EILEEN

That's enough for a start. I hide my journal with its gilt pages, floral cover, and tiny lock under my mattress. After all, isn't that what you're supposed to do with your diary—excuse me, journal—keep it away from prying eyes? Not that I expect anyone but Mary Beth to be the least bit interested in my "summer at the farm.” Without Maureen around, the best I can hope for is a summer with lots of time to read and ride. Maybe I'll finally master fences with Sidhe. I hope Granddad has time to ride with me, but he seems so preoccupied. Maybe he's just missing Gran, but it feels like something more.

I make my bed and get ready for the day. The plan is to make a picnic lunch for myself and spend the day riding. I wrap my waist-length hair into a braid that will fit through the back of my riding helmet, tug on my riding pants and boots, and give myself a good, hard look in the mirror. My mother insists on calling my hair titian, but it's always been plain old red to me. Along with my comically red hair comes the obligatory dusting of freckles across my pale skin. Nice young ladies don't wear makeup so, at least in the presence of my family, I’m cursed to look like Pippi Longstocking for the foreseeable future.

Although maybe not. My riding jacket is getting so snug, I can barely button it at the top. Great. Freckles and big boobs. Not exactly an enticing combination. So much for looking like Jean Shrimpton. In Boston, there was no way of getting out of the house without the jacket, so I button it up as best I can, planning to shove it in my saddlebag once I get out of sight of the house and just wear the soft cotton undershirt I stole from my father's drawer.

Clattering downstairs to the kitchen, I’m shocked to find a beautiful black-haired woman my mother's age pulling fresh bread out of the oven as pots steam and hiss on top of the cast iron behemoth of a stove that my gran loved so much. Eating in the kitchen with my grandparents was one of my favorite things about coming to the farm. It really was the heart of this home, and to see someone else standing in my gran's place hurts more than a little.

"You must be Miss Eileen. You look so much like your mother. I'm Bridey Behane. I come up from the village every day to tend to the house and make sure Mr. Carraig doesn't waste away to nothing on pub food and Guinness. I have the kettle on for tea, the bread is just out, and the jam and cream is on the table. Fix yourself some breakfast and I'll pack you a cold supper to take, seeing as how it looks like you're going riding. Sit. Sit. Tell me about America while I finish making the stew." She whirls through the space, a tornado of culinary activity, chattering all the while about people I've never heard of in the village, and all of the slights and little dramas you would expect in a village of six hundred people, most of whom are related to one another and/or me in some way.

It’s the polar opposite of my life in Boston. I may be friends with the housekeeper's daughter, but that is a situation my parents tolerate, certainly not encourage. I suspect part of the reason they sent me away for the summer was to break our bond. Cavorting with servants is certainly not something my mother approves of, even though Mary Beth and I are classmates and study partners, equals in the teenage world outside the doors of my parents’ home in Coolidge Corners back in Brookline.

Sadly, the dividing line between above and below stairs is alive and well with my parents. I've always marveled at the fact that my mother, with her perfectly polished image and finishing school manners, actually grew up here. She makes Mrs. Onassis look low class. Her disdain for the village is so apparent that her efforts to avoid coming here are almost comical. The famous saying is all wrong—you definitely can take the farm out of the girl. Unfortunately, as I grew up, I began to suspect my mother may have also lost a few other important things along with it.

Bridey pulls me out of my musings when she settles into the heavy wooden chair next to mine and pours a cuppa for us both. "My condolences about your gran. She was a fine lady and a good friend. She was the one who taught me to cook and be a lady. Me mum passed when I was a girl and Miss Siobhan took me under her wing, seeing as how your mother and I were dear friends."

That stops me dead in my tracks. Mother always said that she went to boarding school in Dublin. That her best friend was a girl from the village is beyond the universe of possibility.

"We were all surprised when she took up with a McInerney, them being so close to the Crown and all—” She stops midsentence, realizing that she may have said too much, and deftly covers her faux pas by taking a long sip from her tea cup, one of Gran's favorites with delicate violets circling the rim. My grandmother did the exact same thing whenever she realized she was speaking of adult matters within the hearing of young ears.

