The Rainy Day Bookshop – Part 2: The Book She Chose

He came back on Thursday, when it rained again.

The bell rang. Saoirse looked up from the counter, and her whole face lit before she could stop it. Fionn stood in the doorway, soaked and grinning, with a folded umbrella and a bunch of daffodils slightly bent by the wind.

"I've come for my book," he said.

"You forgot it."

"I didn't. I wanted an excuse."

She took the book from beneath the counter. It was a battered paperback, the cover faded, the spine cracked: a collection of love poems she'd found in her aunt's attic. She handed it over. He opened it to the flyleaf.

Inside, in a flowing, familiar hand, someone had written: For Fionn, who came in from the rain.

He looked up. She was scarlet.

"Is it your handwriting?"

"It's my aunt's pen."

"But your hand."

"Yes," said Saoirse.

The shop was silent but for the rain. The cat snored on the radiator. Warm lamplight fell over the shelves and the old wooden floor. Fionn read the inscription again, slowly, and his throat worked.

"Saoirse. Can I ask you something?"

"Yes."

"May I kiss you? I've been thinking about it since the towel."

"Yes," she said. "And if I say stop, you must read the whole book aloud."

"It's two hundred pages."

"It's raining."

He set the book on the counter. He leaned across, took her face in both hands, and kissed her, gentle and slow, tasting of tea and rain. She kissed him back, her fingers in his wet hair. The bell above the door jingled in the draught. The cat opened one eye and shut it again.

When they parted, both of them were smiling.

"Green?" he asked.

"Green," said Saoirse. "Very green."

He moved to Galway in the spring. The bookshop has a second name now, in smaller letters under the first: and Fionn.

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