I mean, it’d also be fun to be able to snuggle with Sam on the front porch swing or give him a peck on the cheek at dinner, but I get why he wants to keep things between us on the down low. His grandmother seems okay with the fact that his brothers are shacking up with their girlfriends without being married, but I guess she might worry about Sam hooking up with a girl who won’t be sticking around.
It’s just that all the reasons why I can’t plant roots here seem less and less important with each passing day. Yes, I should be traveling to make content for my channel, but I’m the one in charge. Why shouldn’t I focus it on one region? Or keep traveling, but have a base to come home to? Where a cute dog and a hot guy in flannel await my return, not to mention weekly dinners with the kind of extended family I’ve always dreamed of?
It all seems possible, until I picture Sam—not to mention the rest of his family—finding out what my grandfather discovered and the many ways my parents have profited from his work. How could they see me as anything other than a spoiled little rich girl and a complete hypocrite?
I wish I had the courage to publicly renounce my family, instead of creeping around pretending to make a difference with my little nonprofit and my silly videos. But I’d rather pretend I’m doing good than face the truth: I’m just another tiny voice shouting into a howling wind.
Suddenly exhausted, I close my computer without even bothering to check that I’ve saved the edits on my latest video. Too depressed to do anything useful, I head outside for some fresh air, leaving my camera behind.
The morning was cold and rainy, which is why I’ve been editing. When I step onto the porch now, though, sunlight filters through the trees lining the driveway, making the leaves glow almost neon green, but I resist the urge to run back inside so I can record the gorgeous view. I need a reset, and diving right back into making content when I’m feeling down won’t be productive, no matter how pretty the pictures.
A buzzing noise I don’t recognize starts up. Following the sound around the side of the sheep castle, I eventually find a man bent over its queen, improbably snuggled between his legs, belly up. Ethel perches on a low stool close by, talking to Baabara and whisking wool out of the way as the man clips it. When she notices me, she brings a finger to her lips, indicating that I should be quiet, before waving me closer.
“Baabara’s a bit shy when she’s being sheared,” Ethel explains in a low, soothing voice once I’ve sidled up next to her. “But Cillian McCarthy’s an artist.”
The man doesn’t look up, just grunts as he turns off the shearers and rearranges the sheep’s position, tucking one of her forelegs behind his knee. When he starts up again, he pulls her skin tight with one hand as he runs the clippers over it with the other, leaving behind the smooth, pink skin of her belly and then her flank.
“He’s the best shearer in the entire Hudson valley. Oh, and you two might be related. Her last name is McCarthy too, Cillian.”
“There’re a mess of McCarthys in the world, Ethel.” The man’s accented voice is gruff, but the laugh lines around his green eyes deepen as he speaks. “Where in Ireland are yer people from, miss?”
I wince. “I’m not sure exactly. I think my McCarthy strain has been in the States for some time. But my grandparents planted an apple orchard south of here.”
“Smarter than growin’ potatoes,” he says with a wink. When he gets the clippers going again, Baabara’s skin wiggles, and Cillian mutters something to the sheep.
“Does it hurt her?” I whisper.
“Course not,” he says. “She’s just antsy. Just a bit more, wee girl.”
Ethel quietly drags another stool over and gestures for me to sit next to her. It’s oddly soothing to watch the man run clippers over Baabara’s curves, the blobs of fiber bobbing to the floor around us, and my worries fade away. An impressive, fluffy pile of wool grows behind the sheep as he twists her body into what looks like sheep yoga positions, shearing the wool from every bit of her body. Ethel has been eager to record the entire process, from sheep to needles, so I’m surprised she’s not recording this. “How come you’re not filming?” I ask quietly.
She lifts her finger to her lips again and then mouths “I am.” Pointing to her phone, which is suspended above the sheep and shearer, she whispers, “I don’t want Baabara to be embarrassed, so don’t say anything.”
Nodding slowly, suppressing a giggle, I give her a thumbs up.
When he’s done, Ethel gives the sheep a kiss on the nose and a treat, and then Baabara literally kicks up her heels before cantering away into a field.
Cillian tips his hat at Ethel, which makes her blush again, before bidding me a gruff goodbye and driving away. After Ethel resets her phone on a tripod—the one I gave her when I first visited, fibbing that it was an extra—I hold the bag open while she gathers the wool and stuffs it inside. She explains how she’ll skirt and scour the wool before spinning it, and then I suggest she repeat the instructions to the camera.
“You can use that bit as a teaser for your next post,” I say.
She wags a finger at me. “Always thinking ahead, aren’t you?”
A huge sigh heaves out of me, and Ethel tips her head to the side. “Something’s upset you. Is it Samuel?”
“No, no. Sam’s been… fine.” Not going to get into any more details about him, not with his grandma. Sinking back onto the stool, I shake my head. “It’s my family.”
Ethel settles down next to me and pats my knee. “Colleen says you grew up in New York City. What got you interested in farming?”
“The orchard my grandparents ran. The one I told Cillian about.”
“Ran, as in, they don’t anymore?”
“They passed away about five years ago, and it was sold.”
“Your father didn’t take it over?”
I almost tell her that it was my mother who would’ve inherited, but I catch myself just in time. Ethel believes my last name is McCarthy. “No ma’am, he didn’t.”
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I bet you miss them.”
I nod, my chin trembling. “I’m the youngest grandchild, and they were a lot older than you are, but I wish I’d had more time with them.”
“I’m sure they’d be proud of the work you’re doing.”
I’ve been so focused on undoing the damage of my father’s side of the family that I never thought about how my maternal grandparents would feel about my nonprofit. “I hope they would,” I finally say, my voice thick.
“When I’m missing my Eugene, or my son Jimmy, I imagine them watching out for me from the photos I’ve got hanging in the house, cheering me on.”
I look over to find her eyes shiny as she gazes at the house in the twilight. After a moment, she waves a hand in front of her face. “That’s pretty silly, isn’t it?”
I take her hand and give it a squeeze. “I think that's pretty cool, actually.”
She turns to face me. “Do you have any pictures of your grandparents? Maybe that would help.”
“I don’t have any prints on hand.” Even as I say it, a tightness I hadn’t realized was gripping my chest releases, giving me the freedom to take a full breath. “But I think I know where I can get some.”
