We disembarked from the ferry, my legs an odd combination of relieved and rubbery as we stepped onto the cement “quay,” as Eamon called it. I would have said “dock” or “marina.”
The quay ran quite a way out into the water, and we had a nice view of the small harbor village. The tight streets were crowded with brilliantly colored cottages huddled before the edge of a green and gray rise of stony land that spread out epically in all directions.
Moors, I thought moodily, caving to my Jane Eyre daydreams. Maybe I was about to become entangled in some brooding love affair. Or maybe I was here to suffer, to build my character before going back to LA, where my curse of a father waited to put me back in my place. Maybe I’ve always been a melodramatic soul…
“Did she get you?” Eamon eyed my no doubt enchanted expression. His hair was being manhandled by the wind, and at some point he’d slipped on a cable-knit, wool sweater, turning himself into a stock photo of an Irish boy—with fake elf ears.
“Get me?” I asked.
“Ireland. She looks like she got you.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said fast, hiding a smile beneath the sudden bite of cold that came with twilight. “It’s so quiet here.”
“It’s magic,” Ryder added. “Can’t you feel it?”
I smiled at Ryder. After all, this experience was his next five birthdays and Christmases.
At the end of the pier, Eamon loaded our luggage into a van parked on the street, groaning under the weight of my duffel. “There didn’t even used to be cars on the Aran Islands. Not sure what we’d have done if we’d had to lug all the filming stuff by horse and cart. We’ll walk from here. It’s not much to the restaurant.”
“Food,” Ryder moaned. My stomach agreed; it’d been a long time since we’d eaten.
I wouldn’t leave Annie behind to be stolen, so I hauled her past rows and rows of rentable bikes that weren’t even locked up. What a strange place. Eamon and Ryder walked together in front of me, both of them overloaded with spritely enthusiasm. Ryder looked close to skipping. Eamon, well, I wasn’t entirely sure about anything related to Eamon yet.
I lagged farther behind as Annie grew heavier.
Eamon stopped to stare back at me. “You want me to carry your girl there for a bit?”
“I got it.” I switched my guitar to my other hand. “Why do you keep staring like that?”
“Anyone ever told you how much you resemble your grandmother?”
“Yes.”
“It’s that dark hair and the bright, almost otherworldly, dark eyes. You know, I think your eyes match your hair color. How often does that happen?”
I squinted my quite worldly eyes at him. He took the hint and turned around. I tied back my hair. Grandma Mae’s author photos always showed her long hair down, so this was all I could do to set myself apart.
The sunset filled the sky with shadowy colors, and I finally felt more awake, most likely because it was now a valid time to be conscious back in LA. Still, I had to admit that Ireland had a strange charm. The night’s glow had more greens and blues than the dry, red-orange sunsets I was used to, and the lack of people made the whole island feel like it was stuck in slow motion.
“How many people live here?” I called out.
“About a thousand, I’d say, but they have to contend with swarms of tourists.” Eamon led us up the street to a restaurant that looked like an old, white barn surrounded by aged picnic tables. Tí Joe Watty’s was scrawled on the outside above a violin.
“It’s a fiddle,” Eamon said like he was arguing with my thoughts. “Come on, then. Everyone is excited to see you.”
Everyone?
He hauled open the outer door, and Ryder rushed for the inner one, and then we were staring at everyone. At least fifty cast and crew members, all holding up drinks. Petite Cate Collins stood on a chair at the center of the dim restaurant, raising a pint glass. “…not exactly a successful first day on location but—” Her words caught at the sight of us. “Witness our luck! M. E. Thorne’s grandchildren have arrived to bless our production.”
Oh, for crying out loud…
“Hey, guys!” Ryder yelled.
Everyone laughed, followed by a raucous call of “Sláinte!”
“It’s Irish for cheers,” Eamon said.
“I know,” I muttered, although I didn’t.
Cate rushed over. Her hair was tightly buzzed and beautifully gray. The laugh lines around her eyes were both sculpted and youthful. But all that aside, I bristled, recognizing the same intense excitement that had set off all my Thornian alarm bells back in LA months ago.
Dad, Ryder, and I had finally taken the bait and found our way to the Vantage Pictures lot and up to her office, where Cate had wept upon meeting us. “Elementia saved my life,” she’d said while holding my hand like she wanted to steal it and keep it in an ornate box. She’d told us her vision for the adaptation that was days away from initial filming. Cate believed—fiercely—that the story should be celebrated as the feminist answer to Tolkien’s male-dominated world, and that her home country of Ireland would benefit from the same tourist adoration that New Zealand had garnered in light of The Lord of the Rings films.
I glanced around the rustic interior of Tí Joe Watty’s. Ireland might need to leave the nineteenth century if they wanted attention from the outside world, but then, the laughing, drinking production crew reminded me that a lot of people liked this sort of thing.
Cate was hugging Ryder too hard. I pried her off, trying to ignore the way Ryder hugged her tightly as well. “We’re hungry,” I said.
“Sure, sure!” She rushed us over to a table and soon meaty sandwiches and “chips” appeared.
“They’re french fries,” I said to myself, not exactly surprised, but tired.
“Oh, what a world that has different names for things,” Eamon shot
