Although it was sometimes undeniably daunting, she found a new confidence from having to stand on her own two feet and get on with things. Nobody was going to pick her up or rub it better. Nobody actually needed her, apart from Hemingway, and whether he needed anything other than the occasional bit of food and a bed to curl up on was a matter for debate. But that was okay, because Olivia now realized that it was far more important for her to support herself than to depend on someone else. She knew who she was. Without question or doubt, she knew what she wanted, and why.
Eventually the shock and devastation she’d caused by calling off the engagement and canceling the wedding dissipated. Like ink in water, everything had settled and found a new path and although it was upsetting at times, Olivia never faltered. The only lasting legacy from her five years with Jack was the chance discovery that she couldn’t have children. This, above all else, broke her heart, and yet she knew she would be okay. Yes, life for her would be different now, but no less complete.
As for Jack, they’d spoken a few times, mostly civilly and mostly about practical monetary matters. Olivia had heard a rumor he was already in a relationship with someone else, which didn’t surprise her. For all his showmanship, Jack was hopeless on his own. He needed the accessory of a woman on his arm as much as he needed his expensive watch. Whenever she thought about him, it was only ever with a sense of dispassionate relief that she’d had the courage to trust herself and accept the truth of their relationship. The date of their would-be wedding passed with little to mark it other than a text from Ross to say he hoped she was bathing in champagne and not hitting the gin.
Dear Ross. She thought about him often—too often, perhaps. Not only in the quieter moments when she had time to stop and think and miss his smile and the strumming of his guitar, but also in rowdy moments of excitement when she found herself wishing he was there to share it with her. That, perhaps, was when she felt most alone.
Iris wrote once a week, telling Olivia all about her new school and how nice everyone was and, as promised, Ross called for a chat every Friday evening when he’d finished writing and Olivia had locked up. He poured a glass of wine in Kerry and she poured a glass of wine in Howth and they spent half an hour or so putting the world to rights and making each other laugh. They were both still firmly of the opinion that it was best to be friends and not romantically entangled, but even so, absence did what absence does, and as the weeks and months slipped by, two hearts grew ever fonder.
As life settled down, the garden in the window began to grow again: tender stems and green shoots and tiny hopeful buds, waiting for Olivia when she went downstairs each morning. Still she couldn’t explain it, and still she didn’t wish to. She saw the window for what it was: a reflection of herself. It thrived when she thrived. It faltered when she faltered. Like breathing in and out, she and the shop were connected in every way it was possible to be.
But just when Olivia thought life was settling down into some sort of new normality, there was one final surprise in store.
It arrived in an envelope one amber-tinted October afternoon. Inside the envelope was a key with a label attached. It read: Number 6, Little Lane. Taking the key, Olivia stepped outside to the empty cottage beside Something Old. The key turned easily in the lock.
The interior was clear and bright. Bare white walls and dark oak floorboards. On a wall to the right hung a picture frame, inside which was a flattened coffee cup, the inscription Live facing outward.
She smiled and picked up a note from the desk.
“The sun shines for you he said the day we were lying among the rhododendrons on Howth head in the grey tweed suit and his straw hat the day I got him to propose to me . . .”
See, I read it. Nice try, Kavanagh. Nice try! R xx
Another envelope on the desk was addressed to her. Opening it, she read the letter inside.
Dear Olivia,
Welcome to your new shop! I’ve been working on this for a while but couldn’t say anything because I wasn’t sure what—if anything—would come of it, but finally everything is confirmed.
When my nephew was going through your grandfather’s paperwork, he discovered the original deeds to the cottages on Little Lane. It has come to light that Something Old and the cottage beside it are legally considered to be one property. They were originally built as one cottage—Number 5—which was divided into two smaller properties in the late 1800s. It is all rather complicated and no surprise that the detail was missed when your grandfather leased his part of the property.
Nora Plunkett’s husband was the last shopkeeper in cottage 6, and, as you know, it has been vacant since he passed away several years ago. I suspect this was as much to do with Nora grieving for her husband as it was to do with not being overly fond of your grandfather. In any event, and without getting into too much detail about ground rent and lapsed leases, it was Cormac’s all the time—and now it is yours. I know you will make it something very special indeed.
Warmest wishes—and congratulations.
Henry Blake
PS The picture and the note are a welcome gift from Ross. He said you would understand. He also tidied the place up a bit. He’s a very pleasant young man.
The wind whistled down the chimney breast, bringing with it the distant refrain of a familiar song. Olivia’s heart danced as she looked around the empty shop. She already knew exactly what she was going to do with it.
SOMETHING NEW OFFICIALLY opened on a breezy November afternoon. With the advice and help of Henry and his nephew, the bookshop finances were much healthier and Olivia managed to furnish (albeit sparsely) and stock the new shop. Nora had been surprisingly civil about it all, and had even given Olivia a lovely oak bookcase her husband had made, which was still in the empty shop. She’d said it was nice to know a little bit of him would always be there and that she’d been silly keeping the place empty all these years.
“I just couldn’t bear to see anyone else in his shop,” she explained. “But I suppose life goes on . . .”
Olivia said she understood and felt the same way about Pappy and Something Old.
It was a truce, of sorts.
The sign arrived just in time for the opening: the same lettering as Something Old, the same slightly wonky perfection as Olivia hung it deliberately lopsided.
She was delighted with the small gathering of friends who came to wish her well with her new venture: other shop owners, regular customers, Mrs. Joyce, the ladies from the St. Vincent de Paul, the nurses from St. Bridget’s. Even the solicitor and the accountant came. And of course, Henry and Hemingway. Nora Plunkett made a brief appearance, during which she pointed out that the window frames needed painting, before wishing Olivia all the best with the shop. But it was the addition of Ross and Iris that made the occasion perfect.
Olivia’s occasional weekend trips to Kerry had become increasingly regular. Henry was happy to take charge at the shop as Olivia willed the miles to pass faster so she could get to Ross sooner. They walked on the hills with Iris during the day, and drank good wine beside the fire at night. Sometimes they opened a second bottle, and it was always a good idea.
Olivia smiled as they stood side by side across the street from the two shops.
Something Old.
Something New.