Olivia elbowed him in the ribs. “I’ll have a pint, you eejit.”
They stayed longer than either of them had planned to. It was one of those unexpectedly perfect evenings when the conversation flowed as easily as the drinks, and neither Ross nor Olivia wanted to bring the night to an end. Ross made Olivia laugh. She made him drink gin and tonic. He talked about Iris a lot, and Olivia talked about books. After the fourth drink, she told him about her mother’s accident, and he told her about his wife’s short battle with cancer, after which they shared a packet of crisps and a moment of quiet reflection. Only once did Olivia consider telling Ross about Jack, but she didn’t want to spoil the evening, so she pushed him from her mind and said nothing.
After the fifth drink and a disastrous game of darts, Ross told Olivia about the book he was working on, and she confessed to her secret dream of buying the empty cottage next to Something Old and opening a shop for new books. Ross said she should call it Something New, which made them laugh hysterically for twenty minutes as Olivia tried to scribble it drunkenly onto the back of her hand so she wouldn’t forget.
After the sixth drink and a shot of tequila for the road, they stumbled back to the bookshop, where Olivia lit a dozen tea lights and Ross opened a bottle of Sancerre she’d been saving for a special occasion, even though it was described as having undertones of gooseberry, which made them both hysterical again as Ross checked the mirror after every glass to see if his lips were swelling up.
They sat together on the threadbare Turkish rug and drank the wine by candlelight while Ross played bad renditions of Van Morrison and Jeff Buckley on his guitar. By the time the bottle was empty, there wasn’t much about each other they hadn’t shared, their secrets and inhibitions falling from them like autumn leaves. There was just one secret that Olivia held tightly in her heart.
The end of the bottle came too soon, and Olivia kicked herself for not having another in the fridge. Their glasses sat empty on the floor beside them.
“I guess that’s my cue to leave,” Ross said as he stood up and pulled on his jacket.
Olivia scrambled to her feet. “Sorry there isn’t anything else. I told you I hadn’t planned this.”
“Probably just as well. That second bottle is never a good idea.”
“Yeah. Probably just as well.”
“Probably.”
For the first time since they’d met, Olivia let her guard drop. There was no filter, no joking, no wondering. She was simply in the moment, her cheeks warmed by the glow of alcohol and candlelight and something else she couldn’t explain. She saw it in Ross’s eyes too. An acceptance. A letting go.
She leaned forward first.
The kiss was inevitable and unexpected and different from any kiss Olivia had ever known. It was a kiss of a thousand days of sadness lost in a single moment of tender, searching connection. It was a kiss full of question and doubt and fear. It was a kiss of life, each of them breathing hope back into the other, and despite the many reasons she shouldn’t, Olivia grasped the moment and held on to it as if it were the only thing that mattered.
Whether it would matter only for that night or for a lifetime, she didn’t know. What she did know was that she had floundered for far too long, and in that brief, perfect moment as Ross Bailey, Writer, cupped her face so gently in his hands, she felt wildly, wonderfully alive in a way she had never felt before.
It was only later, as she lay alone in the dark, staring at the stars spinning in the clear skies through the skylight, that her conscience taunted her. She hadn’t told Ross a lie, exactly, but by saying nothing about Jack or her impending wedding, she hadn’t exactly told him the truth, either.
She remembered her mother had once told her that a lie told often enough can become its own truth. Over the past few weeks, she had distanced herself so entirely from her life in London that it had now become the lie. A lie she had been living for too long. Now, as she lay in a blissful fog of illicit kisses and alcohol, watching the unfathomable enormity of the heavens spinning above her, she found the answer she’d been searching for.
She could not marry Jack.
Twelve
Ireland. Present day.
Nana was wearing her blue coat, red hair licking around her face like flames. Olivia held so tightly to her hands that her fingers ached. Nana was all she had now.
The church fizzed with silence. It pressed in on her like the moody heat before a thunderstorm. Everything was magnified. Her footsteps echoed off the flagstones. Someone coughed. Someone sobbed. Someone sneezed. She could smell lilies and the other flowers Mammy liked. She didn’t know what they were called, but the colors reminded her of rainbow drops and candy bracelets. She kept walking, her hand gripping Nana’s as they reached the front pew.
She sat on the hard bench and blinked back her tears.
The casket was made of glossy wood; a garland of flowers trembled on top as the pallbearers set it down on a table with too-thin legs. What if it buckled under the weight of everyone’s sadness? It was all she could think about as the priest said Mass. At one point, she gasped and wondered if her Mammy could hear her.
The hymns and the prayers from the congregation went on and on, droning like bees. She wanted to scream.
As everyone filed back out of the church, Nana hugged her and whispered that it was over now. But Olivia knew this sadness, this dark ache in her bones, would follow her everywhere.
It would never be over. Her mother’s absence would be with her, part of her. Always.
LEADEN GRAY RAIN arrived as Olivia woke on the Monday morning, bringing with it the anniversary of the accident. Another year without her mother. Another day to be a little more aware of her absence.
She picked up the photograph from the windowsill. The one of herself as a baby, gazing adoringly at her mother. It was one of only a handful of photographs of the two of them together. So much love, captured by the click of a button.
She settled back against the pillows, watching the raindrops slipping down the windowpanes, imitating the tears that fell down her cheeks as she sang their favorite song. “‘There are fairies at the bottom of our garden! / It’s not so very, very far away; You pass the gardener’s shed and you just keep straight ahead— / I do so hope they’ve really come to stay.’”
She lay in bed for an hour, thinking, remembering, and cringing after Friday night’s unexpected developments with Ross. At least they’d had the good sense to stop with the kiss. Ross had walked home and Olivia had fallen asleep fully clothed. They hadn’t contacted each other over the weekend. Their kiss remained the lovely, spontaneous thing that it was, and Olivia was glad it hadn’t been spoiled by either of them overthinking it.
But her conscience pestered her.
Loose ends remained.