Page 1 of Beside Golden Irish Fields
Chapter One
Good.
Be.
Here.
Stopping in the middle of the narrow Irish country road, Angie Newcastle read the words in turquoise blue on the three individual sheep blocking their way. “Are you seeing this, Megan?”
“Those sheep have words on them,” her sister confirmed beside her in their rented Volkswagen SUV.
“I want to see!” Angie’s eight-year-old nephew called from the back seat, unlocking his seat belt and popping between them.
“Well, it’s not like we can go anywhere,” she said with a laugh, amused by their small titanium white faces and jet-black eyes and lips, which went with their puffy, buff white, barrel-shaped bodies. “They’re kinda pretty, don’t you think? Certainly a conversation starter. I can’t wait to ask Cousin Bets why these sheep have words sprayed on them. Although the little lambs don’t have enough room for words, it seems. Oh, they’re so cute.”
“She’s just down the road once these sheep move,” Megan said, leaning toward the dash. “Honk your horn.”
Angie did, but the sheep only bleated loudly back at her. “I don’t think they’re impressed.”
“None of the other sheep we’ve seen on the drive up from Dublin had anything but random markings.” Megan made a shooing motion with her hands, which was met with even less interest than Angie’s honking. “It’s probably some teenage prank.”
A little whiskey or Guinness and a spray can sounded like fun. Angie sighed, wondering who did it and whether they wanted company next time. Maybe it would inspire her. Because something had to kick her butt into gear.
Ireland, be kind to me, please. Be kind to all of us.
“It would be a pretty clean teenage prank,” Megan said, shaking her head. “I can’t imagine the kind of language a teenager would use.”
“I can,” she whispered, almost reverently.
Angie had been a rare bird back then—a rebellious A student and burgeoning artist, stifled by their father’s ultraconservative views and her high school’s uninspired curriculum. Constantly in search of new and edgy ways of expression.
During the day, she was the dutiful daughter, cooking and cleaning for her sister and father while her mother worked twelve-hour hospital shifts as a nurse.
At night, when she snuck out, she came alive. Bohemian clothes and bold makeup werede rigeur. She didn’t smoke because it gave her headaches or sleep with boys because she didn’t want to get pregnant, but shedidlive. She’d had plans for her life back then. Big ones. About being a famous artist and living in Europe.
It was great—until her father caught her and punished her. She’d been labeledthe wild one. Her sister, who’d always been sensitive to criticism and rarely toed any lines, wasthe good one. The labels had stuck, and they were no more palatable now than they’d been then.
Megan turned away from the sheep and frowned at her. “Best not to think about things like that, Angie.”
“Hard not to, given the state of things, Megan, but let’s get back to the sheep. If I were going to spray words on a bunch of sheep, I’d go with something likeFocus, Ignite, Createin fire engine red paint.”
“Their faces look funny,” Ollie said, grabbing her seat. “Like they used way too much black eyeliner, the way Aunt Angie used to.”
Sadness rose in her heart. “Sometimes faces need paint too.”
Not that she painted her face anymore or wore clothes she actually liked. Her wardrobe was probably indistinguishable from Megan’s, and Megan had always dressed understated, first to please their father and then to please Tyson, her husband. Maybe her sister actuallylikeddressing that way, but it had never suited Angie.
The change had started years ago. Angie’s ex-husband had given her lectures about “dressing like a kid,” stressing that it was holding her back. The greater D.C. art scene was conservative, he’d said, and she’d never succeed there, either as a painter or a teacher, unless she looked the part. Given he was a successful artist and an adjunct art professor at Georgetown University, she’d believed him.
Her sister, of course, had encouraged the change, and a boring palette of neutrals had become Angie’s staple. It had stuck around longer than her ex, actually, throughout her tenure as an art teacher and subsequent manager of the Baltimore Visual Arts League. But the serious look hadn’t been enough, apparently, because she’d lost her job.
That was what artists called irony, although it felt more like tragedy.
First Tyson, Megan’s husband and Ollie’s father, had died eight months ago.
Then Angie’s crappy ex-boyfriend, the one who was supposed to help her rebound from her marriage, had dumped her.
Then she’d lost her job.