Seeing more of my grandmother in a stranger than I ever saw in my own mother makes me sad and fascinated. "What was it like growing up here? Were there lots of other children to play with? What did you do for fun?" I look in Mrs. Behane's eyes and will her to see the question I’m afraid to ask—what was my mother really like when she was here?

Mrs. Behane's dark eyes sparkle and flash, and the look she levels at me is decidedly adult. I think I’m about to get some honest answers.

"I suppose that to someone who grew up in the big city, village life would seem rather boring. But while there is a sameness to the days, there's also a comfort there. There were about a dozen of us the same age. We knew each other from practically the cradle. Seven boys and five girls. We were the terrors of the parish, always getting into mischief all across the county. It didn't help matters that we were all terrific riders."

I'm incredulous. "My mother and mischief? I can't even imagine."

Mrs. Behane doesn't bother to contain her laughter. "Your mother was the biggest tomboy of the lot—always spurring the boys on with her schemes and pranks. It was her idea to sneak one of your granddad's dairy cows into the sacristy of St. Patrick's just in time for early mass one Sunday. To this day, no one has figured out how we actually managed to fit the cow through the doors. "

My disbelief must show on my face.

“Don't get me wrong, it wasn't all fun and games. We all had our chores to do, and your mother was better than the boys at some of those as well. She could shear sheep faster and better than the shearers Mr. Carraig would hire for shearing season. We always thought that she and Patrick O'Donnell would marry and merge the family farms. She had so many plans for the farm. She wanted to make our wool and cheese world renown. She would say we have the best—the world needs to know about it."

"Why didn't she?" The idea that my mother once had dreams of a life on the farm fascinates me.

Mrs. Behane takes a breath as she debates whether to continue. I sense the story is about to take a sad turn.

“Saoirse was both a daughter and a son after your uncle Niall died. But that all changed when she went to university. She came back for Christmas with your father in tow, calling herself Cecily. She was a different person. She was ashamed of where she came from and tried to pretend her past away—which was a pretty difficult undertaking seeing as how we were right in front of her face. I'll be honest. It broke your grandfather's heart. The next we heard, she was getting married and your sister, Maureen, came along. Your grandparents traveled to Dublin for the wedding and were back within the week." She pauses, probably debating whether to forge ahead. "Your grandmother and me, we could talk about anything. I brought all my heartaches and hopes to her. She gave the best advice, you know. She knew I was in love with Mr. Behane before I even realized it; she was that good of a listener. And when I almost lost poor wee Brendan before he was even born, she held my hand and walked through the darkness with me." Tears well in her dark eyes. "Your grandmother was a fine lady and a mother to me, just like your mother is to you." The latter part of that statement is said with far less conviction.

"What was Gran like when she was younger? I miss her so much." Tears threaten to overflow. "I could always talk to her about anything. She was the only one who understood. My mother has more important worries than my babyish prattle and, well, Mo is Mo." I wring my hands in my lap, willing the tears and the existential teenage angst to stop. I’m more mature than this.

"Don't ever stop speaking to your gran. She's with you here." She presses her hand over my heart. "She'll find a way to help you through. And you can always come to me. Your gran helped me through so much, I can at least share her words of wisdom. As the only ladies on this farm, we need to stick together." She gives me a wink.

Mrs. Behane rises and rummages around in the kitchen, pulling out a wedge of farm-made cheese, which she sets next to some of the fresh bread and summer sausage. Wrapping each in its own cloth napkin, she packs the food in a leather pouch, along with some smallish apples and a sharp knife.

"Do you want me to call down to the farm manager's office and have Brendan saddle Sidhe for you?"

"I'd rather take care of her myself. I haven't seen my sweet girl in so long. I hope she remembers me. Are those apples for her? Can I have some carrots too?"

"You have the makings of a fine horsewoman, just like your gran said. Always thinking of your mount first. The carrots need a week or two more of growth, so apples are it. Now, shoo. Go and enjoy the day. Don't forget to leave a treat for the faerie folk." She waves me off from clearing my breakfast dishes and sends me on my way.

