She smiled. “Something like that.”
“Then perhaps by saving the bookshop, you might save an awful lot more. You’ve been given a beautiful gift. What could be more delightful than a shop full of treasured old books?”
“But nobody wants to buy them, Henry. People don’t value old books anymore.”
“Then your job is to remind them. Remind them what it’s like to hold a real book in their hands. Remind them of all the stories they loved as children. There’s magic in every bookshop, Olivia. You just have to bring people to it. The books will take care of the rest.”
Olivia laughed. “If only it were that easy.”
“But if it were easy it wouldn’t mean anything, would it? Our greatest struggles give us the greatest rewards.” He took hold of her hands, squeezing them tightly. “It was a delight to meet you, Olivia. You are very like Martha when she was younger.” He adjusted his hat and pulled himself up with the support of his cane. “I’ll pop by again in a few days, but do call if you need anything in the meantime.”
Olivia almost told him about London, almost said she didn’t know how long she would be in Ireland, but the words stuck to the roof of her mouth and she swallowed them down in a great guilty gulp and hoped she would never have to tell him.
As she watched Henry walk away, Olivia silently thanked Pappy for his good foresight and his good choice in friends. It was only with a distance between them that she noticed how pronounced Henry’s limp was, the extent to which he leaned to one side.
Whoever she was, he must have loved her very much.
RELUCTANT TO RETURN to the empty rooms of Bluebell Cottage, Olivia ate fish and chips on the harbor wall, dangling her legs over the side just like she used to as a little girl, even though it made her mam anxious.
The breeze nipped at the back of her neck and whipped up a fine sea spray that settled on her hands, leaving sparkling salt crystals as it dried. Fairy dust, she used to call it. She breathed in the fresh air and absorbed the view: tangerine sky and dove-gray sea, ripples on the surface of both, like dragon scales. She savored the sharp tang of vinegar on her tongue, letting her thoughts wander as the sun slowly melted into the sea, turning it to liquid gold. As a child chased the gulls behind her, she closed her eyes to listen to the rush of the waves, and there, among the crash of surf, she heard her mother’s voice, gently urging her to come away from the edge, to come and sit beside her on the seat where she could keep her safe and warm.
It was so easy sometimes to drift back over the years, back to the golden light of a summer’s evening and the comfort of her mother’s arms around her. As she let herself go there now, she heard—so clearly—the voice of a little girl who had once believed in fairies, and in that moment she knew that it was time to start believing in something far more important.
It was time to start believing in herself.
Seven
Ireland. Present day.
The decision to sell Bluebell Cottage didn’t come easily, but despite the sense of abandonment that nagged at her heart, Olivia knew it was the right thing—the only thing—to do.
She hated to say good-bye to the little house on the hill, picture-perfect with its white walls and hyacinth-blue door and the pink and white hydrangeas that bloomed like fat marshmallows in the front garden. It was Nana and Pappy’s fortress, and the thought of letting it go weighed heavily on her mind.
After the accident, Nana and Pappy had done everything they could to make her feel loved and safe at Bluebell Cottage, but it wasn’t a home in the way her friends had homes, with parents and siblings and arguments, and she’d always felt a little like a visitor on an extended holiday. In many ways, Something Old had always felt more like a home to Olivia. It was neutral ground. Hers for the taking. The bookshop was always where her real affections lay.
Once the decision was made, a steady stream of surveyors and estate agents arrived with cameras and measuring tapes and the FOR SALE sign went up by the end of the week. Olivia observed it all with quiet detachment as she bubble-wrapped the breakable contents of her grandparents’ lives and wished it were possible to bubble-wrap people. With each drawer she emptied and each black bin liner she filled with smart suits and pretty dresses that had once waltzed around the local dance hall, she felt both a little lighter and a little more heartsick.
When she wasn’t packing away her grandparents’ lives at the cottage, she began to transform the cluttered old flat above the bookshop, turning it into an acceptable living space, however temporary or permanent. It wasn’t much, with only a sofa bed, a desk, a wardrobe, a kitchenette, and a tiny bathroom—a far cry from the impressive penthouse apartment in London—but there was a lovely rustic charm about the lofty space. With a few scented candles and a jug of fresh flowers on the windowsill, it charmed Olivia, whispering to her through the cracks in the window frame, daring her to be happy there.
THE WARMER WEATHER and the burst of color from the new window boxes brought several customers to the shop. Casual browsers and tourists, rather than serious collectors who might single-handedly save the shop from repossession, but Olivia was grateful for their patronage all the same. Each time the door opened and closed, she felt the shop inhale and exhale, each customer breathing a little life back into the place as the books were opened, remembered, enjoyed. She loved nothing more than to see the neat rows of perfectly ordered spines messed up at the end of the day, loved the gaps left by the books that had gone to new homes.
In the long, silent hours between customers, she started to transfer Pappy’s catalog from his old ledgers onto a new website. She rearranged displays, and wrote up new information labels to replace the more dilapidated ones. Small changes, but big steps in the right direction. It still surprised her when someone brought a book to the desk and gave her money for it. Every time, she had to stop herself from hugging the customer in gratitude.