was really planning on staying here every night. Maddie said everything I’d want to see was within a few hours drive of Ballinderry.”
Mr. O’Neil looked at his wife, then both of them looked at me.
“All the same, today you shall have your breakfast with the guests.” Mrs. O’Neil’s thin, dry lips curved in a fleeting smile. “Tomorrow—well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. But the other couple ordered breakfast at nine. They’ve come to Ireland for the riding.”
She moved toward the stove, and Mr. O’Neil picked up his newspaper, both of them dismissing me. I turned toward the foyer and the public rooms, my mind spinning in confusion. Several things had just become apparent, and most obvious was the fact that the O’Neilsdidn’t—and wouldn’t—consider me family. They saw me as an outsider, a guest, and I would likely remain so until I left. They were hoping I wouldn’t get in the way, and the more time I spent working on my book, the happier they’d be.
With half an hour to kill before breakfast, I crossed the foyer to the front door, then stepped out to do a bit of exploring. The farmhouse, which I’d barely glanced at yesterday afternoon, was a long rectangular structure, with a centered front door and four windows on each side, two on each of the first and second floors. Mounds of colorful flowers spilled from boxes at every window, and a thin beard of ivy covered the upper walls as high as the roof. A graveled parking lot led from the road to a small stone porch before the front door, but a soft, green lawn spread beyond the parking lot to a charming little creek that curved through the grass. The house and grounds were beautiful, but the walled garden at the side of the house took my breath away. Peering through the garden gate, I saw an actual orchard with clusters of apples and pears hanging in abundance.
I laughed in simple appreciation of the glorious sight. In my entire lifetime I couldn’t recall ever actually seeing an apple hanging from a tree, much less a pear. Yet here they were, waiting to be plucked, as natural and pretty as you please.
There was no sign on the garden gate, so I assumed guests were free to wander in it. I opened the gate and stepped inside, marveling at the profusion of tropical plants and flowers. Somehow I’d imagined that Ireland would suffer hard winters—after all, the Irish were famous for sweaters—but these plants wouldn’t be able to survive freezing temperatures for prolonged periods. I made a mental note to correct another of my misguided preconceptions.
The garden ended at an ivy-covered, four-foot-tall stone fence; beyond it I could see other stone fences that probably served as cattle pens. To my left lay a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with black and white cattle; the house stood to my right. Directly in front of me were barns, cattle pens, and a large open area of trampled brown earth.
I debated climbing over the wall for a little more exploration, then decided against it. If I wandered into a place where I wasn’t welcome, my already-dour hostess would grow even sourer. And since I had to remain here for two months, I knew I’d better do all I could to keep the peace.
I turned instead toward the house. The rectangular building visible from the front concealed other structures that had been added on to the back, probably as generations of the O’Neil family grew. Maddie had mentioned that the main house was over two hundred years old, so these rear buildings had to be later additions. Several chimneys poked up from the tin roof, and by process of elimination I figured out which windows belonged to the roomy kitchen where I’d met the O’Neils this morning. Other rooms stretched out behind it, and lace fluttered from several of the windows. If the front house contained the public spaces used for guests of the B&B, these back rooms had to be where the O’Neil family actually lived. Taylor, I realized, stayed in a room in
Mr. O’Neil looked at his wife, then both of them looked at me.
“All the same, today you shall have your breakfast with the guests.” Mrs. O’Neil’s thin, dry lips curved in a fleeting smile. “Tomorrow—well, we’ll see what happens tomorrow. But the other couple ordered breakfast at nine. They’ve come to Ireland for the riding.”
She moved toward the stove, and Mr. O’Neil picked up his newspaper, both of them dismissing me. I turned toward the foyer and the public rooms, my mind spinning in confusion. Several things had just become apparent, and most obvious was the fact that the O’Neilsdidn’t—and wouldn’t—consider me family. They saw me as an outsider, a guest, and I would likely remain so until I left. They were hoping I wouldn’t get in the way, and the more time I spent working on my book, the happier they’d be.
With half an hour to kill before breakfast, I crossed the foyer to the front door, then stepped out to do a bit of exploring. The farmhouse, which I’d barely glanced at yesterday afternoon, was a long rectangular structure, with a centered front door and four windows on each side, two on each of the first and second floors. Mounds of colorful flowers spilled from boxes at every window, and a thin beard of ivy covered the upper walls as high as the roof. A graveled parking lot led from the road to a small stone porch before the front door, but a soft, green lawn spread beyond the parking lot to a charming little creek that curved through the grass. The house and grounds were beautiful, but the walled garden at the side of the house took my breath away. Peering through the garden gate, I saw an actual orchard with clusters of apples and pears hanging in abundance.
I laughed in simple appreciation of the glorious sight. In my entire lifetime I couldn’t recall ever actually seeing an apple hanging from a tree, much less a pear. Yet here they were, waiting to be plucked, as natural and pretty as you please.
There was no sign on the garden gate, so I assumed guests were free to wander in it. I opened the gate and stepped inside, marveling at the profusion of tropical plants and flowers. Somehow I’d imagined that Ireland would suffer hard winters—after all, the Irish were famous for sweaters—but these plants wouldn’t be able to survive freezing temperatures for prolonged periods. I made a mental note to correct another of my misguided preconceptions.
The garden ended at an ivy-covered, four-foot-tall stone fence; beyond it I could see other stone fences that probably served as cattle pens. To my left lay a patchwork of green pastures, dotted with black and white cattle; the house stood to my right. Directly in front of me were barns, cattle pens, and a large open area of trampled brown earth.
I debated climbing over the wall for a little more exploration, then decided against it. If I wandered into a place where I wasn’t welcome, my already-dour hostess would grow even sourer. And since I had to remain here for two months, I knew I’d better do all I could to keep the peace.
I turned instead toward the house. The rectangular building visible from the front concealed other structures that had been added on to the back, probably as generations of the O’Neil family grew. Maddie had mentioned that the main house was over two hundred years old, so these rear buildings had to be later additions. Several chimneys poked up from the tin roof, and by process of elimination I figured out which windows belonged to the roomy kitchen where I’d met the O’Neils this morning. Other rooms stretched out behind it, and lace fluttered from several of the windows. If the front house contained the public spaces used for guests of the B&B, these back rooms had to be where the O’Neil family actually lived. Taylor, I realized, stayed in a room in
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