As Bridey cleans the kitchen, I make my way into the keeping room. As the door swings open, I’m hit by the aroma of lemon oil, gardenia, and old books. The keeping room was my grandmother's favorite spot in the farmhouse. A combination sitting room and library just off of the kitchen, it’s where she and my grandfather liked to spend their evenings—reading and talking and going about the business of living. The dark wood was long ago polished to a soft glow and the shelves crammed with books, everything from beautiful first editions that have been part of the family's collection for generations to the pulp mysteries and romance novels my grandmother favored. For a moment, it’s as if she’s still here.

I hear the murmur of low voices through the door on the far side of the room. It leads to the estate office where Granddad manages the business of farming and the village and whatever else comes up. My grandfather must be having a business meeting with the tenant farmers or men from the village. It’s hard to know because the office has its own door out to the side yard.

Surveying the shelves, I find a collection of Celtic myths I somehow missed on my prior vacations here. I know so little about where we came from, and it's high time I find out more.

Mom and Dad have always been committed to raising us as Americans, not Irish-Americans. They claim we were born Americans and that's all we are. But Gran and Granddad McGilbride have been on a mission to thwart that with every chance they get. Though with the way Mom and Dad run around with all their English friends and the stories I’ve heard of Mom's past, I think their attitude is more shame of Ireland than pride in America.

My grandmother's floral chair is in the exact same spot it was in when we came back from her funeral, and I know it won't move from that spot ever again. She liked to chase the light like a cat, and that chair moved around the room depending on my grandmother's mood.

I wonder if Bridey was right and all I needed to do was talk to my grandmother and she would find a way to help me find the answers even now. I certainly hope so. After that conversation this morning, I have so many questions I know my mother will never answer. Starting with why she goes by Cecily. I guess I have to sort it out for myself.

Granddad's meeting is breaking up, so I scuttle out of the keeping room, not wanting to be mistaken for an eavesdropper. Granddad is very, very committed to keeping confidences. He has little patience for spies and tattletales.

As I cut through the kitchen to make my way over to the stable, Bridey shouts after me, "Miss Eileen, supper will be on at five."

"Mrs. Behane, please don't call me Miss Eileen. I'm just Eileen or Ellie."

"Then you should call me Bridey. I think we’ll be fast friends."

The thought that I'd have a friend here in this decidedly male operation puts a spring in my step. My older sister isn't much of a confidant and my mother and I don't have the kind of relationship that will ever grow into friendship. That's Mother and Mo. They're far more alike. Not to mention the fact that Mo doesn’t look quite so Irish.

I pick my way through the puddles across the farmyard, dodging the fluffy white chickens pecking for their morning grubs. The working dogs circle my legs and yap at me all the way to the stable. The fact that Hector and Achilles, my granddad's wolfhounds, are down in the farmyard usually means one thing—the sheep are being brought down from the grazing land. That seems odd given the time of year. Sheep are shorn in the spring, not midsummer. Even I know that. I make a mental note to ask Granddad.

I stop for a moment, looking all around me. How can anyone not love this place? Green as far as the eye can see, a beautiful river twisting through my grandfather's land to the hills beyond where the sheep summer, and all highlighted by a clear blue sky with cotton candy clouds. Our farmhouse, a sturdy and welcoming home, is whitewashed and paired with my gran's beloved blue shutters and window boxes full of geraniums. From its rugged stone foundation to the softly patinaed zinc roof, which makes a music all its own when the rains come, it whispers "home" to me, despite the fact that I have spent a grand total of nine months of my life here to date.

