Page 35 of The Bookshop Ladies

‘Oh, God, no, I’ll be down in an hour, I’ll just pop up, say hello and make sure she has everything she needs.’ Robyn was already at the door. Of course, Joy realised with a pang, your mother is your mother.

Later that evening, Joy decided to take a stroll on the beach to clear her head. Robyn was right, they had worked hard, but it should be well worth it.

This evening it wasn’t the bookshop or its success or failure that weighed heavily on Joy’s mind. It wasn’t even missing Yves that made her shoulders slump. Instead it was bumping into Fern Turner earlier on Patrick Street. If Fern realised who she was, then what? Then, she would just have to return to Paris, leave the painting behind and wish Robyn all the best. That was all she’d planned to do anyway, wasn’t it? Except she didn’t want to go back yet; not until she had at least helped to secure the future of the bookshop. That was it, wasn’t it? She just wanted to stay for the bookshop? Surely, it wasn’t because she was becoming attached to this little village at the edge of the Atlantic and the warmth of people like Albie and Robyn.

‘It seems there is no getting away from you.’ Leo Keeling walked across the sand dunes to join her. She had a feeling that his long strides would normally cut through the sand at twice the pace.

‘You can, if you want, just walk in the opposite direction,’ she snorted.

‘You’re not very nice, sometimes.’ He cleared his throat.

‘I’m American, I’m not meant to be nice.’ Actually, she thought she was very nice, she just found Leo Keeling to be a gruff awkward man who probably thought every woman he met should fall at his feet.

‘I can’t understand why my father thinks you’re something special.’

‘Maybe to him, I am.’ She moved closer to him, the tide was on its way in. The last thing she wanted was to get her good linen trousers wet. He moved up the beach a little, but she could feel the warmth of his arm next to hers.

‘And Robyn; Robyn thinks you’re the bee’s knees and the cat’s pyjamas.’

‘That is funny.’ She smiled and wondered if Robyn would be so fond of her if she knew who she really was. That thought made her feel unexpectedly queasy.

‘You see, I’d like us to get on. I mean, you’re going to be here for the foreseeable, living over my shop.’

‘Yes, I am.’ Although truly, who knew what the next day or two would bring, still, she had a sense it annoyed Leo that Albie had told her she could stay on for the summer months at a winter rate. She was basically renting a holiday home in peak season on residential terms. Robyn had explained to her that usually places were worth four times as much during the peak summer months.

‘So, we should make an effort to get along. I mean, you are my father’s nearest neighbour, if he needs anything it’s your floor he is likely to bang on with that walking stick he never uses.’

‘I see…’ So, she wondered, does he want me to play nursemaid or is he afraid I’ll make off with his old man and take him for the family fortune?

‘So, I wondered, if perhaps you’d like to…’

‘I’m good with how things are at the moment, thanks all the same,’ she said crisply, before he had a chance to try and hike up her rent or ask her to take out his father’s bins every Thursday. ‘Now, I must be getting back, I have things to do.’ Really, whatever he wanted, she needed nothing from Leo Keeling any time soon.

It was as she was passing by the community centre that a small card in the window caught her eye.Art Circle Postponed. Joy stood for a moment, reading the card which was faded and so probably out of date, but that didn’t mean the information wasn’t accurate. There was a phone number too. She took a photograph of the card, but she was fairly certain she had the gist of the issue. They couldn’t meet up because they didn’t have a room available at the community centre. She knew this was probably thanks in part to the fact that the local Garda station was being given what looked like a facelift. In the meantime, the temporary station was taking up any spare rooms in the community centre. Small town, needs must.

Joy felt as if a little light bulb had just switched on in her brain. She knew what these artist circles looked like, often a bunch of retired people with mixed talent levels but a shared love of painting or drawing. Very often, it was a social gathering as much as a learning environment, where friendships were forged and coffee (or in Paris, more likely, red wine) drunk at the end of each session. The participants would be retired mostly or at least with time on their hands and, very often, they would also be involved in other things too, like tennis clubs or book clubs. Tah-dah!

She would talk to Robyn before she did anything else. The ball needed to be squarely put in her court, but surely, for the summer months, if they had their own easels, they could just set up outside the bookshop in the shade of the canopy. They could use the chairs to sit on if they were tired and buy their coffee from Shane and maybe, with a little luck, drop in and browse the bookshelves at the end of each session. It would mean traffic through the shop and life around it and from experience, Joy knew, sometimes that was as much as you needed to drum up extra business.

A little part of her wanted to call Robyn the moment she let herself into the flat, but she didn’t, remembering again the arrival of Fern and assuming they would be having dinner together and catching up on some mother and daughter time.

‘Early night, I suppose?’ Albie Keeling startled her as she was just about to put her key into the front door.

‘Looks like it, I haven’t had any better offers from the seagulls, so I suppose…’ she smiled at him. ‘What about you?’ He didn’t look as carefree as normal this evening and she wondered if he’d done too much for the day. Was the walk up the steep hill towards the church just a little too much for him some days?

‘Fancy a nightcap?’ he asked as he stood back and insisted on allowing her to walk before him.

‘Why not!’ It would take her mind off worrying about Fern Turner and she could at least spend half an hour with the old man and make sure he was safely in his flat before turning in for the night.

‘Great. All I have is rum, mind?’

‘I can bring down some wine if you’d prefer,’ she offered.

‘Oh, God no, that would be a step too far for me, the rum is as exotic as I’m likely to go.’ He laughed. ‘But if you’d prefer it yourself, I wouldn’t be offended.’

‘No. I’m not a connoisseur; I’ll drink what I’m offered,’ she said; it would only be one drink and there were worse things than rum.

‘There was a time when you’d pick up a bottle of poitín in this town as easily as you’d pour a glass of water, but I’m afraid all the good distillers took their recipes to the grave with them.’

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