. After that, all it took was patience, determination, and plenty of fresh tea in the pot.
Reaching instinctively for her phone, she winced at the thought of it lying at the bottom of the sea. A childish act of rebellion, perhaps, but the relief at not having to listen to notification alerts and read through missed messages was immense. For the first time in months, her head felt empty of noise and clutter. She had bought herself time to think—precious, vital time to be herself and not someone’s fiancée, or a bride-to-be, or a name on a consultant’s appointments list.
She pictured Jack’s golf-tanned face, imagining his reaction to her message and his frustration at not being able to get hold of her. He could still contact her at the bookshop, or could even travel to Ireland if he was that concerned about her, but she doubted he would. Jack wasn’t the spontaneous type. Theirs was a relationship of schedules and carefully coordinated diaries. Squash on Tuesdays (him). Pilates on Wednesdays (her). Date nights on Thursdays (Jack’s business meetings permitting). How do you schedule spontaneity?
Determined to put Jack out of her mind, Olivia spent her morning in a series of unpleasant meetings.
The accountant—a Ms. Gilbert, who looked far too young to know anything about such things—talked about the bookshop’s unique selling points and asked Olivia if she’d considered modernizing. Olivia tried to explain, as calmly as possible, that the whole point of Something Old was to be quaint and full of old-world charm, the antithesis of modernized, but her words fell on deaf ears as Ms. Gilbert pressed on about margins and bottom lines and Olivia retreated further and further into her chair until she was almost fetal.
The solicitor was equally bewildering, impressing upon Olivia how fortunate she was that her grandfather had been astute enough to grant her power of attorney over his and Nana’s assets. Olivia wanted to say that she didn’t feel fortunate, that she mostly felt sad and worried, but she pushed her feelings aside, diligently signed various forms and left Messrs. Comerford & Keogh to put things in motion. It came down to a simple, gut-wrenching decision: sell Bluebell Cottage and use the funds to pay off the bookshop’s debts, or lose the bookshop and keep the cottage. Either way, she would be letting Nana and Pappy down; letting go of something they had treasured and had made them part of who they were.
She was grateful for the quiet, unassuming calm of the bookshop when she returned that afternoon, and although she hated to admit that Nora Plunkett was right, she had a point: the shop front was in desperate need of a spring clean. After a few hours of hard work, and with the addition of four new window boxes from the florist (whose ladder and head for heights Olivia was especially grateful for), Something Old looked much neater and brighter. Nora Plunkett might have had a point, but Olivia refused to give her the satisfaction of making it twice.
Inside the shop, Olivia found another note from Iris pushed through the letterbox. She wrote a reply and placed it in the window for Iris to see, trying desperately to ignore the urge to think about Ross Bailey, Writer, as she did.
Before making a start on the shop interior, Olivia took a few minutes to look through more of the newspaper clippings she’d discovered in the old briefcase.
In contrast with the articles written in the 1920s, more recent reports from the 1970s were skeptical of the fairy photographs, asserting they were fake. Some of the articles went as far as to accuse the two girls of being the perpetrators of England’s greatest hoax. Olivia thought about the innocent photograph she’d discovered in her mammy’s jewelry box all those years ago. She’d had no idea it had been the source of international media interest and speculation. It made her more determined to find it, and to understand the connection between Frances and Cottingley, and her own family.
The jangle of the shop bell disturbed Olivia from her reading. An inquiring baritone voice followed as the bell fell silent.
“Anyone at home?”
Olivia peered around a column of books to see a smartly dressed elderly gentleman peering back at her through the door. “I’m not actually open,” she said. “I’m closed for . . . refurbishments.”
“According to the sign, you’re open.”
The sign said OPEN on one side and NOT CLOSED on the other. Pappy’s little joke.
Olivia stood up. “Ah, yes. The infamous sign.”
The man stepped inside and removed a trilby hat. A tortoiseshell cat was cradled in his arms. His face was kind and inquisitive and he looked at Olivia a little longer than might be considered acceptable. She felt herself blush beneath his scrutiny.
“You must be Olivia?”
“Yes. Olivia Kavanagh. The owner.” It felt good to say it out loud.
The man’s eyes flickered from Olivia to the bookshelves and back again, a broad smile curving across his mouth as he handed her the cat. “In that case, I believe this scoundrel belongs to you.”
“Hemingway?”
“The very same.”
“I wondered where he’d got to.” The cat wriggled from Olivia’s arms, stretched, and strode purposefully upstairs as if he owned the place, his tail waving in the air in pompous disregard.
“I’m terribly sorry to intrude, Olivia, and please do ask me to leave if you’re busy, but I promised Cormac I would look in on you from time to time.”
Olivia smiled, partly at his voice and mannerisms, which wouldn’t be out of place among the pages of a Wilde novel, and partly in relief as she realized who he was. “Actually, I’m not that busy. Nothing that can’t wait, anyway. Please, come in.”
Closing the door behind him, the man offered his hand. “Henry Blake. I thought I should look in sooner rather than later.” His eyes scanned the undisturbed shelves, the shop without customers, the expectant hush in the air. “I’m rather glad I did.”
Henry Blake was exactly as Olivia had imagined. Pigeon-gray hair. A generous mustache. Deep brown eyes that flickered with curiosity behind small circular spectacles. A yellow-and-blue spotted handkerchief sprouting from the breast pocket of a smart three-piece tweed suit. He reminded her of a younger version of Pappy, carrying that same joie de vivre like an extra item of clothing. She wasn’t a bit surprised to see that he carried a walking cane. He was perfectly put together from top to toe.
Shaking his hand, she introduced herself properly. “Olivia Kavanagh. I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr. Blake.”
“Henry, please.”
“Sorry. Henry. My grandfather mentioned you in a letter. I was planning to get in touch.” She pulled the scrap of paper from her cardigan pocket, waving it in the air as evidence. “I had your name written down to remind me to call you.”
“Then I’m glad I looked in. I don’t wish to interfere, but a promise is a promise, and here I am.”