greenery and berries, some ornaments she bought from a woman in Dublin, the jeweled wands and stone pendants she bought from a Wiccan catalog because people expected such things in a shop called the Dark Witch.
And there was Eileen, her pixie-sized body up on a step stool, cleaning a high shelf. Eileen turned, her bold green glasses slipping down her pug of a nose.
“Well now, it’s the lady herself, and glad I am to see you, Branna. I hope you’ve come with more of those cranberry candles, for I sold the very last of them not fifteen minutes ago.”
“I have two dozen more, as you asked. I would’ve thought too many, but if we’re fully out, you were right again.”
“It’s why you made me manager.” Eileen stepped down. She wore her dark blond hair in a scoop, dressed always smart—today in tall boots under a pine green dress. She was barely five feet altogether, and had borne and raised five strapping sons.
“More in the car then? I’ll go fetch them in.”
“You won’t, no, as there’s no need for both of us to be drenched.” Branna set the first box down on the spotless counter. “You can unpack and keep Kathel company, for he insisted on coming along.”
“He knows where I keep special treats for lovely, good dogs.”
His tail wagged as she spoke, and he sat politely, all but grinned at her.
Branna went out into the rain again, Eileen’s laugh trailing behind her.
It took three trips, and a truly thorough drenching.
She waved her hands, down from her hair to her feet, drying herself as Connor had dried the dog that morning. Something she would have done for few outside her own circle.
Eileen didn’t so much as blink, but continued to unpack the stock. Branna had chosen Eileen to run her shop, and manage the part-time clerks, for many practical reasons. But not the least of them was the wisps of power she sensed in the woman, and Eileen’s acceptance of all Branna was.
“I had four hearty tourists—in from the Midlands—come to see The Quiet Man museum, have lunch at the pub. They stopped in, and dropped three hundred and sixty euros among them before they headed out again.”
And not the least of those practical reasons, Branna thought now, was Eileen’s knack of guiding the right customer to the right products.
“That’s fine news on a rainy morning.”
“Will you have some tea then, Branna?”
“No, but thanks.” Instead, Branna pushed up her sleeves and helped Eileen unpack and place the stock. “And how’s it all going?”
As she’d hoped, Eileen kept her mind off her troubles by catching her up with village gossip, with news of her sons, her husband, daughters-in-law (two, and another in June), grandchildren, and all else under the sun.
A scatter of customers came in during the hour she worked, and didn’t leave empty-handed. And that was good for the spirit as well as the pocketbook.
She’d built a fine place here, Branna reminded herself. Full of color and light and scent, and all tidily arranged as her organized soul demanded—and as artfully displayed as her sense of style could wish.
And she thanked the gods again for Eileen and the others who worked for her, that they dealt with the customers, and she could have her time in her workshop to create.
“You’re a treasure to me, Eileen.”
Eileen’s face flushed with pleasure. “Ah now, that’s a lovely thing to say.”
“A true one.” She kissed Eileen’s dimpled cheek. “How fortunate are we as we both get to do what we love and are bloody good at, every day? If I had to work the counter and such as I did in the first months I opened, I’d be mad as a hatter. So you’re my treasure.”
“Well, you’re mine in turn, as having an employer who leaves me to my own ways is a gift.”
“Then I’m leaving you to it now, and we’ll both go on with what we love and do bloody well.”
When she and Kathel left, Branna felt refreshed. A trip to her shop tended to lift her mood, and today’s had lifted it higher than most. She drove through the rain on roads as familiar as her own kitchen, then sat a moment outside her cottage.
A good morning, she thought, despite the dreariness of the day. She’d spoken to her cousin, one of the first three, and at her own kitchen table. She would think and think long and hard on the hope and faith needed.