An Irish Miracle

By Rob Mahan

An Irish Miracle is the story of Dillon and Alastar Connolly, young men separated by two generations and searching for their places in the world. From an Ohio farm to western Ireland and from the 1940s to present day, their journeys take them through peaceful countryside and personal challenges. The paths of these two young men cross in unexpected ways, never far from the people, the horses, and the lands they love.

Dillon begins his part of the adventure with more than a little trepidation, but he soon finds himself drawn to the beauty of the Irish countryside, and the kindness of the Irish people he meets along the way. Alastar's gift and passion for horses leads him to Ballybrit, home of the world-famous Galway Racecourse . . . and the fiery redhead, Rita O'Reilly.

Once you follow the emotional journeys of these two young men, you'll feel drawn to the Emerald Isle, just as they both were. And when five o'clock comes around, you just might find yourself searching for a well-poured pint of Guinness . . . or two.

Rob Mahan lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife Linda and the two Schnauzers who are his constant writing companions. Inspired by a dream shortly after his only son graduated from college and moved across the country, An Irish Miracle is Rob's first full-length novel.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rob Mahan
• Release date: May 2, 2012
• ISBN: 9780985373825

Rob Mahan

Rob Mahan lives in the San Francisco Bay Area with his wife Linda and the two Schnauzers who are his constant writing companions. Inspired by a dream shortly after his only son graduated from college and moved across the country, An Irish Miracle is Rob's first full-length novel.

Book preview

Preface

— ~~~ —

An Irish Miracle came into being almost by accident, at least in the beginning. Linda and I had just arrived on the West Coast to start our next adventure, and after thirty-some years as an engineer in American manufacturing, I was about to start my own new chapter as an author. A science fiction author, that is. I was reading through my writing journal, when I happened on an entry that started:

July 7, 2005 – Marietta Georgia

My son Kyle moved to California two days ago to start a job and an adventure. I haven’t been sleeping well and last night, I dreamed an idea for a story:

I read through the idea I had recorded several years before and thought it would make a nice short story, a warm-up writing exercise. I had grown up in rural Ohio, and my father’s family traces its roots back to Ireland. What’s not to like about fertile farmland and beautiful, green countryside as the backdrop for a story about a young man searching for a long-lost relative and learning some unexpected truths along the way?

Linda and Kyle read the first draft of about fifty pages. They loved the story and the characters, but they wanted more. The second draft doubled in length, more beta readers were solicited from family and friends, and the science fiction project was (temporarily) forgotten. Many more pages and rewrites followed, and with the aid and encouragement of Robin Martin, a very talented freelance editor, the full-length novel An Irish Miracle was finally completed.

A hard science fiction novel is still waiting in the wings of my imagination, perhaps for after the follow-on story to An Irish Miracle is finished.

Rob Mahan

Redwood City, California

March 17, 2012

Acknowledgements

— ~~~ —

Dearest Linda, you encouraged me and worked long hours to allow me the time and space to write this story. Thank you for your love and unwavering support. Kyle, you may never fully appreciate how much I value your opinion. Son, my gratitude for your belief in me is profound. I owe my love of books to my mother, Helen, who as a little girl would steal into the garden to eat warm tomatoes and read the only book her family owned, a dictionary. To my father, Bill, I owe my deep love of animals, the ability and desire to work wood with my hands, and the Irish blood in my veins. I miss you, Pop.

Robin Martin of Two Songbirds Press gave me insightful evaluations, spot-on editing, and many valuable lessons in the craft of writing fiction. Thank you for coaching me all along the way, Robin. Your critiques were always delivered with warmth and good humor. Mike Mahan of Shelflife Creative designed a beautifully graphic and evocative cover and polished typography to wrap this story in. Mike, I am most thankful, and I remain, as always, awed by the subtle power of your artistry.

Many family members and friends graciously critiqued early drafts of this story, and not one expressed the feelings of trepidation my reading requests likely caused. Al, Anne, Bruce and Karen, Chris and Kathie, Curtis, Eddie and Linda, Jeff and Debbie, Kara, Linda Marie, Megan, Robert and Glenda, Russ, Shel and Susan, I want to thank all of you for the precious gifts of your time and your thoughts. Each of you helped me to make this a better story.

