Chapter 20
Natalie stood at the threshold of her grandmother’s bedroom, the floorboards cool beneath her bare feet.
The absence pressed in from every corner, heavier now that Emma had flown out yesterday.
She missed the steady rhythm of Emma’s voice already, the way her hazel eyes caught the light when she smiled.
The house felt too quiet without either of them.
She crossed to the dresser and began sorting through the top drawer, her hands moving with deliberate care. Each folded cardigan carried the faint scent of lavender. Grief arrived in slow waves today, not the sharp stab of the first weeks but a deep, bone-heavy ache.
Gran was really gone. The thought lodged behind her ribs and refused to shift.
This morning she had walked to the grave alone, boots sinking into the damp grass. There was no headstone yet, just a wooden cross in the soil. A small gold plaque caught the sunlight, showing her grandmother’s name and the date of her death.
Natalie had stayed for a while, thinking about what Emma had said—that when her grandmother had spoken to her as though she were Siobhán, it might not have been confusion.
Gran could have been talking with her own daughter.
The thought had loosened something in Natalie’s chest. She had cried then, tears streaming down her face.
Now her fingers brushed against a bundle of old photographs tied with string.
She loosened the knot. Images spilled across the polished wood: her grandparents on their wedding day, young and serious; Her mother as a gap-toothed child clutching a bucket of blackberries.
Postcards from distant places followed, most of them from her mother.
Beneath those lay a neat stack of letters in Emma’s careful handwriting.
Natalie’s chest constricted at the familiar loops and crosses. She set them aside.
At the very back of the drawer rested a plain white envelope. Her own name stood out in Gran’s script. The sight made her breath catch. She lifted it out, the paper thin and slightly warped from age. Her hands shook as she broke the seal and unfolded the single sheet inside.
The words swam for a moment. She blinked hard and began to read.
Dear Natalie,
I know you’re not the type to riffle through my things, so if you’re reading this, I’m sure I’m gone.
I’m sitting here in the kitchen writing this on the morning of my 84th birthday. If I die tomorrow, I’ve lived a long and good life.
This house is yours. I would have always left it to you, but now that we’ve been spending these summers together, it feels even more right.
I know you’re a famous actress now but it doesn’t change the fact that Kilvolan will always be there for you.
It’s not London or New York, but it’s a lovely little part of the world, and I’ve always known you to be happy when you’re here.
I’ve done up a formal will, and Mr. McMorrow will have it, but these things take time.
I just wanted you to know that the house is yours.
I’m leaving my savings to Emma. She’s only been gone a few months, and I already miss her something terrible.
She’s been like a second grandchild to me, and I want to make sure she’s taken care of.
I don’t think there’s much more to say, other than I love you.
If you’re sad, be sad, that’s only right, but don’t stay sad. I’m not gone. I’m just walking ahead a bit.
Love,
Gran
Natalie’s vision blurred. She pressed the heel of her hand against her eyes, but the tears came anyway, hot and fast. They slipped down her cheeks and spotted the paper.
A strange mix of sorrow and lightness filled her chest, as though the letter had cracked open a door she had kept firmly shut. Her summers here had mattered. Her grandmother had felt the same pull, the same quiet joy in their shared weeks here.
She folded the letter and slipped it back into the envelope.
The room felt different now. Afternoon light slanted through the window, catching dust motes in the air.
She could almost hear the kettle whistling downstairs at seven in the morning, could almost see Gran bent over the rose beds, soil on her knuckles.
The thought of Emma receiving her own inheritance brought an ache mixed with warmth.
She wiped her face again. The tears slowed. Outside, a soft rain began to patter against the window. She gathered the photographs and letters, stacking them with care on the dresser.
She walked to the window. She wasn’t ready to stop missing Gran, and she didn’t have to be. The letter had given her permission to grieve and be grateful at once.