Saga expected it to sting, but it didn’t. Perhaps she’d dulled that wound earlier that day by replaying it again and again in her mind at 2:00 a.m. She was so far away from it now, dissociated from both Hugh and the girl she’d been that day. It felt more like something she’d read about—something that had happened to someone else. “He did,” she admitted. “But it took that to realize I’d left a long time ago—therealme anyway. I don’t recommend it, but nothing grants mind-blinding clarity about your life decisions like being left at the altar.” She set down the pastry bag and wiped her hands on her apron.
Shai shifted awkwardly. “I’m sorry, Saga…”
Saga dismissed the apology with another shake of her head and an understanding smile. She couldn’t help it. Yes, it was an impolite thing to say, but she had been right. Hugh had been the one to leave. Could she have been more delicate? Perhaps, but she was a teenager, and Saga was not about to risk a pleasant working relationship by holding someone barely old enough to vote to a standard her own mother couldn’t abide. “Let those cool a bit longer before offering them to customers. I’ll take two with me across the street with the pastry bag of whipped cream.” She waved to the bowl with the remaining cream. “Don’t put this on until you’re ready to serve, or it will wilt, and I will see you tomorrow.”
The rain had not ceased, but it had eased in its relentless downpour, so much that Saga did not feel pressed to use an umbrella.17 She peeked out from under Hudson’s awning, lying in wait for the crosswalk before dashing across the street, hunching over the glass storage case of goodies as if it required vigilant protection from the elements.
The town houses across the street, much like the street itself, had changed little since her last residence in London. The stone and brick stood as strong as the day they were built. The vertical gardens on the north side were in full bloom, and the tenants had recently added a few solar panels to some of the higher walls facing west. These had been fitted in addition to, rather than replacing the kinetic raindrop tiles the government fitted and maintained on every London roof.
It was rarely necessary to use multiple sources of energy collection, especially with the rainfall being so abundant in town, but there was typically at least one week in summer during which, between the short drought, children being home during the day, and the rare desire to cool their space, the average Londoner had to ration their electricity. Two energy collection methods were a rare luxury—one that her grandmother now had the pleasure of enjoying.
Saga fished into her pocket for her keys, flipping through them one-handed with the dexterity that comes only with repetition. It was that same practiced hand that turned the knob and lightly bopped the door open with a sway of the hip. “Mamó?”18 She paused, staring into the living room.
Saoirse O’Donnell hadn’t really redecorated in Saga’s entire life. Among the plush and overstuffed furniture of the parlor sat a leather wingbackchair that had been a favorite of her grandfather’s. It still had his flannel blanket slung over the left arm, and to the right, a small circular end table that displayed his favorite pipe.
Nothing had changed. Not since the day Saga had been born. Yet that day as she entered, something felt out of place. Almost as if everything had been shifted exactly three inches from its original location. Likely this was due to the one glaring difference in the room: the plethora of bouquets and with-sympathy cards—condolences sent by those who knew the toll her friend’s passing would take on Saoirse’s life. It was enough to make Saga pause and linger on the threshold like an uncertain vampire.
“Saga?” A woman called, her voice still strong and warm despite the years it had weathered.
Saga smiled, the familiar music of her grandmother melting away any unease. “I brought some bakes,” she called back.
“Mo mhuirnín!”19 Saoirse exclaimed in delight, and Saga could hear some shuffling in the kitchen. “I’ll put the kettle on!”
Saga removed her shoes carefully before walking out of the small entryway and winding through the dining room to the kitchen.
Just as she’d always been, there was Saoirse. She had shrunk a few inches over the years, but her height and her sense of stature had never really matched to begin with. Her hair was a mixture of silver, gray, and white curls, all bound up in a messy bun atop her head. She was dressed for the weather: a sage cable-knit cardigan layered over black slacks and a squash-colored knit shirt. Her complexion was a light tawny beige that drew out the warmth from her dark brown eyes. She padded across the stone tile of the kitchen in wool-lined house slippers, placing a full brass kettle on the stove before turning to Saga and extending her arms. “I feel so spoiled having you so close to home again.”
Saoirse always hugged like it was the last time—a full-bodied embrace that might crush the wind from your lungs were she just a mite stronger.
“I’m the one who’s spoiled,” Saga mused. “Afternoon tea with you nearly every day? I’ll…” She trailed off as she moved to place the glass container of tarts on the kitchen table. It was covered in photo albums and scrapbooks.
Saoirse followed her gaze and frowned as if realizing she’d left the books out for the first time. “I should have cleaned those up before you arrived.”
“No,” Saga said a little too quickly as she caught sight of the contents of each book. “Please… I’d love to go over them with you. Were you looking at photos of Eira?”
Saoirse bobbed her head. “For the funeral. Gave them a whole box yesterday. Then I got carried away with nostalgia.”
Eira Goff had been nearly as much of a fixture in Saga’s life as her own grandmother. A tall, willowy woman born into money, but who had not taken this privilege for granted. She had dedicated her life to the research and development of pharmaceuticals—many of which had revolutionized cancer treatments. While Eira had been first and foremost a businesswoman, Saga could remember her constantly studying or taking classes to remain sharp.
When Saga was home from Oxford during her school years, Eira would occasionally flip through her textbooks and ask her opinion on articles she’d read in medical journals. She’d achieved degrees in business and multiple sciences. How she had the time to manage it all had always baffled Saga.
The kettle cleared the silence, and Saoirse reached for the container Saga was holding. “Go ahead and sit, petal. I’ll plate these and get the tea ready.”
“Are you sure? I can—”
“Whisht!” The old woman silenced. “You’ve been on your feet all day, and you even took to baking me something fresh before you came. Don’t argue with me, I can tell those tart shells have barely cooled. Sit. You’ve earned a rest up.”
Saga sank into the kitchen chair, and her entire body sighed. She hadn’t allowed herself the pleasure of sitting at work that day, too afraid that her sleep deprivation would seize the opportunity to draw her into slumber.
As Saoirse puttered around the kitchen, Saga found herself being drawninto the album just in front of her on the table. She leaned forward, smiling as she took in the muted photographs of her grandmother and her friend in their early twenties. Standing side by side, they were quite the odd couple, a clash of two worlds.
Saoirse’s long wild hair was a cascade of dark waves worn naturally and free over a peasant-style blouse, knit cardigan, and long flowing broomstick skirt. Her smile was wide and ecstatic, and she was hugging the young girl next to her so tightly she’d pinned one of her arms between the two of them.
Eira’s hair was slicked and perfectly coiffed, likely secured with enough hairspray that even a hurricane could not have moved it—even her graduation tam, which sat jauntily atop her head, could not mar it. Her robes covered most of her form, but no doubt beneath she wore the latest fashion, expertly tailored to her. Her smile was confident but serene, and in her one free hand, she triumphantly held the scroll given out during the ceremony. “Which one was this?”
Saoirse craned her neck as she approached with the tea tray. “Her EMBA from Hult.”
“She always looks so glamorous,” Saga mused, reaching out to move some of the albums aside to make room for the tea tray. “She’s basically wearing wizard’s robes and a beefeater, and is still the picture of elegance.”
