Then
Annie still couldn’t believe it. It was so surreal that anything like this should ever happen to her.
She looked down over the crystal-clear water and rocky promontories as they flew overhead.
It was the first time she’d been on an airplane and, though excited, she found herself equally nervous. She tried to keep her eyes from looking down but there was a certain morbid curiosity to it. Besides, she had a window seat, so looking down was practically inevitable.
Still, her mind kept going to the reason she was here in the first place, and to the person who had made this all possible.
Felicity Finch was dead. She died just weeks after her chat with Annie, but she only found out a few weeks after that when a solicitor arrived at the salon looking for her. He stood out immediately.
Six feet tall with a pasty complexion and shiny bald head, Rose’s place had never seen anyone like Patrick Campbell. No one knew who the man was or what he wanted, and the moment he asked for Annie she almost ran out the door. Had her mother sent him? Was he there to serve her with some trumped-up accusation of theft or worse?
The envelope he gave her was still in her handbag, along with Felicity’s letter:
Dear Annie,
I hope the words we shared did something for you. I hope that you find the true way for yourself and not choose a path that will lead to pain and hurt. When I heard you talk in the salon all those times about what you really wanted from life, I knew I had to help you reach your goal. I had to do for you what no one ever did for me. Give you a chance.
I hope you can forgive me, but if you don’t it won’t really matter because by the time you read this I will already be gone, but I asked Rose all about your past. I was saddened to know that our paths were more similar than I imagined.
I, too, am a product of social services, but unlike you I fell into the hands of people who couldn’t love me or treat me the way I wanted. I let that decide my future. I let their harsh words and the hurt from them blind me and make me into someone to be ashamed of. Someone whose lifestyle was their end. I don’t want that to be you.
I know you have dreams, not to mention talent, too. You’ve always worked your magic on me and I’ve also seen the women who leave Rose’s and how happy they look. You’re being held back there. I know how difficult it is for someone of your age and background to make a move forward when there’s so much against you. It was very difficult for me, and I went in all the wrong directions for help. I don’t want you to do the same. That’s why you’ll find in this envelope the information on a small allowance fund I’ve set up for you. It will be under the guidance of my solicitor, and he will oversee the payments to you to help you get started with a salon of your own. You’ll also find a ticket to my absolute favorite place on Earth and stay at a place owned by one of my dearest friends for as long as you like.
It’s a magical part of the world with transformative powers.
I’ve also included some fun money. You need a break before you start your brand-new venture and, I hope, brand-new life. I’m sorry I won’t be there to see your transformation, but I’m pretty sure you’ll do me proud.
I wish you all the best in your future, Annie. I hope you’ll remember me, and maybe one day do something good for someone else who might need it.
In the meantime, enjoy La Dolce Vita.
Felicity
Annie’s eyes misted afresh as she read the words the older woman had written. How had someone who barely knew her, really, seen something in her that no one else did? She took a chance on her, a chance that no one in Annie’s life had ever taken before, except her dad. Yet Felicity had done even more—she’d invested in her.
“You won’t regret it,” she whispered as she looked down at the coast of Italy. “I promise you won’t.”
“Did you say something?” The lady seated next to Annie gave her a strange look. She was in her late sixties, with mostly gray hair and small framed glasses. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, Annie had been sure up until the moment she spoke that she was sleeping.
She blushed. “Sorry, I was talking to myself.”
“Maybe next time speak more softly,” the woman muttered. “I was trying to sleep.”
“Sorry,” she repeated with a little grin, as she slouched down in her seat and turned her gaze back to the window.
She wondered what Italy would be like. She had never been on a foreign holiday before; hell, she had barely traveled outside of Dublin.
How would she get on in this strange new place?