“What’ll ya give me for my button, Mr. Kelly?”
Mr. Kelly smiled and picked up the button, eyeing it through the loupe as though it were of great value. I was slow to make the connection and had just begun to protest when the jeweler frowned.
“S McD,” he read. “What’s this, Eoin?”
“It’s very valuable,” Eoin said.
“Eoin!” I rebuked softly. “I’m sorry, Mr. Kelly. We won’t be selling that button. I didn’t realize Eoin had it with him.”
“I heard Seán Mac Diarmada scratched his name in a few buttons and coins. Is this one of them?” Mr. Kelly asked, still studying the little brass bauble.
“I don’t know about that, Mr. Kelly. But the button is a keepsake. Will you excuse us for a moment?”
Mr. Kelly inclined his head and turned his back, busying himself with the cases behind him. We stepped away from the counter, and I knelt in front of Eoin.
“Eoin, do you know what that button is?”
“Yes. It was Doc’s. His friend gave it to him, and Doc gave it to me. I like to carry it in my pocket for good luck.”
“Why would you want to sell something so precious?”
“Because . . . you need the money,” Eoin explained, his eyes wide and pleading.
“Yes. But that button is more important than money.”
“Nana said you are penniless. She said you are a beggar with no home and no shame,” he quoted. “I don’t want you to be a beggar.” His eyes grew shiny, and his lips quivered. I swallowed the angry lump in my throat and reminded myself again that Brigid was my great-great-grandmother.
“You must never, ever, part with that button, Eoin. It is the kind of treasure that no amount of money can replace because it represents the lives of people who are gone, people who mattered and are missed. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” Eoin said, nodding. “But I missed you. And I would give up my button to keep you.”
My eyes swam, and my lips trembled in concert with his. “Someone very wise told me that we keep the people we love in our hearts. We never lose them as long as we can remember how it felt to be loved by them.” I pulled him to me, embracing his small body so tightly that he squirmed and giggled. I released him and wiped at the tear that had escaped and was clinging to my nose.
“Promise me you will stop carrying that button in your pocket. Put it somewhere very safe and treasure it,” I said, infusing as much sternness into my voice as I could muster.
“I promise,” Eoin said simply. I rose, and we walked back to the counter to the man who was pretending not to watch us. “My mother won’t let me sell the button, Mr. Kelly.”
“I think that’s wise, young man.”
“Dr. Smith told my mother not to sell her ring either.”
“Eoin,” I whispered, embarrassed.
“Did he, now?” Mr. Kelly asked.
“Yes, sir,” Eoin said, nodding.
Mr. Kelly raised his eyes to mine. “Well, then. I suppose he’s right. Mrs. Gallagher, I will give you a hundred sixty pounds for the diamonds. And you must keep your ring. I remember a young man coming in here quite a few years ago and buying this piece.” He rubbed his thumb over the cameo, reflective. “It was more than he could afford, but he was determined to have it. He told me it was for the girl he wanted to marry. We made a deal—his pocket watch for this ring.” He placed the ring in my hand and folded my fingers over it. “The watch wasn’t worth much, but he was a great negotiator.”
I stared at Mr. Kelly in stunned remorse. No wonder Thomas had been so adamant. I had tried to sell Anne’s wedding ring.
“Thank you, Mr. Kelly. I have never heard that story,” I whispered.
“Well, now you have,” he answered kindly. A memory skittered across his features, and his lips pursed in reflection. “You know . . . I might still have that pocket watch. It stopped ticking shortly after the trade. I set it aside, thinking it might just need tinkering.” He pulled open drawers and unlocked curios. A moment later, he cried out in triumph, pulling a long chain attached to a simple gold timepiece from a velvet-lined drawer.
My heart caught, and I pressed a trembling palm to my mouth to muffle my surprise. It was the timepiece Eoin had worn most of his life. It had always made him look old-fashioned—the drooping chain and the golden locket—but he’d never abandoned it for a newer model.
“See this, lad?” Mr. Kelly showed Eoin how to release the latch on the cover, revealing the clock face beneath. Eoin nodded happily, and the pawnbroker stared down at the watch with a frown.
“Well, look at that!” Mr. Kelly marveled. “It’s ticking after all.” He checked his own watch, which was hanging from the little pocket in his vest. With a little tool, he adjusted the time on Declan Gallagher’s watch and studied the tiny hands as they ticked. He grunted in satisfaction.
“I think you should have it, lad,” Mr. Kelly said, pushing the timepiece across the counter until it was within Eoin’s reach. “After all, it belonged to your father.”
Little Eoin and I left the pawnshop with much more than we’d arrived with. In addition to one hundred sixty pounds and Declan’s pocket watch—which Eoin clutched tightly in his hand, even though I’d pinned the chain to his vest—a pair of agate earrings with tiny dangling cameos were clamped to my lobes. I realized belatedly that most women probably didn’t have holes in their ears in 1921. Mr. Kelly insisted the earrings matched my ring so well that I should have them. He was being so kind and generous, I suspected I’d given him a very good deal indeed. But I still wore Anne’s ring, and I could never repay him for that. The pawnbroker had saved me from making a terrible blunder, and he’d told me a story even more precious than the ring itself.
