Everything stilled. Even the cry of the gulls receded into the background as she worked her way slowly through the prints, laying them out on the desk in front of her. In each image, her mammy smiled back at her: happy, playful, laughing. She was standing at the top of Howth Head, her belly swollen, her hands resting on her bump, the wind blowing her hair around her face. The gorse blazed vibrant yellow behind her in one photograph, the blush of red and pink rhododendrons lit up the background in another. Olivia wept tears of grief and joy, remembering her mother as clearly as if she were standing beside her. She remembered the bright peal of her laughter, the powder-soft scent of her perfume, the smooth touch of her hand against her cheek. She closed her eyes and let her mind burst with memories she had thought lost to her forever.
She wasn’t alone. She never had been. All she had to do was close her eyes and remember, and her mammy would be with her.
Only briefly did Olivia wonder who had taken the photographs, recalling her great-grandmother Ellen’s words from Frances’s story: “You have to look behind the picture to discover the truth. That’s where you find the real story.” Whoever had taken them, they had captured her mother at her most beautiful, and for that she would always be grateful.
HENRY WAS A rock of support after Nana’s passing, and Olivia grew terribly fond of him. She looked forward to their Sunday “putterings,” as he called them, when she would close the shop and they took a thermos of peppermint tea to enjoy by the harbor.
Olivia was a little surprised at how much Nana’s death had affected Henry. As they strolled along the harbor, she asked him to tell her what Nana had been like when she was younger.
“Oh, she was great fun. I was a good few years younger than her and Cormac, but they often invited me to join them for a drink, or a bite to eat. They were a very happy couple, and always willing to make space for one more. I was eternally single, you see. Martha used to tease me about being too choosy with the ladies. She said I would end up bitter and alone if I didn’t get on with finding myself a wife. Said she didn’t know what I was waiting for.”
Olivia laughed. “That sounds like Nana, all right. Never one to mince her words!”
“She was a very confident woman, and very beautiful. I often thought of her like a bird, flitting about from one party to the next.” He smiled to himself at the memory. “The three of us became good friends over the years.” He coughed and cleared his throat as he stopped walking. “I’m afraid I fell in love with her.”
“With Nana?”
He nodded. A sure, steady nod. “I was young and my heart was easily broken. It was the greatest agony of my life, to meet the woman I felt with all my heart I was meant to be with, but couldn’t be.”
Olivia’s heart raced. “Did Pappy know?”
“Not at first. It was my secret. But it gradually became obvious, as these things tend to do. I couldn’t bear to be in the same room as her and not tell her how I felt.”
Olivia could hardly bear to ask the question, but she knew she had to. “Did Nana feel the same way?”
Henry hesitated before shaking his head. “She was very confused when I first told her. A little too much sherry at a Christmas party and . . . well . . . you know how it is. It was just a kiss. Nothing more. A misunderstanding.”
Olivia thought about Ross and the kiss they’d admitted was a mistake, but which had felt so right.
“I felt absolutely terrible,” Henry continued as they walked. “Cormac was such a devoted husband and a dear friend. It was all terribly upsetting for a while, but Martha’s heart belonged to Cormac first and foremost. He was a very lucky man.”
It was almost too much to take in. Another part of Olivia’s family she’d known nothing about.
“What happened then?” she asked.
“I tried to forget about her,” Henry said. “Tried to get on with my life, but I couldn’t. That was when I knew I had to leave. I suppose you could say I ran away.”
Olivia held Henry’s hand. It trembled beneath her touch. Suddenly it all made sense. His easy friendship with Nana. His heartbreak over her death.
“She wrote to me,” he added. “Just once. She sent a photograph of herself with her baby.” He fumbled in his jacket pocket and pulled out his wallet. “I’ve kept it with me ever since.”
Olivia took the photograph from him. Nana as a young woman, a tiny baby in her arms. “That’s my mam.”
“Yes. Katherine. Kitty, as she was affectionately known. I always thought it the most beautiful picture. Martha never looked happier. As soon as I saw that photograph, I knew I’d done the right thing by leaving, no matter how I felt.” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I never met anyone else who came close to how I felt about Martha. Perhaps we would have been together if we’d met in different circumstances, a different time or place. You never forget a feeling like that, though. Not over a year. Or a decade. Or a lifetime. It will always be there.”
Olivia thought of that breezy morning when Ross had rushed into the bookshop looking for Iris. She thought about how empty the shop had felt after he’d left at the end of each day. She thought about the kiss they had found at the bottom of the empty bottle of gooseberry-flavored wine and how full her heart was whenever she thought about him.
“I heard about your mother’s accident,” Henry continued. “I didn’t know Kitty, not in the true sense of the word, but in another sense I did. She was Martha’s daughter. Martha was part of her, the same way Kitty is part of you. I looked at the photograph every day and wished, with all my heart, I could help ease Martha’s pain. That was why I came back in the end. I couldn’t bear to be so far away, and although I knew I could never be with her, just to see her occasionally was enough. It was more than enough.”
Olivia passed the photograph back to him. “It’s all such a shock, Henry. I had no idea.”
“I know this must be difficult to hear, but I want to be honest with you, Olivia. When Cormac told me he planned to leave you the shop and asked me to look out for you, he gave me a very special gift.” His hands trembled in hers. “I could never have been the devoted husband and loving grandfather that Cormac was, and I owe him a great debt of gratitude for his friendship over the years. Whatever I can do to help you, I will. He especially asked me to be there for you on the anniversary of your mother’s death.”
Olivia thought about the book she’d found in the shop on her mother’s anniversary. “Was it you who left the copy of Peter Pan?”
He nodded. “I hope I did it properly, the way Cormac would have done.”
“You did, Henry. Thank you. It meant everything to me.”
They sat together as the clouds raced each other overhead, and Olivia linked her arm through Henry’s and knew it would be okay.
“We have each other now, Henry. You’ll always have my support.”
He patted Olivia’s arm. “Thank you, dear. And I hope that if you ever find that special person, you manage to hold on to them.”
THE LETTER ARRIVED from St. Bridget’s the next day.
Dear Ms. Kavanagh,
Please find enclosed a piece of writing that I believe belongs to you. It was found in the room occupied by your Nana, Martha Kavanagh. It had fallen beneath the bed.
If it isn’t yours, please return it.
Olivia removed several folded sheets of paper. She recognized the typeface. The thin paper. The crackle of anticipation.
There was one final chapter to Frances’s story . . .
NOTES ON A FAIRY TALE
Epilogue