One day, a package appeared in the mail.
Griffin tore it open and found a green plastic-covered spiral-bound notebook. He’d left it in the rideshare that fateful night of the vernal equinox. He’d read it and memorized it, believing it included his fate. But it had been a pack of lies, legends, and myths.
A card fell out of the notebook as he was putting it away. It was an appointment reminder from the Poddle Neurological Institute. He’d missed it, but another fragment clicked in place.
He’d promised something important under a wooden cross behind the stained-glass windows of the hospital chapel.
“Would one coherent mortal life be worth more than thousands of fractured lives?” she’d asked him then.
He now had the answer. “Definitely. One complete mortal life with her.”
And then he remembered. He’d promised to get treatment for his memory loss.
Griffin went back to his bedroom and picked up the phone. He called the clinic, and Enya, his favorite receptionist, answered.
“Dr. Murray’s office,” Enya said in her cheery, sparkling voice.
“It’s Griffin Gallagher. I’ve decided to take the surgical treatment. I don’t want to lose a single precious moment of my life, ever again.”
“That’s wonderful,” Enya said. “Let me pen you in for an appointment. Will your sister be able to take care of you afterward?”
“I’m sure she will,” Griffin said. “Can you please do me a favor and call her?”
He recited the number from Clare’s phone which no longer worked on the one he’d kept. She’d obviously transferred it to a new phone. All that was left on hers were the pictures and notes she took, but he wouldn’t look at any of it because the Clare he knew was more than words and images. She was sensuous, musical, and one hundred percent entrancing. She plucked every one of his heartstrings, and she strummed every breath of his spirit.
After making the appointment, he penned the last scene in his memoir. Their last kiss on top of the round tower. He’d been admiring her, memorizing her from the tip of her tiara crown, through every strand of her rivers of hair, the milky-white of her smooth skin, and every dot of freckle across her nose. He’d colored in the clear greenness of her eyes and tasted the sweet pink lips. His gaze had slipped to her bosom and the precious rock lying on her cleavage.
The six-points of the crystalline structure winked in his mind’s eye. His mind revolted, not believing she wore the fake. Something was wrong. Impossible.
He slapped the side of his head, hating that he was still susceptible to false memories. But each time he calmed his mind, he counted six sides to the crystal on her breast.
When and how had she switched the stones?
Had she? Or was he deluding himself?
He wanted her to have the real Heart of Brigid. He distinctly saw the ending, when the brown-haired, hazel-eyed Eamon Donnelly had corralled Clare and taken her down the staircase.
Feelings flooded his heart, and he wrote the parting glance. She’d looked back, not guiltily, not with pity. Her eyebrows arched up in the center of her forehead, and her expression was one of disappointment and finality.
He’d hurt her, but she would never have walked off with his treasure—as he’d assumed all along.
Griffin finished writing down his thoughts and went looking for his grandfather.
He found the old man sitting in the gazebo watching butterflies emerge from their chrysalises. It was June already and closing in on the summer solstice.
“How’s that memoir of yours going?” Grandpa asked. “Are you almost done?”
“I am,” he said. “All I need to do is confirm one last piece.”
“What is it?”
“The Heart of Brigid,” Griffin said. “She doesn’t have it, does she?”
Grandpa stuck his hand into his vest. He pulled out a shiny chain and held the stone up for Griffin to see.
A gleaming diamond in the rough shone purplish red, setting Griffin’s heart on fire with its glow of love.
That evening, he finished his memoir. He put the pages in an insured courier envelope and paid for it to be hand delivered to one Clare Hart, Dublin, Ireland.
Chapter 36
Clare typed “The End” to her latest romance novel, Lucky Like Love. Of course, she had to create a happy ending. It was bittersweet, with more sweet than bitter, and even though she’d cried a river while writing it, she was happy with the results.
It was three months’ worth of bleeding her heart out onto the page, but at the end, her heroine finally understood that love couldn’t be forced, it couldn’t be begged for, and it definitely couldn’t be bought.
Love was like luck.
It just happened.
It either clicked or it didn’t.
And she’d rather liked that no one controlled love.
Otherwise, it wouldn’t be love.
Freely given, and freely received.
Oftentimes one-sided, but nevertimes wasted.
She would post the story to her beta readers, and tomorrow, she would turn a new leaf and start another love story.
She unsilenced her mobile phone and noted she’d had a missed call. The caller ID said it was from the Poddle Neurological Institute.
Could she have left something there? Or perhaps she’d been listed as an emergency contact for Griffin?
She thought about him every day, and she wondered how he was doing. Even though she had his passcode tattooed onto her shoulder, she’d resisted looking into his cloud account. Sure, she’d set it up for him so he could rebuild his memories, but she couldn’t do everything for him, and she’d rather not mislead him with false impressions.
“Hello? This is Clare,” she answered.
“Hi, Clare, this is Enya from Dr. Murray’s office. Your brother requested I call you to let you know he has an appointment with Dr. Murray to talk about surgical options for his epilepsy.”
“My bro—?” She caught herself. “Oh, yes, Griffin. Tell me when, and I’ll be sure to show up.”
“It’s this Friday. He said you would be happy to take care of him after the surgery.”