Randy, I’m not sure this book would have been written at all without your consistent support, which began at that little island bar so many years ago. Your natural story-telling ability, coupled with courageous honesty and faith in our friendship infused your many hours of effort on my behalf with credibility and power. Katie, I can always depend on you for archeological insights, and your kind words and desire for more from this story spurred me on. Karen, your thoughts from literary, historical, and personal perspectives added depth to this story and motivated me to do even more introspection. Cathy, your professorial point of view, informed by being a world traveler and a voracious reader, helped me to clarify many plot points and solidify many details. Kristen, your insights into how people at different stages of life think and speak in the real world helped me to develop rounder and more believable characters.

Lastly, my heart goes out to Bandit and Murphy, my faithful, four-legged friends and constant writing companions. You’ve been (sleeping) by my side every step of the way. You’re both good boys. Yes, even you, Murph.

CHAPTER 1

Ohio 2011

— ~~~ —

The air in the old barn was already warm and stuffy. Dust swirled in thin shafts of sunlight streaming down through the high cupolas. A heavy bale of hay sailed out of the loft and thudded onto the packed dirt floor.

That’s enough, Dillon, Paul said. Come help your mom with them. I’m already behind.

Okay, be right down.

The hand-hewn timbers that had supported the hayloft for generations of Connollys were brown and stained with age. Dillon knew from painful experience just when to duck and all the places where a wrong step might go right through the rotten plank flooring. The old, red paint was chalky, and the whole barn smelled of hard work, thick with dust, sweat, and gasoline. Familiar smells to any farmer—good smells.

Dillon’s face appeared high above his parents. Hey Dad, can I talk to you guys for a minute before you get started?

About what—college again? I’ve already wasted too much daylight this morning.

When Paul looked up and shook his head, Linda came up behind him and wrapped her arms around his waist, thickened with muscle from a lifetime of heavy labor. Come on down, son. Of course we can talk.

Dillon shook bits of green hay out of his hair, grinned and disappeared back into the dark hayloft. Thanks Mom. Here I come!

Linda cringed and covered her eyes. Dillon grabbed a thick rope that was tied to one of the high rafters, took two quick steps and threw his body out into the empty space fifteen feet over their heads.

"Eeeee-haw!" Dillon swung past them in a blurred arc, his feet wrapped tightly around a huge hemp knot, one hand hanging casually at his side. After two more passes, he let go of the rope and dropped lightly to the barn floor, still grinning from ear to ear.

Linda peeked between the fingers of her weathered hands. That scares me half to death. Sometimes I think you’re twenty-one going on twelve.

I’ll grow up quick if you let me go to Ohio State, Dillon said. Night classes at the community college are for losers. Besides, none of my friends go there.

Paul poked a finger at Dillon. His stubby nail had a line of black dirt under it. I never went to college. Your grandpa didn’t go to college and neither did your great-grandpa. I think we’ve all managed to run the farm pretty well without some fancy piece of paper.

Brushing his father’s hand aside, Dillon took several deep breaths. Blood was pounding in his temples. Every time they had this argument, yelling only made his father more stubborn.

Dillon looked at his mother, peering at him over Paul’s shoulder. Her dark hair was just beginning to streak with silver. I just don’t want to spend the rest of my life on the farm. You know that, don’t you, Mom? I want to do something different, like see stuff. Live somewhere fun, maybe.

He frowned and looked back at his father. Besides, things aren’t going all that well around here right now, are they, Dad? We can’t even pay our bills on time. How many payments have we skipped on the loan now? Two or three?

Paul recoiled, but when he took a step toward Dillon, Linda put a hand on his shoulder. He stopped, but barely. Still breathing hard, he stuffed his hands in his pockets. Like it or not, what his only son had said about their money troubles was true enough.

Before Paul could say anything, Linda spoke up. This farm has been in the family way too long for us to give up on it now. You’re just going to have to be patient about college.

Several generations had lived their entire lives working the Connolly homestead outside of Findlay, Ohio. A square, two-story farmhouse and a cluster of outbuildings sat roughly in the center of seventy-some acres that usually produced beans, sweet corn, squash, and spelt—if the weather cooperated. A modest vegetable garden, along with a handful of cows, chickens, and goats provided ample food for the family table. Mornings when a red sun stretched long shadows over the flat land and flocks of Red-winged Blackbirds wheeled into the cloudy skies, no one could deny the tranquility of the scene. But it had never been a particularly joyful life for anyone. The land had always provided for those stubborn enough to scratch a living out of the dirt. Farming had been a good enough life for all the generations back to their ancestors’ arrival in America. The Connolly family roots went deep. They reached all the way back to Ireland, where working the land was more than just the way to survive. It was a way of life.

