As her dreams intensified, the red-haired girl became so real to Olivia that she found herself absentmindedly sketching her image during the day, bringing her to life on the page. She drew her surrounded by the flowers she held in her hands—white harebell, pink campion, and yellow cinquefoil—entwining them into the curls in her hair, until the flowers and plants were not around her, but part of her. A true child of the woodland.
AFTER SEARCHING ONLINE, Olivia found a photography studio in Dublin that could develop the film from the Instamatic camera she’d found in Nana’s dressing table. She took the bus into town and left the camera with the owner of the studio, an expert in older film formats who was delighted to see the Instamatic. He told her the prints would be returned in the post. There were only twelve exposures, but they were her mammy’s, and the tantalizing prospect of the images that might be captured on the film meant everything to Olivia. It was like leaving a piece of her heart behind, and she couldn’t help feeling a little anxious as she made her way back to Howth on the bus.
Back at the shop, Ross bounded downstairs as soon as he heard the jangle of the bell.
“Good. You’re here.”
“Why? What happened?” Olivia passed him the Americano she’d picked up for him on her way back and tried to ignore the touch of his fingers against hers as she did. “Did you sell all the books? Okay. You win.”
He laughed. “A reporter from a local newspaper called in. He wants to interview you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. You, Kavanagh! He’s doing a feature on the Little Lane shops. Part of a commemorative history project or something. He left a card and asked you to give him a buzz or drop him an e-mail.”
Olivia took the business card. “Cool. I hope you told him you’re the Writer in Residence.”
“Obviously. He wants to interview me for their Arts page. He didn’t know there was a bestselling author in town. Good, eh?”
Sometimes Ross was so unintentionally charming and so humble about his work and his success that it took all Olivia’s resolve not to throw her arms around him and tell him she was so pleased Iris had wandered into the shop that day and that he’d wandered in after her.
“Liv? Are you listening?”
“Sorry. What?”
He rolled his eyes. “You’re worse than Iris with your daydreaming. The reporter. He liked the window. He’s sending a gardening expert over to have a look.”
“A gardening expert?”
“Yep.” He laughed and went back upstairs. “Olivia Kavanagh. Local celebrity and the darling of gardeners everywhere.”
Olivia threw a packet of mints at his head and switched on the radio as she walked over to the window. Everyone who came to the shop was fascinated by it. One customer had left a coin for the fairies, for good luck. Others followed until the collection of copper coins in the window began to grow as quickly as the foliage.
The single green shoot that had first wrapped itself around the fairy door had grown into several green shoots, some of which had formed buds and flowers. Even when Olivia had moved the window box so that the original shoot was no longer attached, the flowers and plants inside the window still thrived. There was no logical explanation for how it continued to grow, but remembering the words from Frances’s story, Olivia stopped trying to find a rational scientific explanation for it, allowing herself the far greater pleasure of simply being enchanted by it. A wild garden growing in the bookshop window was too magical to spoil with rationality. Olivia embraced it without question, because something told her that as long as the window bloomed, so would the bookshop—and so would she. She often left little gifts at the fairy door—flowers, leaves, feathers, shells, pebbles—things she found during her walks along the harbor and the cliff tops.
The fairies would bring a gift to her in return. She was sure of it.
THE COMMEMORATIVE ARTICLE on Lána Beaga was published a few days later, along with a piece in the Gardening pages about the bookshop window, which Ross teased Olivia about relentlessly. Word of mouth about this “magical” bookshop began to spread among the local community, rushing along the narrow streets like the white-tipped waves that rushed toward the shore. At the same time, the new Something Old website was officially launched. Slowly, new customers began to ring and e-mail to order books or to check if Olivia had something particular in stock. By the end of the week, a dozen new customers had visited the shop after seeing the feature in the newspaper. Collectors and curators of specialist libraries and museums sent inquiries. The wind had changed direction. Finally, good fortune was blowing Olivia’s way.
The reporter had been especially interested in Pappy’s antique book press and Olivia’s bookbinding tools. At his suggestion, and despite being nervous, Olivia organized a bookbinding and restoration demonstration evening. The level of interest was far higher than she’d expected, and the shop buzzed with the sounds of conversation and questions and clinking teacups on saucers. Olivia was glad she’d kept Nana’s china tea set. It seemed fitting that a small part of Nana and Pappy was there that night. It was such a success, Olivia decided to hold an Evening of Fairy Stories the following week.
And the good news kept coming. A call from the estate agent confirmed that an offer had been made on Bluebell Cottage, at the full asking price. The buyers were a couple with a young family who loved everything about it.
Henry and his nephew sat with Olivia to go over the details and the finances, assuring her the sale would cover Nana’s nursing home bills for at least another year, and would also allow Olivia to clear the outstanding debts on the bookshop and leave sufficient in reserve to cover the rent for a couple of years. When the sale went through, she would effectively be back in the black. Her heart exhaled with a wave of relief. The shop had been given a temporary reprieve, and while her personal problems still loomed beneath the surface, the good news was enough to buoy her for the rest of the day.
Partly to distract herself from thinking about Jack and weddings, and partly to celebrate the sale of the cottage, Olivia insisted on taking Ross for a drink. A couple of phone calls settled arrangements for Iris to have a sleepover with her best friend, and when the shop closed for the day, Olivia and Ross made their way to the Abbey Tavern.
“Thank God for the school mums,” Ross said as they walked down the hill. “They’re forever offering to take Iris for the day or the weekend. She’s a great kid, but it’s hard. You know?”
Olivia didn’t know, but she could imagine, having been a child of a single parent. “This is all most unlike me, by the way,” she said as they strolled.
“What do you mean?”
“I never invite people for a drink without having planned it for weeks.”
“So why did you?”
“I’m not sure. Good mood. Offer on the cottage. Fairies in the window . . .”
“Who needs a reason, anyway? We deserve it.” Ross held the door for her as they stepped inside. “So, what will it be? A glass of white wine for ‘the lady’? Tequila shots?”