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“When do you think you’ll be ready to sell him?”
    â€œAnother month or so. After the Del Mar National.”
    Dad goes back to his paper. With the wall of newsprint between us, I rub my temples.
    â€œYou feeling okay?” Dad misses nothing, even at six a.m.
    â€œJust tired.” I take my still-full glass of orange juice to the sink and pour it down the drain.
    â€œHot date last night?”
    â€œYou know it.” My standard response to our running joke feels heavy on my tongue. I’m not ready to think about last night. But it’s unavoidable. “Hey Dad?” He sets down the newspaper and looks over to where I still stand, holding the empty glass. “Remember how Nana used to call me ‘bandia’? ”
    He nods. “You could take your grandmother out of Ireland, but you could never take Ireland out of your grandmother.”
    â€œIt meant something, right? The name?”
    Dad pushes his glasses back against the bridge of his nose. “Why the sudden interest in your grandmother’s superstitions?”
    Not an answer. He’s watching me like I’m about to sprout horns or something, but I’m not backing down. “I was just thinking that Beltane is coming up and it made me think of her, that’s all.” Our family has celebrated Beltane for as long as I can remember. Nana made sure we celebrated both half-year eves. It went right along with keeping away from black cats and wearing sprigs of mint around our wrists when we got a cold.
    Dad smiles. “Your mother isn’t going to make us eat that nettle soup again, is she?”
    â€œShe always does.” In the two years since Nana’s death, my mom has continued the tradition.
    â€œYou sure you can’t talk her into a nice chicken tortilla or tomato bisque?”
    â€œSounds very Irish. Good luck with that.”
    Dad picks up his coffee. “She’ll listen to you. You’re the one she does this for.”
    I have to grab the sink for support. “Me?”
    Dad’s eyes widen and I can tell he wants to take back what he just said. Then he sets down his coffee, resigned. “Honey, I know how hard it was for you when Nana died. And then we had to move here when I took over the branch office.” He doesn’t mention the other reason we moved. I don’t blame him. No one mentions it. “Your mom is trying.”
    â€œMom’s trying to do what? She doesn’t have to pretend for my benefit, okay?” For the last few years, Mom’s been a ghost, a beautiful specter who floats in and out of our house on a breeze, her brilliant smile reserved for bus stops and coffee mugs. She avoids me. The only exception was when she sat me down to ask if I’d started the wildfire that burned nearly two hundred homes in Rancho Domingo last fall. We’re close like that. I’m halfway to the front door before Dad can respond.
    â€œBrianna.” The tone of his voice stops me. “Try not to be so hard on her. It’s been rough for her too. She lost her mother.”
    I can only nod and sigh. I don’t say what I’m thinking: So did I .
    â€œSay hi to Piece of Meat for me,” Dad says, our discussion over.
    I drive to Bridle Oaks as fast as the Blue Box can manage—which means I almost make it to fifty-five miles an hour. My old hatchback has seen better days. When I enter the stable, Dart is nestled in a corner of his stall polishing off a flake of alfalfa. I pull a carrot from my pocket, drawing a welcoming nicker. He walks over and devours the carrot in two bites, sniffing for more. Once he determines I’m out, he goes back to his hay. He always eats like he doesn’t know when he’ll see his next meal. When I first saw him, he was all ribs and withers, nearly starved after an unsuccessful year on the racetrack. Now he looks like a different horse.
    Parker Winslow leads her bay hunter, Tristan, down the barn