Once his breathing slowed, Paul took off his green and yellow cap and rubbed a hand over thinning hair. Dillon, your mother and I depend on you. Your grandpa and grandma depend on the three of us, and this farm provides for all of us. I don’t see what’s so wrong with life here. You’ll never be out of a job, and you’ll never be hungry. You’re right about the money, though. We couldn’t send you to college right now even if we decided to.

Dillon shook his hands in frustration. I never said there was anything wrong with living on the farm. I know what it gives. I know what it takes, too. It takes a lot of work. It takes all my time. That’s all great for you. I just want something different for me.

Like she had always done to comfort him, Linda stepped between her son’s outstretched hands and reached up to put her arms around his neck. When he stiffened and held her away, she gasped, and her arms fell numbly to her sides.

Surprised and embarrassed at his reaction, Dillon took a quick step back and looked at his mother for forgiveness. All he saw was her wide eyes staring back at him, her left hand with the simple gold band she always wore covering her open mouth. Linda wrapped her arms around herself and leaned against Paul. He put an arm around her shoulders and gave her a gentle squeeze.

I think you owe your mother an apology, boy. And I think you need to start getting your head screwed on straight. It’s not always about what we want, when we want it. Sometimes we never get what we want. That doesn’t mean we can ignore the work around here. It’s always there, and it isn’t going to wait for you or me or anyone else.

As if to prove his point, Paul turned on his heel and strode over to the tractor. Dillon and Linda both stepped back as he roared out of the wide double doors toward the loamy north field, plows bouncing behind on their three point hitch.

They stood in silence, staring at the haphazard bales of hay on the barn floor and kicking at the strands that had come loose and littered the hard-packed dirt floor. A light breeze came up, tempering the rising morning heat as the sound of the tractor faded in the distance. Linda reached for a push broom as Dillon heaved one of the bales onto an old handcart.

Your father never has been a particularly happy man.

Yeah, I get that.

I know he’s tough on you, but he’s a hard worker and he’d do anything to protect us, too. You know that, don’t you?

I know. I probably deserve it sometimes, but what gives with him? Are you guys okay? Is it because of me?

Oh, we’re fine. Linda pushed bits of hay into a pile. It’s not you. Well, most of the time it’s not you.

Dillon looked down at his mother with one eyebrow raised. He didn’t remember getting so much taller than her. Maybe she was the one getting shorter. The three years since high school had slipped by without anything to show for the time or even any real plans. Chores had taken up most of the days, and Britney had filled his evenings, but that had ended when she went away to college. Now he just marked time between holidays, and he knew he wasn’t exactly a joy to be around.

Linda turned and looked up, giving a gentle smile to her only child. I’m just teasing. It’s not you at all. Your father wanted to get away from the farm when he was young, too. Going to war was always the way to get to see the world around here, but he was too young for Vietnam. By the time the Gulf War came along, he was too tied up here.

So he’s kind of trapped here? Dillon put the last bale on the cart and stared out the door at the line of oily smoke marking the tractor in the field. I know what that feels like.

You’ll have to ask him about that yourself. He’s never been much for talking about feelings, particularly difficult ones. I think all you men have that in common. Speaking of, is there something you want to talk to me about?

What do you mean?

I know you want to go to college and get off the farm, but there’s something else now, isn’t there?

Maybe.

From years of practice drawing her husband out a little at a time, Linda just stood silently. Dillon shifted uncomfortably and the words slowly bubbled to the surface.

It’s Britney.

Linda leaned the broom against the door of a horse stall and reached up to rest a hand on Dillon’s arm. When he looked at her, she just nodded.

She’s going to be a junior at OSU this fall. Driving all the way to Columbus once a month just to see her between classes hasn’t been all that great, but I guess it’s been okay. At least when she’s been home on summer break, we’ve been together . . . when I wasn’t working around here, that is.

I know it hasn’t been easy, but you’ve been seeing her for more than three years now, haven’t you?

Yeah, we’ve been together almost three-and-a-half years. The last time I saw her, she had a lot of new friends who pretty much ignored me. Dillon stared out the big barn door, listening to the faint sound of the tractor’s engine straining to pull the old, three-bottom plow through the wet ground. I felt like a damn loser, Mom. A damn loser farm kid.

Don’t say that, Dillon. You know you have a lot going for you. You’re young, you’re smart and you work hard. Are you and Britney okay, then?