The grove in the distance is my objective today. Mo was never one for exploring. She would rather practice her dressage in the ring near the house. I rode with her, but I never enjoyed it. Dressage was all so cut-throat and competitive. In fact, back home, I’d given up my riding lessons since I could find no joy in them. I wasn't allowed to ride cross-country or steeplechase or any of the other less-than-ladylike equestrian pursuits I prefer. If my mother had her way, I'd probably be riding sidesaddle. Not to mention the fact that my horse back in Boston hates me with a red-hot passion. But today is a different story. Sidhe, a petite gray mare and the love of my life, has no discernible pedigree. She and I had hit it off right away. She decided she was my horse and let me know immediately. When I'm around, no one else will ride her. Generally biddable and cooperative, Sidhe has a stubborn streak that only surfaces when I'm around. She is mine and I am hers, and no one is going to interfere with that. I'm not sure who’s happier to have two months together—Sidhe or me.

The barn smell is one of my favorites—fresh hay and horse and leather and everything outdoors. I even like the smell of horse shit, oddly enough. The stable back home never elicited the same feeling from me. Perhaps because it was undercut by the aroma of despair I felt every time I was there for a lesson.

As the door snicks behind me, Sidhe's head pops out of her stall and she nickers at me to come closer.

"Who's my beautiful girl? I know. I missed you too." I nuzzle her cheek and cluck and whisper sweet nothings in her ear as she snuffles and lets loose a lady-like snort. "Want to go for a ride today? Let's go exploring, sweet girl."

I reach into my pouch and pull out a small apple before offering it to her on my palm. She snatches it daintily, taking care not to get me with her teeth, and withdraws into the stall to enjoy her morsel. With Sidhe occupied, I open the stall door, grab her by her halter, and lead her to the saddle rack, where a brand new, beautiful, non-English saddle waits for me. I guess Granddad was excited for me to come.

Sidhe looks at me expectantly, ready to lift a foot so I can check her shoes and clean them if need be. We go through our little ritual of checking her feet and placing the saddle and bit. She is as excited as I am to get out on the land. After adjusting the stirrups to accommodate my newly long legs, I mount her and we're off on a grand adventure.

We make our way through the pasture next to the barn, careful to close all the gates behind us, and storm out to the open fields. I spur her on and give her her head. At not quite a gallop, we head for the grove of trees. I'm eager to see what secrets it holds. It's a good twenty-minute ride, but after a nice little gallop, we take the rest of the journey at a more leisurely pace. After all, it's been almost a year since we've been together and she is savoring it as much as I am. With only the hum of the insects and the far-off voices of the hired men traveling on the breeze, I am quickly swept away.

I can’t understand why my mother wants to disavow her past. This place is so peaceful and beautiful. Wild flowers blooming, butterflies flitting through tall grass, pretty little stone fences scattered here and there. The quiet is seductive. It invites you to think about things. Big things, little things. The future. The past. All the things a writer needs to know. It's a magic I'm just becoming acquainted with.

As we draw closer to the grove, I spot a discernible riding path through it. Apparently this journey does have a destination. As we make our way deeper into the woods, the trees envelope us in this dappled light, occasionally allowing a sunbeam to break through. But rather than being oppressive and creepy, the grove seems inviting. The velvety half light beckons me to stay with a comfort that is almost timeless.

Sidhe picks her way down the path, and the sunlight breaks through to reveal a burbling little spring. It looks like something out of a painting I can't quite place, familiar but new. Surrounded by boulders and a little waterfall, it's my new favorite spot in the world. I could sun myself on the flat rock, lulled by the gurgling of the spring, and write and read to my heart's content. The trees protect this beautiful slice of heaven from prying eyes. It's meant to be my own secret garden; I know it in my heart.

I offer Sidhe another apple, and confident she won't wander far, I toss her reins over a nearby bush, an especially tasty-looking patch of grass for her nearby. I grab my pouch, pull out my book, and settle in for an afternoon with the faeries.

To come from such a magical history and want to bury it? I just don't get it. My mother hates being Irish. My mother hates being from this piece of land, from this tradition. It breaks my heart. Does that mean she doesn't love Granddad and Gran? After all, even I can see that this land is in their souls. I knew that when I was five. Is that why she never comes here with us? Is sending her children to visit some sort of appeasement or sacrificial offering? All of these thoughts are making my head spin. I just don't know what to do with it, so I lose myself in the tales of the fae, Selkies, and the Wild Hunt.

