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be an old friend by the time my summer was over.
    “How much longer?” I asked Rose, not looking at Phin so he wasn’t distracted from driving.
    “Not much further. I hope you don’t mind if we pop by the town pub before we head home. Some of our friends are anxious to meet you,” she said, patting her palm on the knee that was squeezed against hers in the cab of their tiny truck.
    “But I’m only 18.”
    “18?” Rose asked with a wrinkled brow, but then understood. “No, no. Our pubs are like a town meeting place. All ages welcome. The food’s as good as the beer!” Rose said.
    “Speak for yourself, Rose. I would say their beer is better than their food!” Phin corrected with a respectful nod, leaning up in the seat to join our conversation.
    “Well, I’ll just be having the food, thanks,” I said, smoothing my hair nervously, staring at the road he was ignoring.
    “You’ll have to try our stout before you leave. It’s sustained many a family through rough times over here, you know.” My entire body tensed as we neared a curve. He raised a single eyebrow at my ramrod straight posture and faced forward again with an amused smirk. “A national treasure!” He added, removing a hand from the steering wheel and mockingly placing it over his heart as if to signify the passing of the queen.
    “Do you mind, Faye? I guess we should have asked you. If you’re too tired, we don’t have to. But so many people want to meet you, and you can get your bearings of the town, too.” Rose asked, but I could tell it would have been a huge disappointment if I said no.
    “That’s fine. I actually slept most of flight,” I answered.
    “Oh great!” Rose beamed.
    When we pulled around a sharp curve in the road Phin stopped, eyes fixed on the valley spread out below us. “There she is,” they both said proudly in unison.
    Poised in awed silence on the crest of a rolling hill, we all marveled at the view—me for the first time, Rose and Phin for the millionth. A wide valley stretched its green arms below us, reaching out to embrace the sea. The emerald slope lay dotted, here and there, with the quaint little buildings of Clonlea, as if an artist had haphazardly set his brush down in little blooming clusters of color. It was a breath-taking view no magazine article could have possibly done justice.
    The setting sun was a fiery, reddish-orange ball on the horizon, casting its final molten rays on every little wave that danced out to meet it. The ocean sparkled like one large, liquid ruby, cloistered between a rocky horseshoe bay; the shore’s stones slicked to brilliant onyx by salt water and time. Sheltered safely in the bay, brightly colored boats bobbed up and down, their sails slapping gently in the breeze.
    Clonlea’s town center sat off the coast, the buildings trickling away as they approached the sea, making room for a water front park and beach where locals and tourists could savor sunsets like this. Near the boats, tiny weathered piers and docks reached out into the red water like ancient fingers, tiny fishing boats tied here and there and sleepy sea birds perched on their pilings.
    Cobblestone roads meandered lazily up the hillside, bending and turning around huge ash trees with brilliant flowers springing up in the shady spots their bowed limbs offered. The little buildings looked to be hundreds of years old with bright-whitewashed walls, colorful trim and dark brown thatched roofs. Through the streets and along the shoreline silhouetted figures of men and women made their way home from a long day's work and children played games in the remaining rays of light.
    Clonlea was nestled amongst three hillsides. The cobblestone roads turned to pavement or dirt as they wound away from town along the coast. It all looked too perfect to be real, like a Hollywood set director might step out from behind one of the towering trees to yell “CUT!” at any minute.
    “Wow. That magazine wasn’t lying,” I