“I will definitely be there.” She hung up after getting more details.
Her heart swelled, about to burst from her ribcage. The apartment felt too small for her, and she’d been cooped up for almost three months since leaving Castle Gallagher.
Her novel was done, so she put on exercise clothes and earbuds. She’d clear her mind and let her harried thoughts organize themselves.
Did this call mean Griffin had remembered her? To the distinct detail that she’d pretended to be his sister at the doctor’s office?
Did that mean he’d also remembered her promise to be at his side? As a friend only? Or could there be more to it?
She itched to call him, but she did not want to influence his memories. If he remembered her on his own, he would find a way to let her know.
Until then, she would not settle for second best, nor would she manipulate or create conditions for love.
Love was to let it be. It was the same thing she did for her characters. She let them be themselves and drive their story, because as soon as she tried to force them into a mold, they rebelled and stopped speaking to her.
“I love you, Griffin Gallagher,” she confessed to the air as she jogged around the fountains of St. Patrick’s Park.
Butterflies fluttered over pretty flowers, and birds twittered and squeaked. She looked up at a tiny blue tit warbling, "tsee-hee-he-hee, tsee-see-he.”
“You’re magnifying my good luck, aren’t you, little one?” She breathed a prayer and let the bird amplify it to the heavens.
When she arrived back at her apartment, a courier was leaving a note on her door.
“Are you Clare Hart?” he asked, tucking his pen over his ear.
“Yes, that’s me.” She looked curiously at a large Kevlar envelope.
“This here’s for you, from Griffin Gallagher, County D
onegal. Will you please sign?” He handed her the heavy envelope. “If this is a love letter, it’s the largest and heaviest one I’ve ever seen.”
She signed for it and could barely breathe. Her heart was beating so fast, she felt faint, and yet, at the same time, invigorated and bursting with energy.
“Can you wait?” she asked the courier. “Come in and have a cup of tea? I have something I’d like to send him in return. An even larger love letter.”
Chapter 37
This time when Clare stepped off the bus near the Poddle Neurological Institute, she was met by a classroom of children on a field trip, each boy and girl holding a green balloon.
They pointed at her and jumped up and down, chanting, “Clare the fairy, Clare the fairy.”
At the same time, they let go of their balloons and clapped as the green bobbing pieces of inflated rubber jostled their way into the blue sky above.
She waved at the children, not sure why they greeted her, and that’s when she noticed a row of large format video cameras hovering on the opposite side of the bus stop. The children surged forward and tweeted, "Tsee-hee-he-hee. Tee-hee-he-hee.” They flitted around, flapping their arms like little birds, and their teachers clapped to encourage them.
As she walked from the bus stop to the sidewalk, the children swarmed her, surrounding her, and they started sticking Post-It notes on her clothes.
“Tsee-hee, hee-tee-hee, tsee-see-hee,” they chirped and then followed their teacher down the street.
The cameras zoomed in on Clare as she thanked the children for their blessings, because she had to assume they were blessing her the way the blue tit bird carried prayers from their beaks to God’s ear.
She picked a note from her blouse and read it. “You.”
Another note said, “Me.”
There was a question mark.
She was sure this was either a well-played prank or a publicity stunt for social media, but she couldn’t spot the culprit ready to jump out at her.
Another word was “Will.”
A Post-It fell to the ground, and she almost stepped on it. Her jaw dropped when she read the word, “Marry.”
Again, she looked around, aware of all the eyes on her and people making their own videos.
Could Griffin be around the corner? Or was this the doing of one of her fans—some of whom were male?
“You have some notes on your back,” a woman pointed out. “Do you want me to get them?”
“Sure, of course.” She stopped and let the woman hand her the notes.
There were seven letters. R, N, two F’s, two I’s and a G.
Her heart flooded with emotion, and tears leaked from her eyes. She walked faster toward the Poddle Neurological Institute. He must have read her novel in its entirety. Her ending scene had been played out. Children in the park, balloons, and letters, except he’d added a twist she hadn’t foreseen.
Instead of life-giving surgery, her story had ended too bitter to be sweet. Love found, tasted, acknowledged, and then lost to a final fit of forgetfulness, followed by acceptance that it was better to be fully loved in an instant in time than to have never known real love in an eternity of pretend.
Was her real-life story going to end differently?
Could reality truly eclipse fiction?
She found her Griffin standing on the steps of the Poddle Neurological Institute in front of their bright-yellow doors. In one hand, he held the pages of her manuscript, and in his other hand, he dangled a large cut and faceted purplish-red diamond. It was quite a bit smaller than an egg, but it sparkled and shined like a million bright lights—no longer a diamond in the rough.
“Griffin, you remembered everything,” she exclaimed. “I read your memoirs like I was reading your heart.”
Tears welled in her eyes, a follow-on to all the ones she’d already shed while reading day and night.
He got down on his knees and opened his arms. “Come to me, dear Clare. I have a critique of your novel. I loved every bit of it except for the ending. Please forgive me, as I’ve taken the liberty to improve it.”
She stepped into his embrace and got down on her knees, facing him. “My story is yours to finish.”