Dillon stared out across the fields for a long time before he answered. Nah. I don’t think so. Britney’s not coming home. She’s keeping her apartment through the summer, and she got a part-time job off campus.

Is it just the part-time job, or do you think there’s someone else?

I don’t know. Maybe. Yeah, I think there might be.

Linda slipped her arm around Dillon’s waist. This time he didn’t pull away. Oh, I’m so sorry. Your father doesn’t know yet, does he?

Dillon returned the hug with one arm around her shoulders. No, I don’t think so. It wouldn’t change anything with him. He was right about one thing, though.

What’s that?

That I owe you an apology. I’m sorry, Mom. Dillon gave her another squeeze, and they both turned and walked out of the barn onto the gravel drive that stretched from the barn past the old clapboard house and out to the road.

What should I do now?

Well, I think you should tell your father about Britney. I don’t think it will change anything with him, but maybe he’ll be a little more understanding.

Maybe I’ll just send him an e-mail.

Linda’s eyes snapped back to Dillon’s face. Why waste a whole e-mail? Why don’t you just text him? A couple of incomplete sentences should be more than plenty for you two.

Okay, okay. I’ll tell him. Tomorrow, maybe.

No time like the present. You can take him the jug of water he forgot in that mad rush to start his plowing. The tractor had reached the far end of the field and was swinging around to start the trip back down the next row. She was right, might as well tell him now.

Water jug in hand, Dillon started slowly across the field. The sun was warm on his back, and cool condensation dripped across his fingers. When he reached the freshly plowed furrows, his feet sank into the soft earth. The tractor droned along with the sounds of an occasional passing car and the dull roar of a plane far overhead. Dillon knelt down and set the jug beside him. The earthy smell of the turned ground was familiar and comforting. A clod crumbled in his fingers. The furrows were already dry on the outside, but the life-giving soil was still dark and moist underneath.

A backfire from the tractor shutting down startled Dillon out of his reverie. His father sat quietly in the middle of the field, waiting. Dillon picked up the jug and walked toward the tractor.

I brought you some water.

I see that. Thank you. Paul reached down for the jug. He took off his cap and wiped the sweat off his face with a bandana from the pocket in his overalls. After taking a long drink, he screwed the cap back on and wedged it under the tractor seat.

Did you apologize to your mother?

Yes.

That’s good. Anything else?

Not really.

Better get back to work then.

Well . . .

Well, what? Daylight, remember?

I think Britney is breaking up with me.

Paul got the jug back out and slowly took another drink while he considered the young man standing beside the tractor. I’m sorry to hear that. Your mother and I always liked that girl.

Yeah. Me, too.

I’m sorry about Britney, but you know it doesn’t change anything. Maybe it’s not all bad news. She wasn’t the kind of girl who would have been happy here.

"What do you mean? What kind of girl is she?"

Don’t get me wrong. Britney was a nice enough girl, she just wasn’t hearty. I don’t think life on the farm would have agreed with her. That’s all I’m saying. Someday, you’ll learn why that’s important.

If you think you know, why don’t you just tell me?

Now son, let’s keep this civil. What I’m trying to tell you is that I—I never would have survived here without your mother.

Dillon frowned and looked up at his father. Sweat was already staining the front of his shirt. What do you mean, you wouldn’t have survived?

Paul took a deep breath and sighed at the unplowed part of the field. He shrugged his shoulders, climbed down from the tractor seat, and sat on the soft, warm soil with his back propped up against the rear tire. Dillon sat a couple of furrows away.

I wouldn’t have survived on this farm without your mother, Paul repeated.

You already said that. I don’t know what you mean.

Paul’s cheeks tightened, drawing his lips into a thin line before he inhaled and blew out a breath. Well, for one, she taught me the value of patience.

Dillon caught the sideways look and he laughed. Sorry. I guess I haven’t learned that one yet.

Paul chuckled and his shoulders relaxed. I guess I hadn’t learned it either, when I was your age. When I was twenty-one, I wanted to be on my own, too. You know, see the world and slay a few dragons, maybe save a damsel or two.

I thought you just always wanted to be on the farm. If you wanted to, why didn’t you ever do anything else?

That’s a good question. I’ve asked myself that one more than a few times.

Do you know the answer yet?

It’s complicated, I think.

I’d really like to know, Dad.

Well, I guess I just had more reasons to stay than there were good reasons to leave. Your grandpa needed my help. Though your grandma has always been here with him, his brother had been gone for years, and he was alone. Well, alone as far as men went.

