lilting accent was soothing to Keely’s ears, like one of those pretty Irish love songs that her mother played over and over on the old stereo in the front room. Keely had tried so many times to imitate her, but her tongue just couldn’t get the sound right. “Do I look like my da?” Keely asked. “Do I look like Seamus McClain?”
“What?”
She saw the flash of pain in her mother’s eyes. But then it disappeared as quickly as it appeared. Over the past few days, her mother had been in one of her “moods.” She’d grown silent and sad, her expression distant. She’d stare out the window for hours, her attention fixed on the front walk of their flat, as if she were watching for that someone, waiting for that person’s arrival. And Keely’s conversations about her day at school went unheeded and unquestioned. Today was one of those sad days, a day when Keely was certain that Fiona was remembering her long-lost husband.
“Have you said your prayers?” her mother asked.
“Yes,” Keely lied. “Three Hail Marys and an Our Father.” Forget the lie. She’d do penance later. “Tell me about him, Ma.”
Her mother’s eyebrow shot up. “Three Hail Marys? Did you do something bad at school today?”
“No. I was just getting a little ahead. In case.”
“To bed with you,” Fiona ordered, clapping her hands. Keely hurried into her bedroom and pulled the covers over her. Fiona sat down on the edge of the bed and kissed Keely on her forehead. For the first time in almost two whole days, she smiled. “It’s time for you to sleep,” her mother murmured. “I have an early day tomorrow. We have to make the cake for the Barczak wedding. Three tiers with a fountain in the middle. And if you’re very good, you can come with me on Saturday when we deliver the cake.”
It had been her favorite thing to do when she was younger. But now it was just a chore, time spent away from her friends and a free Saturday afternoon. But this time Keely didn’t complain. Her mother had seemed so sad that she was willing to do anything to keep her mood bright. “Will we get to see the bride?” Keely asked, the same silly question she used to ask.
Fiona laughed softly. “Yes, we’ll be stayin’. The bride wants us to cut the cake and help serve.” She reached out and drew the covers up to Keely’s chin. “Now, lay yourself down and go to sleep. And may you dream of angels.”
“But what about my father?” Keely blurted out. “You always said you’d tell me when I was older and now I’m older. I’m almost thirteen and thirteen is a teenager. And a teenager is old enough to know about her father.”
Fiona McClain stared down at her hands, twisted around the dish towel in her lap. “I’ve already told you. Your father died in a terrible accident at sea and he—”
“No,” Keely interrupted. “Tell me about him. What was he like? Was he handsome? Or funny?”
“He was very handsome,” Fiona said, a reluctant smile touching her lips. “He was the most handsome boy in all of County Cork. All the girls in Ballykirk were taken with him. But he was from a poor family and my family had a bit of money. My da didn’t want me to marry him. They called him a ‘culchie,’ a country boy, although we lived in the country, too. But they thought he was lower class.”
“But you married him anyway,” Keely said, “because you loved him.”
“He didn’t have two pennies to rub together, but he had such grand dreams. Finally, I convinced my da that I couldn’t live without him and he gave us his blessing.”
“What else?” Keely asked.
“What else?”
“What did he like to do? What was he good at?”
“He liked to tell stories,” Fiona said. “Your da could tell such stories. He had a silver tongue, he did. That’s how he courted me, with his stories.”
This was something new! Keely felt an instant connection to the man she’d never seen. She loved stories and all her friends told her she was good at telling them. “Do you remember any of the stories? Can you tell me one?”
Fiona shook her head. “Keely, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can! You can remember. Tell me.”
Her mother shook her head, her eyes filling with tears. “No, I can’t. Your da was the one who could tell the stories. I never had the talent. The only talent I had was for believin’ them.”
Keely sat up and threw her arms around her mother’s neck, giving her a fierce hug. “It’s all right,” she said. “Just knowing he told good stories makes me imagine him better.”
Her mother kissed her on the cheek, then reached over and turned off the lamp. In the shadows, Keely saw her brush a tear from her cheek. “Go to sleep now.”
She walked to the door and closed it behind her. A pale stream of light from the streetlamp filtered through the lace curtains, creating a pretty pattern on the ceiling. “He told stories,” Keely murmured to herself. “My da told really good stories.”
And though it was only a little bit of who Seamus McClain must have been, it was enough for now. For it gave her a small insight into the person she was. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be the good girl that her mother wanted her to be. Maybe she was really more like her father—bold, adventurous, imaginative and daring.
Keely sighed softly. Still, she knew in her heart that her father, whoever he was, would never approve of her pinching a lipstick from Eiler’s Drugstore. She made a silent vow to herself to return the lipstick first thing tomorrow.
CHAPTER ONE
A BRISK WIND buffeted the spot where Keely McClain stood. She turned into the breeze and inhaled the salttinged air. Far below her, the sea crashed against jagged rocks at the base of the cliff. Above her, clouds scudded across the sky, casting shadows on the hills around her. A memory from her childhood flashed in her mind as she recalled the fairy tale she once scribbled in her journal, the fanciful story of how her parents had met on a storm-tossed sea.
She tipped her face into the breeze, bathing in the mysterious spell that Ireland had cast. Time and time again, she’d felt this odd sense, a sense of belonging to this place she’d never seen before. This was land that had nurtured her mother and father, green and lush, colored by an unearthly light that made everyday scenery look magical. She could almost believe in leprechauns and gnomes and trolls, and all the other fairy creatures that populated this island.
Keely turned away from the sea and stared at the stone circle she’d come to find. It had been clearly marked on the road map, and though she’d been anxious to arrive in the small town that had once been her mother’s home, she had decided to take a short detour.
She’d followed a narrow country lane off the highway, steering the rental car beneath arching fuchsia bushes and between drystone fences. And then, when the sky had reappeared, she found herself in yet another breathtaking spot, a wide field above the sea where cows lazily grazed. Closer to the cliff’s edge, a stone circle sat silently in the dappled sunlight, a monument to Ireland’s pagan past.
Back home in New York City, she had barely given a second thought to her surroundings, the scraggly trees or patches of trampled grass, the brick
