Read Chapter 22: CHRISTMAS AT BELLWETHER

Nora had hated Christmas retail.

She objected to decorative tinsel, seasonal playlists, discounted gift bundles, scented candles, and any customer who asked for “something for a person who doesn’t read.”

Maeve honoured her memory by doing all of it except the scented candles.

Bellwether’s December turnover doubled.

Aisling built gift tables. The café next door supplied cardamom buns. Lucy made handwritten recommendation cards whose honesty became popular online.

FOR PEOPLE WHO SAY THEY LIKE FANTASY BUT ONLY WATCH THE FILMS.

FOR YOUR UNCLE WHO THINKS ALL NEW BOOKS ARE POLITICAL.

FOR SOMEONE YOU LIKE BUT NOT €30 LIKE.

On Christmas Eve, the shop closed at four.

Snow was forecast but rain arrived instead.

Evelyn came in carrying a parcel.

“I brought you something.”

Inside was The Third Policeman—the same worn copy with blue underlining and Ask Eileen pencilled beside the margin.

Maeve stared.

“I thought Anna wanted to keep it.”

“She has the letters. I have my memories. This belongs here.”

Maeve touched the softened cover.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. But don’t sell it.”

“I wouldn’t dare.”

Evelyn smiled.

She had begun seeing Eileen again. Not frequently, not as if decades could be erased, but enough for tea and arguments. Anna had read twelve of Thomas’s letters. Michael, Evelyn’s son, had chosen not to read any.

“He says he prefers Dad’s life not be rearranged by a man he never met,” Evelyn explained.

“Does that bother you?”

“No. Choice is the one thing I’m determined not to mishandle now.”

Maeve placed the book in a glass-front cabinet with a small card:

NOT FOR SALE. SOME BOOKS ARE PLACES.

No names. No story.

Thomas had asked not to become sentimental public property.

Bellwether could remember without exposing him.

At five, Julian arrived with Lucy and an overnight bag. Sarah was spending Christmas with her parents in Donegal; Lucy would join her on Boxing Day.

They ate upstairs with Siobhán, Aisling, the café owner Bekele and his wife Hana, and two older Bellwether regulars who had nowhere else they wished to be.

The table was too small. Chairs did not match. Someone burned the potatoes. Lucy performed a magic trick that failed structurally but succeeded socially.

Maeve stood in the kitchen doorway watching everyone argue about whether Die Hard counted as a Christmas film.

Nora’s flat had never held this many people.

For a moment grief rose so sharply Maeve had to grip the doorframe.

Julian noticed from across the room.

He did not come to rescue her.

He only met her eyes.

Maeve nodded once.

I’m here.

He nodded back.

Later, after guests left and Lucy fell asleep on the sofa, Maeve and Julian washed dishes.

“People in kitchens,” he said.

Maeve looked at him. “You read my letter?”

“No.”

She had told him only that she wrote to her parents, not the contents.

“Then why did you say that?”

“You look frightened every time domestic happiness occurs near a sink.”

“That is unsettlingly accurate.”

He dried a plate.

Maeve leaned against the counter.

“I wrote that I used to think survival meant never being surprised by loss.”

Julian listened.

“And that avoiding loss meant avoiding all this too.” She gestured toward the messy room. “Plans. People. Dependence.”

“Yes.”

“I still hate that the bargain is unavoidable.”

“So do I.”

“You seem calmer about it.”

“I have a child. Fear comes free with the subscription.”

Maeve smiled.

He put down the towel.

“I don’t think loving people is brave because we can lose them,” he said. “That sounds too heroic. Most days it’s just ordinary. You make breakfast. You answer the phone. You say when you’re angry. You remember the school concert.”

“Very romantic.”

“I teach literature. I’m rebelling.”

Maeve kissed him.

At midnight the rain turned briefly to snow.

Lucy woke and insisted they go outside.

The three of them stood in Bow Lane under weak white flakes that melted as soon as they touched the pavement.

Lucy held out her tongue.

Julian complained about pneumonia.

Maeve laughed.

Above them, Bellwether’s windows glowed.