Oh yeah—he’s Grandpa’s twin brother, right?

Yes. He’s your great-uncle. Uncle Alastar.

I know. You and Grandpa have told me stories about him.

Yes we have.

Well, Grandpa needing your help was a reason for staying. What would have been a good reason for leaving?

There was only one acceptable reason for leaving back then. That was military service if we were at war. Your grandpa served. Your great-grandpa did, too. They were both proud men. Honorable men.

Could you have served in the Gulf War, Dad?

Yes, I was still under the age limit, but I had a lot of responsibilities around here. I was pretty much running the farm by then, and I was a father, too.

I guess I was a part of that.

Paul picked up a clod of dirt and tossed it in Dillon’s general direction. You were a big part of that. A part I wouldn’t trade for any adventure, but your mother had a lot to do with it, too.

It’s okay, Dad. She had the birds and bees talk with me quite a few years ago.

Well, that’s a relief, Paul chuckled. That’s not where I was going, though. He slowly gazed across the fields until his eyes finally came to rest on his son, sitting cross-legged in the dirt, waiting quietly.

The first time I brought your mom out from town to meet my folks, something almost miraculous happened. It was late summer, and all the crops were growing strong. She and I walked every inch of this place. She asked me about every root, stalk, and vine. She climbed into the hay loft and inspected all the fields. I was pretty sure she liked me okay, but I could see in her eyes that she had fallen in love with the farm. You know that smooth stone she has on her nightstand?

Yeah, it’s always been there, but I don’t know where it came from. I never thought about it.

She picked that stone up in the vegetable garden that day and took it home with her. She’s had it ever since.

Dillon nodded and frowned for a while before he spoke. Britney’s been here a bunch of times, but I’ve never seen her pick up a stone or anything. She doesn’t even like getting a little dirt on her shoes. Does that have something to do with Mom helping you survive here?

It does. Your mother can always find something good, even when things are bad. She always has hope, and she knows hope goes hand-in-hand with hard work. Like I said before, she loves us, and she loves the farm. We’ve built a good life together. Paul swiped at a drop of dark axle grease. Maybe ‘survive’ is a little strong, but without your mother and you, I wouldn’t have stayed on the farm. I’m not sure what else I would have done . . . but I probably wouldn’t have stayed here.

Wow . . .

Well, we haven’t really ever had a talk like this before. Maybe we should try it again sometime.

But if you thought about leaving when you were my age, why have you always been so against me doing something else? His father’s head was bent. The hands crossed in his lap were stained and cracked from a lifetime of exposure to the elements and hard farm labor.

"I think I already explained that. You and your mother are the life I’ve built here on the farm. But now I see that’s not fair to you. I guess I’m the one who’s going to have to change. I don’t think it’ll be easy, and I don’t think it’ll be quick, but for you, I’ll try."

What should I do in the meantime?

The only advice I can think of is to be patient. And have hope. Work hard.

I wouldn’t mind talking again sometime. Would you?

I wouldn’t mind at all . . . even if it’s daylight.

Dillon pushed himself up and reached a hand down to his father. The tractor chugged to life behind him as he slowly walked back toward the barn, looking up and down each furrow for just the right smooth stone.

CHAPTER 2

Ohio 2011

— ~~~ —

Perhaps for the final time, the Connolly family gathered around the old kitchen table. The thick cherry top was too long for the farm’s current residents, and a couple of places had been taken over by old seed catalogs and a growing pile of bills. Jake Connolly, their long-departed patriarch, had presided over many family meetings at that same table. The story went that his father had built it in the barn with wood from trees on the property, felled by his own ax. The original chairs were long gone, replaced with a jumble of mismatched ones all painted blue to go with the curtains on the window over the sink.

One of Jake’s two sons was the family’s current patriarch. Alex ran weathered fingers through his thick, silver hair as everyone took their usual places at the table. Deciding how to begin, he slowly looked around the table at the remaining members of his family. As always, his wife, Bonnie, was at his side. They had been high school sweethearts before he went off to war. Alex had actually proposed to her in a letter from Vietnam. Paul and Linda were across from them, and Dillon was at the end of the table.

Linda looked over at her son as he sat flipping through a magazine. He looked up, and she returned his easy smile. Despite some of their quarrels with him, she and Paul had raised a good boy. He did his share around the farm. He didn’t hang out in the bars like a lot of guys his age did, and he seemed happy most of the time. Her shoulders fell when he tossed the magazine on the table. It was a well-thumbed Ohio State University newsletter.

