BRENDAN

JULY 1967

I was finally back from Dublin. Mr. McGilbride sent me on an unexpected errand to Dublin, breaking up my summer at home. All of my tasks were complete and the shipments properly checked and disbursed. He wouldn't have need of me again until the fall break from university, when time comes to ship the village's wool to buyers for processing.

It was good to be home again. After I finished my morning chores, I stopped by Mac's farm to cajole a lunch out of my mother and hiked out to the spring with the intention of a nice swim. I heard the soft chuff of a horse as I neared the break in the trees.

I stopped in my tracks. The most beautiful girl I'd ever seen was swimming in our spring. Or was it a girl? She could have been a nymph. Her blazing red hair billowed out across the water like a cloud, her eyes closed as she floated. The water caressed her and lapped at her naked pale skin. I stood transfixed. Perhaps she was the spirit of the spring, because no girl in the village was that beautiful.

I stood there gaping and muttered, "Sweetest Echo, sweetest nymph that liv'st unseen; Within thy airy shell, By slow Meander's margent green, And in the violet-embroidered vale."

Her eyes opened with a start and she looked right at me as she swam toward the shore—and me. "Turnabout is fair play. You needn't look away. I wasn't able to look away from you."

Her direct gaze became even more unnerving as she came to the shallows and walked up to the shore. She was a petite thing but comely. All legs and breasts with beautiful dark red curls everywhere a girl should have curls. Her nipples were pink and rosy and pert. I should have been the gentleman my mother raised, but I admit I'm a red-blooded man. She invited me to look—more like challenged me—so I took her up on it. Perhaps not very gentlemanly or gallant, but she was mesmerizing.

I stood there tongue-tied as she made her way out of the spring and stood before me defiantly, inviting me to look my fill before she picked up a towel and hid her beautiful figure from view.

"I didn't realize anyone else came up here. My granddad thought the younger generation had abandoned it as a swimming hole. Please stay. I don't bite."

I must have looked like a rabbit ready to bolt. She flashed me a cheeky smile and, after a second, boosted herself up onto the diving rock to sit on the edge.

She extended her hand before patting the space next to her. "I'm Ellie. You must be Brendan. Come sit with me and visit. Let's get to know one another. Granddad said you'd be able to teach me more about Irish history than I already know, which is woefully little. My parents are lovers of the English, but don't tell anybody. I think my grandfather is embarrassed by it. And I'll be honest with you, since I've been here and spent time with your mom, I'm embarrassed by it. How she can count such people as her close friends when they treat her relatives and the people she grew up with so horribly—and have treated them so horribly for hundreds of years? I just don't understand it." She looked at me expectantly for answers.

I finally found my voice. "That will take more time than we have to puzzle out." I decided to shift tactics. "So you apparently know a lot about me. Tell me about you. "

She rattled on about this and that. I couldn't tear myself away from her crystal-blue gaze. She was a classic Irish beauty: pale, creamy skin; beautiful red hair; and a perpetual, cheeky half smile. Listening to her, it was clear she was an Irish beauty by way of Boston. I couldn't stop watching as she idly combed her fingers through her long red hair, sectioning it off and braiding herself an elaborate crown while chatting about Boston, and horses, and her grandfather. I was tongue-tied and hypnotized by her flashing fingers, long, supple, and smooth, not callous or worn down from working with wool and yarn, like many of the village women, who crafted the sweaters our village was known for. I found myself wondering how those fingers would feel on my cock. Would her touch be soft and tentative or direct and teasing like her manner of speaking?

"I want to know all about you, not the you your mother knows." She looked at me in that direct American way—almost compelling me to tell her all of my secrets.

And so I found myself telling her so many things. Secrets like I was looking forward to getting more involved in politics once I got to Dublin. That when I was here, I wanted to be in Dublin and when I was in Dublin, I yearned for the peace of home.

"Somedays I wish Carraig could be my father. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, but he's a simple farmer learned about the earth and the weather and the ways of the seasons. That's not where my passions lie. Sometimes I feel like a changeling."

She looked me square in the eye. "Where do your passions lie?"

"I want to help create a new united Ireland that cherishes the ways of men like my father and the traditions of our past. Sometimes, I feel disloyal for not wanting to be one of those men. Like I'm rejecting my father."

"So you both love the land. You just show it differently. You're so lucky." She sighed. "My mother rejects this place. She's so ashamed of being Irish, she changed her name. Sometimes, it feels like she's ashamed of me because she looks at me and sees her past in my freckles and hair, and my resemblance to my gran." She looked out over the water, pensive.

I wished I had an answer for her. All I could do was distract from her heartache and steer the conversation to happier, safer topics, like Oscar Wilde and his fairytales.

Time seemed to have its own ebb and flow . So much so that sometimes I found myself losing track of my thoughts. But was it Ellie, or was it the spell of the spring? It was so hard to tell. Did I say it or just think it? It was like living in a dream world. My growling stomach brought me back from the dream.

"Would you like to share?" She pulled a home-packed lunch from her bag, identical to mine with one exception.

"Clearly my mum must not love me anymore, judging from the lunch she packed for you. I only rate a cookie." I huffed, half joking. Eileen had what must have been the last of a toffee pudding, my favorite. I would give it up forever though, to hear the bell-like giggles my half-hearted indignation earned from her.

When the sun dipped below the tree line, I hopped off the rock and extended my hand to help her down. "You probably need to get dressed before you go back up to the house."

"Oh my gosh, you're right." She had spent the afternoon talking literature wrapped in nothing but a towel, which she wore with the dignity of a queen. "Turn around. Give a girl some privacy."

Of course, I did, the manners my mum drilled into me finally kicking in.

"All set. You can look now."

Her chipper tone soothed the uneasiness I suddenly felt upon realizing I spent the afternoon with my boss's half-naked granddaughter. From faery queen to village girl, clad in dungarees and button-up blouse, her allure didn't waver. Wait! Was that my mum's old shirt? With that, things got decidedly strange. I didn't know how I felt about seeing her beauty in my mother’s clothes.

"Well, I have to make my way back to the house and you need to go home. Sidhe needs to get back and have her oats," I blurted, trying to cover my sudden awkwardness.

"I really had fun today. Thank you for keeping me company. Granddad was right, but don't tell him."

"Right? Right about what?"

"That it's good to have friends." She called Sidhe over and adjusted her saddle.

So we're friends. That's a fine start. My heart soared.

I gave her a leg up and we parted ways, agreeing to meet again the next afternoon. And every day after that.