“Nay, our story will never finish.” He looped the diamond pendant around her neck. “It’s too big to fit on a ring, but will you, Clare Hart, marry me, Griffin Gallagher? Will you share your life with me and let us be witnesses and participants in our conjoined life?”
“Oh, Griffin.” She threw her arms around him. “I will. I truly will love you and stand by your side. No matter what happens and whether you’ll remember me or not. I’ll always know your voice and feel your emotions, and I’ll know you love me.”
“You will always know I love you, and I’ll hold you to remembering, I’m going to get the surgery, and I’m not going to forget a single moment with you.”
“Then let our moments start right now.” She kissed him and her heart fluttered with the applause of the crowd witnessing their special and unique moment in time.
Epilogue
Griffin pushed the wheelchair carrying his father into his grandfather’s study. It was time for everyone to come together and air out the tragic events or predictions chronicled in the Green Notebook.
Portraits of Griffin’s ancestors graced the wood-paneled walls of the study. He parked his father in front of an oil painting of a red-haired woman surrounded by greenery.
“Do you remember her?” he asked the cadaverous figure whose limbs were twisted and bent.
His father grimaced, but his eyes lit in recognition and softened with an expression of devotion. “It’s my fairest Erin, the handmaiden of Ireland.”
“Ah yes, she was my mother,” Griffin said. He wheeled the chair to the desk where Clare sat in front of a leather-bound book.
She stood and greeted his father, who was cleared from murder charges concerning his mother when they discovered new evidence in one of the leather-bound books hidden in the underground bedchamber.
Griffin suppressed a growl when his father held onto Clare’s hand a little too long.
“Morrigan,” he hissed. “You beguiled my son, and he failed like I knew he would. Look at me, still withered and diseased. I told him to snuff out my life so I could come back hearty and hale, but no, he chickened out.”
“Father, you are remembering again,” Griffin said.
His gaze went blank, and he blinked. “Who are you? How dare you call me Father?”
Griffin’s grandfather tottered to their side, tapping his cane. “We are here to celebrate a new story by finishing an old one.”
“I don’t like story time,” Griffin’s father said. “You all think I’ve forgotten everything, but I was only pretending.”
“Oh?” Grandfather raised an eyebrow. “Then tell me, Son, what did you do with Erin’s bones?”
Goosebumps attacked Griffin’s exposed skin. He’d had suspicions that he never wanted to face.
“I killed your mom,” Griffin’s father said. “I thought she was my true love, but she would not give the Heart of Brigid to me like your Clare gave to you.”
“No, Father, you must face the truth,” Griffin said. “You loved my mother so much, you made up a story to condemn yourself. We brought you back from America to show you that you are not guilty.”
Grandfather opened the leather-bound book and put it on the table in front of the wheelchair. “Erin had her annals, too. You might have driven her to her death, but it was not by your hand.”
“I killed her. I did!” Griffin’s father wailed.
“You loved her so much, you couldn’t face what happened,” Clare said, rubbing his withered hands. “I read Erin’s annals. I know what she felt and believed. She was sure she was cursed, but she was determined to try and bring your Brigid back.”
“Do we have to confront him like this?” Griffin asked. “We already fictionalized this tragic love story.”
“We must, out of respect,” Clare said.
“If you want it in the movie, your father must consent.”
“My Erin would never kill herself,” Griffin’s father said.
“She did it because she loved you so much,” Clare said. “She did it to bring Brigid back. She wanted the story of the Heart of Brigid to be true. Don’t you see? She loved you so much. She never wanted you to blame yourself.”
Griffin’s father’s jaw trembled, and his bulging eyes locked onto Clare. “Are you daft, lass? If I hadn’t shown her the Green Notebook, she would not be that beautiful skeleton lying in a bedchamber for the last thirty odd years. You are the one who failed to bring her back to life.”
“You did everything you could have done,” Clare said. “You followed her instructions to the letter. Her bedchamber is exquisite. Her red wig is lustrous and fine. Her bones are sturdy and clean, and her teeth are polished white. She took her own life to fulfill your dream, and you spent the rest of your life taking the blame. You built her mausoleum to her specifications. Don’t you think it’s time to let the past go and celebrate the great love story you had?”
“It’s like that crazy O’Henry Gift of the Magi story,” Griffin’s grandfather said. “She sacrificed her life for your Heart of Brigid, and you pawned off the Heart of Brigid to construct her bedchamber shrine.”
“You were supposed to kill me after you redeemed the Heart of Brigid.” Griffin’s father stabbed a bony finger at him.
“Wouldn’t you rather have a tragic love story instead?” Grandfather asked. “Clare dear has written a movie script and wants to memorialize your Gift of the Magi style love story. It will keep Erin’s great sacrifice alive as a work of true love.”
Griffin’s father put his hands over his eyes and nodded. “Erin was a true believer in Brigid. Erin loved Ireland more than life itself. Erin wanted to make a new, green Ireland great again. Yes, yes, remember Erin, always.”
“May we write her story into our movie?” Clare asked.
Griffin’s father nodded and raised a petrified fist. “Éirinn go Brách.”
Lucky Like Love: The Fae Legacy #1 Page 26