I’ve sat at this table all my life, Alex began. He looked directly at Dillon to make sure he had his grandson’s full attention. I was sitting in that chair when my father talked about losing JFK. It took a toll on all of us, but it nearly broke him. He paused and dropped his eyes to the table. The devastated look on his father’s face that day was burned in his memory.

There’ve been a lot of family meetings in this kitchen. Most of them have just been about the farm. Most times good . . . sometimes, not so good. Today, I’m afraid it’s bad news again. Maybe very bad news.

Everyone glanced around, but they kept silent, waiting for Alex to continue. The farm had seen financial troubles before. They had always pulled together and worked even harder. They had always managed to survive.

Farming is our life. Always has been, but every year it gets harder to compete with the corporate farms.

Alex looked around the table. Everyone was nodding. They knew how tough things were getting for small farmers.

Our profits are getting squeezed by the big farms and this damn economy—

It’s been hard on everyone, Dad, Paul said. We all agreed on the loan. It wasn’t just your decision.

I know we all agreed, but what choice did we have? Without better equipment and a new roof on the barn, they would have just plowed us under. Alex gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white. You know we’ve missed two payments now. I’m afraid we’re in trouble.

I hate being backed into a corner as much as you do, Paul said, but we didn’t have the money. Like you said, we didn’t have any choice.

I know, Alex said, but I’m still ashamed of missing those payments. I thought we’d be able to get square with the bank so we could just get back to farming.

Bonnie patted Alex’s battered, old hand. Paul put his arm around Linda, and Dillon glanced around the table. The copper wind chime he had made when he was twelve jangled as a warm breeze drifted in through the back screen door. He sat up straight and looked at his father, then back at his grandpa.

Can we make part of a payment now, Grandpa, Dillon said, and the rest of it at the end of the month? Would that help?

That’s a good thought, Dillon, Alex said. It might have helped . . . before the bank called me last night.

Why didn’t you tell us the bank called? Paul said. What did they say?

I needed to think about some things before I told you, Alex said. I argued with them to just give us more time. Our family has been doing business with that bank for damn near fifty years. They say they’re sympathetic, but with so many other small farms in trouble, they also say their hands are tied.

More time for what, Grandpa?

Alex drew himself up and took a deep breath. "I signed a callable loan to get us a better interest rate. Now, the bank is demanding full repayment. If we don’t pay off the balance in two months, those—they’re going to foreclose on us. They’ll auction off the farm. Take whatever they get for it, even if it’s just pennies on the dollar. We won’t have a farm or a place to live by the end of the summer."

A stunned silence filled the room, and Alex bowed his head.

It’s not your fault. Dillon picked up a handful of bills and riffled through them. We missed those payments because we had to. There must be something we can still do. He tossed the bills back across the table, and the whole stack almost slid onto the floor. "I’ll work a lot harder. We have to do something."

Working harder has gotten us through tough times before, Alex said, but we’ve dug ourselves a deep hole here. I’m running low on hope, but I’m still open to other ideas.

The kitchen was silent. Dillon leaned forward in his chair. There’s got to be an answer, doesn’t there? What about selling some of our new equipment?

Alex looked up and smiled for the first time in days. Thank you for understanding. That means a great deal to me. You know how much we owe the bank, though. Even if we sold all of our equipment, we’d still come up short, and without our equipment—

Sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t think about that. I’ll just be quiet.

Heavens no, boy, Alex said. You keep telling us your ideas. Why, I’ve even considered selling off some of our land. What do you think of that idea?

Well . . . Dillon looked at his grandpa and frowned. Even if you could find someone to buy it, I doubt if land around here is worth very much right now.

Alex nodded. Go on.

I think we’d have to sell most of our land, but then we wouldn’t be able to farm. We’d still have the house, but no money and no food. I guess I don’t think that’s a very good idea either.

That’s the conclusion I came to, Alex said. You’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Keep using it. As a matter of fact, let’s all keep thinking.

The kitchen grew quiet again as everyone studied the table in front of them. There had to be something no one had thought of yet. There had to be something that would at least

Reviews for An Irish Miracle

[adrateia_1 · Rating: 1 out of 5 stars]

I won this through Goodreads.Well, the story was nice enough. But the dialogue was so tedious and unrealistic, the characters annoyingly two-dimensional, I didn’t enjoy this at all.