Most mornings, when Olivia arrived at the shop to open up, she found a note from Iris waiting on the doormat. The notes were often accompanied by a little white flower so that she now had quite a collection in her coffee cup vase, all of them obeying the instruction to Live. On his second visit to the shop, Henry Blake had told her they were rare white harebells that didn’t usually flower until later in the year. He couldn’t understand how they were in bloom this early, or where they could be coming from, suspecting Hemingway. Olivia preferred to believe that there was a more interesting explanation for the appearance of these little flowers than haughty cats.
Inspired by Frances’s memoir and the books and articles she’d found relating to the Cottingley fairies, Olivia decided to create a fairy-themed window display. She added Princess Mary’s Gift Book and Conan Doyle’s The Coming of the Fairies along with the Strand articles and several rare editions of Peter Pan and The Water Babies and other collections of fairy stories. She hung Iris’s letters and drawings on a line of string suspended from each end of the window—a laundry of correspondence—and started drawing a sign to add to the display, sketching out the words “Do You Believe In Fairies?” surrounding the letters with vibrant wildflowers and lush greenery, just like the visions from her dreams. It had been so long since she’d drawn for pleasure that she became completely immersed in her work and didn’t notice the time passing. Only the sound of the shop bell disturbed her.
She smiled as she looked up and saw who it was. “Well, hello, Miss Iris! You’re not lost again, are you?”
Iris giggled. “You wrote back! My letters are in the window!” She turned to call through the open door. “Daddy, come on.”
Ross stepped into the shop, his hands held out in helpless apology. “Sorry to bother you—again. She insisted we come back and say hello.”
“That’s okay. It’s lovely to see you.” She directed this comment at Iris, hoping the flush in her cheeks wouldn’t betray her. “I’ve been enjoying your letters, Iris.”
“We wanted to bring you a present to say thank you for helping me when I was lost.” Iris handed Olivia a purple gift bag covered in glitter. “I added the glitter myself.”
“Wow. Thank you.” Olivia glanced at Ross. “But you didn’t need to get me anything.”
Iris stood on her tiptoes, peering into the bag as Olivia took everything out: a miniature blue door, a tiny chair, and three tiny wooden stepping-stones. “It’s a fairy door,” Iris explained. “You put it somewhere and the fairies will come and visit. If you leave them a gift, they might bring you something in return.”
Olivia glanced at Ross, who winked. She knew it must be tough for him being Mammy and Daddy and all the fairies too. Even as a child, Olivia had understood that it was hard for her mammy, raising her on her own. She’d asked only once about her father. The question was met with a pause and her mother had said he couldn’t be with them and that she would do everything she possibly could to be the best Mammy and Daddy. She had done more than that. She had also been Olivia’s best friend.
“It’s lovely, Iris. Thank you.” She was genuinely touched by the gift. The fairy door was very sweet and the kindest thing anyone had done for her in an age.
She turned to Ross. “Thanks so much, but you shouldn’t have.”
He shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. Except the paying part.”
Olivia smiled. “Well, I love it. Where do you think I should put it, Iris?”
“In the window?”
“Great idea. Why don’t you go and choose a good spot.”
Ross lowered his voice as Iris wandered over to the window. “Listen. Thanks a million for writing the notes. She’s been through a tough time lately.” Olivia felt the pause as he steeled himself to say it. “I lost my wife last year. Iris’s letters to you and that photograph of the girl and the fairies are the first thing she’s shown any real enthusiasm for since.”
Olivia went through the routine of saying she was sorry and explained that she’d lost her mother when she was around Iris’s age. “It’s a tough time. If a few letters help, then I’m only too happy to write them.”
“Thanks. But honestly, don’t feel obliged. She’s a bright kid but she gets these funny notions sometimes, especially when it comes to fairies.”
“Don’t all little girls?”
“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been one.” His smile was infectious. A little too infectious. “Actually,” he continued, “there was another reason I wanted to call in. The fairy door was a convenient excuse.”
“Oh?” Olivia really hoped he wasn’t going to ask her out for a drink. Infectious smile or not, a drink with another man would be all kinds of awkward right now. Maybe she should have kept her engagement ring on after all.
Ross cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders. “Okay. Here goes. I’m having some work done in the house, and Cormac had said I could use the flat to write for a couple of weeks, to keep out of the builders’ way until I finish my book. I know we only just met and I hate to ask, but deadlines make me desperate.” He stuck his hands in his pockets. “I guess what I’m asking is whether the offer might still be there?” He grimaced, as if the embarrassment of asking was causing him physical pain.
A drink would have been a far simpler proposition. Olivia offered an awkward apology, tripping over her words as she said she was sorry, but she would be staying in the flat for a while until she sorted things out.
Ross raised his hands in surrender. “Ah, listen. No problem. I totally understand. I wouldn’t dream of dumping myself on you.”
“I’m sorry I can’t help.”
“Honestly. Don’t be. I was pushing my luck anyway.”
“What will you do instead?”
Ross shrugged. “Kitchen table as usual. It’s grand. I’m sure I can put up with a bit of noise and dust.”
“It doesn’t sound very romantic. I always imagined writers had panoramic ocean views or a chaise to lounge around on.”
Iris called over to say she’d found the perfect spot for the fairy door. Olivia told her she could climb into the window to set it up.
“What do you write then, Ross Bailey, Writer?” she asked, turning her attention back to him.
“Kids’ books. Fantasy stuff. Dragons and mythical beasts. I’m an illustrator too.”
“Wow. Sounds impressive.”
“Yeah. It’s not, though, but I suppose there are worse ways to make a living. I sometimes think I have the best job in the world—except when I have a deadline. Then it’s the worst.”
Olivia thought about the flat upstairs. It was practically empty apart from a few boxes of trinkets from the cottage and the small case she’d brought over from London. It was only a temporary base for her, and there was something appealing about having a resident writer in the bookshop. Ross might be a stranger to her, but Pappy had trusted and helped him, and something told her that she should trust and help him too. Her mind was made up.
“Listen, use the flat. It’s fine. It’s really not a problem and . . . well . . . if you can make a decent cup of tea, it might be nice to have some company.”
Ross looked genuinely surprised. “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose.”
“Honestly. You won’t be. You’d be helping, if I’m honest. I can brag about having a Writer in Residence and maybe you can throw a few friends my way and I might sell a few books.”
“That sounds fair enough.”
“Deal, then?” Olivia held out her hand. “Start Monday?”