Olivia smiled through her tears. Perhaps Nana had remembered more than she’d given her credit for.
The nurse placed her hand lightly on Olivia’s arm. “Take your time, love. There’s no hurry.”
There really wasn’t. On days like this, time simply wasn’t relevant. This was a day to be slowly absorbed, not swept away. Today was a pause before the page was turned and the story continued.
Before Olivia left St. Bridget’s, she stepped into the dayroom. The cushions were all messed up. Out of line. She plumped and straightened each one and imagined her dear Nana smiling from somewhere far away, telling her she was a grand good girl. A grand good girl, altogether.
Eighteen
Ireland. Present day.
The shop fell into a quiet mourning, and the window stopped blooming. The leaves began to brown and curl at the edges as petals tumbled from the flowers. Even the collection of white harebells in the coffee cup began to wither and die as the bright purpose Olivia had felt in recent weeks was clouded by fresh grief and the all-too-familiar ache of loss. Nana had gone, and Ross and Iris were leaving to start their new life in Kerry. The unexpectedly lovely world Olivia had discovered since returning to Ireland was disappearing too soon.
She tried to take her mind off things by throwing herself into her work. While Henry looked after the shop, she went to meetings and house clearances and auctions. With each bang of the gavel, she forced herself to stop thinking about “what if” and “what might have been” and focus instead on what she needed to do for herself and the bookshop. In the evenings, with just the radio and Hemingway for company, she took out her bookbinding tools and began to work on Frances’s book. She’d forgotten how much she enjoyed the delicate intricacies of the task, how nothing else mattered while she worked. It seemed fitting that as she stitched and glued Frances’s memories together, she felt herself begin to come back together a little too.
Over their final week together, Olivia read Frances’s story to Iris as she’d promised she would, doing her very best voices, even though Iris giggled at her attempt to mimic the Yorkshire accents. As Olivia read, Ross worked on illustrations for The Fairy’s Tale, which had sold to his publisher for a nice advance. He used the illustrations from Princess Mary’s Gift Book as inspiration for his fairies.
They were pleasant, happy hours spent together, but hours in which Olivia’s emotions often tripped her up, lurching from resignation to regret, acceptance to denial. Her rational mind knew it was for the best that Ross was leaving. She was, after all, still clawing her way out of one relationship. The last thing she needed was another. And yet her impetuous heart disagreed with such unromantic common sense, and as the day of Ross’s departure crept closer, Olivia’s heart grew closer to his.
THEY LEFT ON a peaceful sunlit morning.
Olivia promised to write as Iris sobbed onto her shoulder. “Here. This is for you.” She gave Iris a package. “I made it especially for you.”
Iris unwrapped the paper, beaming when she saw what it was. “You stuck Frances’s book together!”
Olivia laughed. “I did. I made a copy of all the pages and bound it, just for you. It’s a very rare and special book. I hope you’ll take extra special care of it.”
Iris was delighted, and promised she would.
As she settled into the car with her book, Ross and Olivia stood side by side outside Something Old, gulls crying above them, clouds scudding by.
Olivia wrapped her arms around herself. “Well, here we are, then.”
“Here we are, then.”
Ross looked at Olivia. It was one of those looks. A look that made her heart turn somersaults.
“Ah, for crying out loud, Kavanagh. Come here, would you.” He opened his arms, and she gave up all her grand plans to stay emotionally detached as she let herself sink into the crumples of his favorite ridiculous T-shirt. “Thank you for everything,” he whispered, hugging her tightly. “You’ll be okay, you know. You’re back on your feet now.”
She pressed her face to his chest. Yes, she was, and it was funny, because where Jack had once swept her off her feet, when she was with Ross she always felt she had them planted firmly on the ground. Far more stable. Much more secure.
Ross pulled back and brushed a tear from her cheek. “Promise you’ll visit?”
“Promise.”
“Often?”
“As often as I can.” She almost forgot the gift she had for him. “Here. I got this for you.” She pressed a book-shaped packet into his hands.
“Ulysses?”
She laughed. “How did you know?”
“Because you knew I would never get around to buying it myself. Thank you. I promise I’ll read it.” He jumped into the car and wound down the window. “I’ll call you Friday. Maybe we can still have our end-of-the-week chats over a glass of wine.”
“I’ve already put a bottle in the fridge.”
Olivia waved as Ross’s Mini trundled off over the cobbles, tooting a good-bye as he turned the corner and disappeared, Iris waving madly from the backseat. It was far from the fairy-tale ending Olivia might have briefly allowed herself to imagine, but as the wind swirled around her feet, blowing an unknown future away over the sea, she felt alert and alive and purposeful. She understood that whatever lay ahead for her and Ross, theirs was a quiet relationship, slowly unfurling like petals on a rose. She had to let nature take its time. Nana had always said the most beautiful blooms on her rosebushes were the last of the season. The most fragrant. The most colorful. “Those late blooms always flourish the most. They’ll be around long after the others have been blown away. You wait and see.”
A FEW HOURS after Ross and Iris had left, a package arrived from the photography studio in Dublin. With so much happening lately, Olivia had forgotten all about the Instamatic camera she’d found in the drawer at Bluebell Cottage. She sat down to open the package with hesitant hands.
Dear Miss Kavanagh,
I hope you are satisfied with the enclosed prints. I brought them out as clearly as possible. I think they are rather lovely.
She removed the wallet from inside the envelope and took out a dozen prints.