I found myself puzzling over the dizzying ramifications of Declan’s timepiece. If I had not gone into the pawnbroker with Eoin, would Mr. Kelly have ever given Eoin the watch? Eoin had had the watch all the years I’d known him. Was I changing history, or had I always been part of it? And how had Eoin gotten Anne’s ring? If she’d died and was never found, wouldn’t she have been wearing it?
I realized suddenly that I had no idea where I was going. I was clutching the money pouch in my right hand and Eoin’s hand in my left, letting him lead me along, my mind eighty miles—or years—away.
“Eoin, do you know where the department store is?” I asked sheepishly.
He laughed and let go of my hand. “Right there, goose!”
We were standing across the street from a row of huge glass windows—at least six of them—shaded by a deep-red awning that boasted the store’s name, “Henry Lyons & Co. Ltd., The Sligo Warehouse” in pale lettering. Behind the glass, hats and shoes were displayed on pedestals, and dresses and suits were modeled by pale-faced mannequins. Relief swelled for seconds before fear regained dominance.
“I will simply ask for help,” I encouraged myself out loud, and Eoin nodded.
“Nana’s friend Mrs. Geraldine Cummins works here. She’s very helpful.”
My heart sank so low it rubbed the bottom of my belly, and I thought for a moment I would be sick. Brigid’s friend would surely know about Anne Gallagher. The real Anne Gallagher. The original Anne Gallagher. I braced myself as Eoin pulled me forward, clearly eager for the wonders of the huge store.
A group of men were gathered around the large set of windows just right of the entrance. Their backs were to the road, their arms folded as they stared at something on the other side of the pane. I craned my neck, trying to see what had drawn the crowd. As I neared, one man abandoned his spot, giving me a clear view of the window before the hole closed with someone else. They were reading a newspaper. Someone had taped the Irish Times to the inside of the department store window, the pages open and spread to allow passersby to read through the glass.
I slowed, curious and predictably drawn to the words, but Eoin surged ahead. I was propelled through the door being patiently held open by a man who tipped his hat as I passed. All thoughts of newsprint and words were replaced by wonder and dread as I looked around at the high shelves and wide aisles, the displays, and the décor and tried to ascertain exactly where to start. There was no canned music being piped into the store and no fluorescent lighting. Lamps were suspended overhead, spilling warm light on the highly buffed wood floors, and I turned in a complete circle to get my bearings. I was in the men’s department and would need to explore.
“Clothes, stockings, a pair of new boots, a pair of shoes, a hat, a coat, and a dozen—two dozen—other things,” I murmured, trying to make a list that would keep me from crying in a corner. I had no idea how far my money would take me. I peeked at the price tag on the overcoat hanging to my right. Sixteen pounds. I started doing mental calculations and gave up immediately. I would simply buy as much as I could for one hundred pounds. That would be my limit. The other sixty would be my emergency money until I could earn more or until I woke up. Whichever came first.
“Nana always goes up the stairs where the dresses are,” Eoin prodded, and I let him lead the way once more. We climbed a broad staircase, which opened up to the second floor, revealing elaborate hats, colorful fabrics, and perfumed air.
“Hello, Mrs. Geraldine Cummins,” Eoin cried, waving at a woman about Brigid’s age who was standing behind a nearby glass display. “This is my mother. She needs help.”
Another woman shushed him loudly as though we were in a library and not standing amid racks of clothes. Geraldine Cummins moved out from behind the glass and walked toward us, her posture regal, her figure plump.
“Hello, Mr. Eoin Gallagher,” she greeted sedately. She was well coiffed in a navy dress with a loose sash, her enormous bosom covered with a drooping bow of the same shade, her sleeves elbow-length, and her flowing skirt brushing just above her ankles. Her hair was a tidy gray cap of shellacked waves hugging her round face, and she met my gaze unblinking, hands clasped in front of her, heels together like a soldier at attention.
She didn’t seem surprised the way Mr. Kelly had, and I wondered if Brigid had made a trip to Sligo while I was recovering. I decided it didn’t matter as long as the woman could help me and as long as I didn’t have to answer any questions.
“How can I help you, Mrs. Anne Gallagher?” she said, wasting no time on polite introductions and small talk.
I began to rattle off my list, hoping she would fill in the blanks.
She raised one hand in the air, summoning a young woman standing next to a huge rack of hats. “I will take Mr. Eoin Gallagher with me. Miss Beatrice Barnes will personally assist you.”
I realized that Eoin called Geraldine Cummins by her full name because she called everyone else by theirs, title included. Beatrice Barnes was hurrying toward us, a helpful smile pasted on her pretty face.