I shake off the spell that the stories have cast over me. Judging by my watch, we’ll be home just in time for supper if we start back now. I pack up my books and the leavings of my lunch, and leave my little sanctuary. Sidhe and I jump some of the lower fences along the way, with me hoping my grandfather or the hired men don't catch me. Jumping while riding alone is a no-no. But little does Granddad know the one thing I did before I quit my lessons in Boston was master the technique for fence jumping. And I knew with the right horse—Sidhe—we would be fabulous. It turns out that I'm right.

I get Sidhe settled in for the evening and do my barn chores. After all, every horsewoman worth her salt does her own barn chores. She doesn’t leave it for others to do. And I'm determined to live up to my granddad's evaluation of me. I'm not a spoiled, little rich rider like the girls I knew back in Boston.

Supper with Granddad feels different. The stew is delicious, but he seems preoccupied—his usual jokes and tall tales, a feature of the McGilbride table, are absent. I hate that it might be because he had become accustomed to eating alone. So I press him.

It wasn't just the habit of solitude. Instead of funny stories, he tells me about the suffering of our people farther to the north. No jobs to be had. No decent housing available. The right to vote suppressed. And all because people were Irish and Catholic. It’s because of the partition and the Home Rule Government in Ulster. He’s taking the hardships of his fellow Irishmen to heart, but the burden seems heavier without my gran to share it with him.

I clutch his hand across the table, hoping I can convince him that there are solutions. "Everyone knows it's wrong to treat people differently because of their race or their religion. That's why we have the Civil Rights Act in America. Why don't they have something similar here? It's not fair. Can't you just make them stop doing that and pass a law to make sure that this doesn't happen?"

He shakes his head sadly. "Ellie dear, it's not that easy. The English have been treating Ireland as their dumping ground for four hundred years, before they decided to split it in two almost fifty years ago, granting sovereignty to only a portion of our beautiful island and treating our Irish brothers as less than…”

"What? I just don't understand. If we can fix it in America—"

Granddad laughs, but it's tinged with bitterness. "Ahh. The convictions and earnestness of youth. I wish that it were that easy. We can do everything in our power to be good and kind and true, but in the end, our brothers are still at the mercy of the Crown, who have always wanted us to forget we're Irishmen and ‘be English.’ So tell me about your day."

That was the end of our conversation about my grandfather's worries.

I tell him about my ride and the magical spring I discovered.

"All these years and you didn't know about our swimming spot? I am remiss as a grandfather. It's one of the faeries’ favorite places as well. Be sure to leave them their due. They can be quite troublesome if you forget." He levels me with a look that says he is dead serious, his blue eyes looking into my soul.

"You don't believe in faeries?"

Talk of faeries will get you committed in Boston.

“Well, my dear, this is Ireland. We believe in all sorts of silly things because they're not so silly sometimes. You'll see what I mean." His eyes twinkle for the first time in forever. If all it takes to get my merry granddad back is believing in faeries, I will do it wholeheartedly.

"Why aren't Hector and Achilles up with the flock? Won't the wolves get them?" Since I have my granddad's attention, it seems as good a time as any to get to the bottom of this. After all, Gran always said they're working dogs, not pets. I am curious why they weren't on the job.

"The pups are all grown up now and they're taking over the flock. We may have a fox or two in the henhouse, so Hector and Achilles will be keeping watch down here. They're still on the job, so don't you get to mollycoddling them." That comes with a wink, because the whole village knows that when it came to spoiling dogs and children, Granddad is the undisputed champ. "I see you took your grandmother's mythology with you today."

My grandfather never misses a trick. He probably has a walking card catalog in his head of every one of the hundreds of books in that keeping room.

"Now you be careful with that,” he adds. “That was one of Siobhan's favorite books and it came from her grandmother. It will make her so happy that you’ve finally taken an interest in who you really are."

And just who is that? I guess my project this summer is to actually figure that out.