Chapter Eighteen ~ Fiona #2
She’s right. It’s not like we’d be starting from scratch.
Far from it. Mila and I have talked about this on and off for years.
We’ve spent countless hours in dark corners of pubs drawing up plans on napkins and scraps of paper, not to mention many late nights curled up in motel beds together, whispering our hopes and dreams into the darkness.
Sharing our ideas always felt exhilarating in the far-off way that ‘maybe someday’ dreams do.
I’m feeling that excitement now, but it’s mixed with something akin to fear.
Maybe because while my gut and brain go to war, my heart is screaming that ‘someday’ has finally arrived, and the decisions we make going forward could be life-changing.
“The capital,” I blurt. “Businesses require investments. We’d need…” I trail off, stopping myself before I say ‘money’. While that was always a valid argument before, it’s not now, thanks to the money Dad left me.
“Hold that thought,” Mila says. “That’s actually the next thing I want to talk to you about.
I’ll be right back.” She wriggles to the edge of the beanbag chair, grunting and cursing under her breath as she attempts to stand.
It takes longer than it should because we both dissolve into giggles.
She finally makes it to her feet thanks to a gentle shove from me, and hurries out of the treehouse.
In the silence of this space that’s both familiar and foreign, I try not to let my thoughts spiral.
As exciting as it’s always been to talk about starting our own business, there’s been no legitimate reason to quit our jobs before now.
Despite the usual ups and downs you’d experience at any workplace, I’ve loved my tours, the people I work with, and, yes, the fact I literally get to travel for a living.
There are logistical things too, such as the fact my job with On the Go comes with an affordable place to live and a work visa.
Mila is breathless when she returns a few minutes later carrying what appears to be a shoebox. She waves me over to the small table and chairs on the far side of the room. “If I get back in that beanbag chair, I might never get up again.”
I join her at the table, eyeing the box curiously. She lifts the lid, and the unexpected whiff of Dad’s familiar scent—musky cologne, Irish Spring, and a hint of peppermint—nearly takes my breath away. When Mila looks at me with a sad smile, I realize I’ve let out a choked gasp.
“I know,” she says, laying her hand over mine where it rests on the table. “I started crying the minute I opened the box. It was like releasing a floodgate, and I cried so damn hard I couldn’t even look inside for half an hour.”
Knowing this box is somehow connected to Dad, I resist the urge to snatch it and rifle through the contents. “What is it?”
“It was waiting for me at the London flat when I got there last week,” Mila says. “It’s from Seamus’s lawyer.”
“Dad’s lawyer?”
She makes a soft humming noise as she pulls out a stack of photos and hands them to me.
They’re pictures from our trips to visit Dad in Ireland.
There’s a mix of candid and posed shots; some of Mila and me, others of the three of us, and a few of Dad and Mila.
There are photos in here I’ve never seen before.
Dad wrote the date and place on the back of each one.
I linger over one of the unfamiliar pictures, a candid shot of Mila and me in Dad’s garden, surrounded by colourful flowers, our heads thrown back in laughter.
On the back, Dad wrote ‘Fiona Mae and Mila. June 2018, Ardmore. One of my favourite pictures.’
“Can I get a copy of this?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“Of course,” Mila says. “I’ll get it done this week if there’s a place in town. You can have the original since he wrote on it.”
I smile my thanks, not trusting myself to speak. Mila nods in understanding.
“He wrote me a letter,” she says, taking an envelope out of the box and setting it aside.
She doesn’t offer it to me, so I don’t ask to see it, even though I desperately want to know what it says.
She hands me the next item she pulls from the box, though: a small, worn hardcover book with Czech writing on the front.
“It’s a book of poetry,” Mila explains. “One night in Ireland, Seamus and I talked for ages about Czech writers and poets. I told him about a book of poetry I loved as a child, but lost somewhere along the way. There was a note inside from Seamus, saying he found it in a used bookstore in Ireland and forgot to send it to me. There was also a four-leaf clover pressed between the pages.” Her voice wavers on the last few words, and she lets out a watery laugh. “He never forgot anything, did he?”
During our trips to Ireland, Mila always looked for a four-leaf clover.
