The first weeks of summer arrived with a parade of warm days and balmy evenings. Windows were left open at night and bedsheets kicked off as hot limbs searched for cooler air. Olivia was buoyed by the bright days and the support of those around her, especially Henry and Ross, who cheered her on when business was good and cheered her up when things got on top of her. The heavy coils of doubt she’d hefted around for so long gently unfurled as she accepted that whatever happened now, it happened because of her. She was in charge. She made the decisions.
It was her decision to arrange more bookbinding demonstrations and themed evenings: Irish Poetry, Gothic Horror, and British Classics were all a huge hit. It was her decision to repaint the shop door hyacinth blue in honor of Bluebell Cottage. It was her decision to leave a Welcome to Your New Home bottle of wine on the doorstep of the cottage for the new owners. It was her decision to invite Ross to stay on as Writer in Residence when he’d finished his book. She said she’d gotten used to him being around. He said he’d hoped she would say that.
The arrangement suited them both, and neither was especially keen to change it, particularly Friday evenings when they wrapped up the week over a bottle of wine. Only occasionally did they stray into the realms of harmless flirtation: a look, a smile, a pause while words left unsaid circled around them, teasing and provoking. Olivia didn’t need another boyfriend. She needed a friend, and in Ross she had found exactly that. They both agreed their one drunken kiss had been a mistake. Still, it was a lovely mistake and one Olivia thought about often, and sometimes when a certain look passed between them, she wondered if Ross thought about it too.
As Olivia and Something Old flourished, so did the garden in the window. Local interest became a national curiosity, and Olivia found herself on the evening news, talking about it. Nobody knew how the garden continued to thrive, even when the window boxes were moved and without ever being given a drop of water. When she was asked what she attributed the phenomenon to, Olivia said that explanations were the thief of wonder, and that she was happy to live without one. She didn’t mention the wish she’d left at the fairy door. Those for whom it was intended had heard.
Soon the “Garden in the Window” became a story in itself. Customers arrived in the dozens to take a look, and when they ventured into the shop, the books flew off the shelves. Something Old was alive again. Each morning, when Olivia went downstairs to open up, she discovered new green shoots, newly unfurled blooms and perfect glossy leaves, gifts that had arrived during the silent hours while she dreamed. And her dreams bloomed too.
As she read more of Frances’s story, Olivia realized that her dreams mirrored Frances’s dreams; the present reflecting the past. Like the tendrils and shoots entwining themselves around the shop window, Frances’s story had wrapped itself around Olivia’s heart, capturing there Frances’s memories of Ellen Hogan and the traumatic loss of her daughter.
Cottingley called to Olivia. She waited, impatiently, for the day of her trip to arrive.
ON SUNDAYS, THE shop closed. Pappy had never agreed with Sunday trading and Olivia honored his tradition, taking the opportunity to hike around the cliff tops. She enjoyed the fresh air and the views, and enjoyed it even more when Ross and Iris started to join her. It was good to have some company. Up on the breezy cliff tops, Olivia and Ross spoke about things in a way they couldn’t in the shop. There was something safe about sharing their thoughts and feelings up there. It was liberating in the same way that London had been restricting, and once she let herself open up, Olivia found she had a lot to say.
Iris loved the view, pondering what might lie beyond the horizon, just as Olivia used to when she was a little girl. As they looked down at the miniature sailing boats in the harbor, Olivia pointed out the ruins of the abbey and Little Lane.
“If you look hard you can see the bookshop, Iris. See? Just there.”
Iris screwed up her eyes, following the direction of Olivia’s finger. “Why do you like the bookshop so much?”
“I spent a lot of time there when I was younger. I always felt there was something magical about it.” They threw pebbles over the edge of the cliff and watched them race down, bumping off each other and landing in some distant place they couldn’t see. “Shall I tell you a secret, Iris?”
“Yes! I love secrets.”
“I think the books come alive at night. When the shop is closed and the lights are turned out, I think they open their covers and fan out their pages like wings and start to fly. Imagine it. Hundreds of books, flapping their pages, soaring and swooping because they’re so alive with stories they can’t possibly sit still on the shelf.”
Iris giggled. “You’re funny when you talk about books.”
Olivia laughed. “I suppose I am! Do you remember the photograph of the little girl and the fairies?” Iris nodded. “I’m reading a story about her.”
“Are the fairies in it?”
“Yes. I think you might like it. I can give it to your Daddy to read to you if you like.”
Iris grabbed Olivia’s hand. “Would you read it to me? Daddy tries hard, but he doesn’t do the voices properly. Not like Mammy.”
Olivia promised she would do the best voices she could, although she knew they would never be good enough.
They walked on, following the path around the headland.
“We used to walk a lot, before Hannah died,” Ross said as Iris ran ahead, skipping between the gorse bushes and clambering over stones. “Iris loves it up here. Look at her. She’s in her element.”
“Jack and I never went for walks, unless it was to a wine bar or to somewhere. We never walked for the sake of walking. He didn’t see the point.”
Ross stopped to admire the view. “This might be a stupid question, but why did you agree to marry him?”
It was a question Olivia had asked herself many times. She stared out over the sea, too ashamed to look Ross in the eye. “Because he asked me. I was afraid of being alone. Afraid of being left on the shelf. It felt kind of inevitable that I would settle down one day, and when he asked, I said yes.”
“Did you love him?”
“I did. For a while. Or at least, I thought I did. Now I’m not sure.” She turned to face Ross. “How do you know? How does anyone know what proper love feels like?”
Ross glanced at the wedding band on his finger and let out a long, heartfelt sigh. “Oh, you know, Olivia. You definitely know.”
They walked on, the sun at their backs, the sweet gorse scenting the air around them.
“You had a lucky escape, then,” Ross said.
Olivia smiled. “Actually, I prefer to think of it as setting out on an adventure. Illusionists escape. Adventurers go exploring.”
“And how’s that working out for you?”
She wrapped her arms around herself. “Pretty good so far.”
They looked out across the harbor, unspoken words and thoughts shifting between them like the waves that lapped at the hulls of the boats. In those quiet moments, Olivia realized how lovely it was to have someone to do nothing with, to just stand with, and watch and think with.
“Did you ever read Ulysses?” she asked.
“Did anyone?”
“You should give it a go. There’s a lovely scene written here.”