It became a bit of a running joke that she was always on the hunt, but never managed to find one.
The last time we visited Dad a year or so ago, he told me he found one as soon as he returned home from dropping us off at the airport. I bet that’s the one inside the book.
Mila sucks in a deep breath, her eyes filling with tears as she holds up a note.
I immediately recognize the thick cardstock as being from Dad’s personal stationery.
“Everything else in this box is priceless. Knowing I was loved by someone like Seamus Murphy, knowing he considered me part of your family and thought about me while he was dying…I can’t express how that feels.
It’s like finding a million four-leaf clovers and knowing each one will bring you luck.
But this…” She swallows audibly. “This left me speechless.”
She hands me the card. I trace the pad of my thumb over the stylized SM, noticing an indentation in the top left corner that makes me think something was previously attached with a paperclip. Unconsciously, I mimic Mila’s deep inhalation from a moment ago before I read the brief note.
My dearest Mila,
This is yours to do with whatever you wish…and if I know you as well as I think I do, I have a feeling you’ll use it to make a dream come true. It’s scary, but take a leap, and take our girl with you.
Love always,
Seamus xx
I stare at the words until they blur. Even without seeing what was paperclipped to this note, I’m certain I know what it was.
Tears spill down my cheeks, and I jerk the note away from me so they don’t fall on the paper and smudge the precious words.
As Mila offers me a long strip of paper, I realize I’m holding my breath.
I take the cheque with shaky fingers, my sharp exhalation making it dance.
“Wow,” I whisper. I can’t think of a single other thing to say as I take in the amount made out to Mila.
She huffs. “My first words were ‘what the actual fuck, Seamus Murphy?’”
I let out a watery laugh, covering my free hand with my sleeve so I can wipe my face. I look at the cheque for a moment longer before handing it back to Mila. “You could do a lot of things with money like that.”
“Yeah, like starting a business with my best friend. This is essentially Seamus giving us his blessing and the funding.”
Feeling suddenly restless, I rise from the table to pace around the room. My thoughts are coming so fast I can’t get a firm grasp on any one in particular. I have no idea how much time passes before Mila appears in front of me, bringing me to a halt with her hands on my shoulders.
“Tell me what you’re thinking,” she says.
“I’m thinking this is complete and utter madness. We can’t just…start our own business.”
“Why not?” Mila asks. When I remain silent, unable to form a response, her grip tightens on my shoulders, giving me the impression she wants to shake me.
“Seriously, Fi, why not? We both have degrees in International Tourism Management. We have years of experience in the industry. We have dozens of connections across the globe, both personal and professional. We’ve planned trips for people just for fun.
We work well together. I know being business partners could change our dynamic somewhat, but I think we could handle it. We could handle all of it.”
Undeterred by the silence that follows, Mila jumps back in.
“Fiona, we were made for this. We know that, and Seamus knew it too. Hell, other people have said the same thing over the years. As much as we love travelling for a living, imagine making other people’s travel dreams come true.
We already do that on a smaller scale as guides, but imagine creating bespoke tours.
Catering to smaller groups, families, solo travellers who want to make friends.
We could hire whoever we want, train them however we want, give them a job that’s joyful and purposeful and fun.
Between us, we have the travel industry side covered, and we have the money to hire people to help us with the business side. ”
My thoughts go immediately to Nathan, who took online business courses when he and Liam started Honeywell Handymen. As quickly as the thought comes, I dismiss it just as fast. Nathan’s life, home, and business are here in Honeywell, and I can’t see that changing any time soon.
The butterflies are back now, bringing with them that mixed sensation of excitement and fear. Could we really do this? “There’s still the issue of the non-compete clause,” I say.
Mila’s shoulders slump. I think I’ve leaned too far into buzzkill territory until she says, “That’s actually the final thing I want to talk to you about.
” She releases my shoulders and takes one of my hands, leading me across the room to the window seat.
She plops down on the padded bench and pulls me down beside her.
“I might have a way to deal with the non-compete clause, but I’m afraid it’ll make you hate me. ”
“Not possible,” I say immediately. Despite the surety of my words, something about Mila’s expression makes my stomach roll. “Tell me.”