The lost leprechaun
Maureen O’donnell gazed out her kitchen window, her eyes happily sweeping across her garden and its first hints of spring on a pristine Monday afternoon. The grass was looking greener, the buds on the trees starting to bloom… it took her a few moments to notice something was amiss.
“Where’s Lenny?” she asked, her heartbeat quickening. Lenny, her beloved leprechaun figurine, had sat in the vegetable patch since she and Sean had moved from Donegal, Ireland, 20 years earlier. A little piece of home to bring her good luck.
Her 17-year-old son, Brendan, shrugged.
Has he accidentally broken it? she wondered, taking in his guilty hunched posture.
“Strange… i’ll ask your father.”
She’d noticed Sean outside, washing green paint off a brush. He was finally painting the barn after promising her last year. “Have you seen Lenny?” she called out to him. “I think he might have been stolen!”
Sean laughed. “Who’d want to steal him, dear?”
It was true. Lenny’s original bright appearance had dulled after years of sun and snow. He was a faded version of his former glory, but not invisible. So, where was he?
Maureen went outside to investigate, Brendan in tow. “He must be somewhere, Sean. It’s not as though he could get up and walk away!”
“My friend Paul laughs at that ridiculous thing when we’re kicking the ball around,” Brendan complained. “Says he looks like a snowman. Good riddance, if you ask me.”
“Oh, I hope you haven’t thrown him out,” Maureen said with a sigh. “You know how much he means to me, Brendan!”
“Wasn’t me… but I can’t speak for Paul,” he responded, kicking his ball at an imaginary goal as he walked away.
Maureen remembered seeing Paul leave yesterday evening, carrying a large duffel bag. Was it big enough to conceal Lenny? She’d caught him stealing one of their pumpkins last summer…
Sean tried to change the subject. “I can dig out the vegetable patch if you’re ready to plant beans,” he offered, bending down to scratch specks of red and green paint from his boots.
Maureen sighed. “Lenny’s irreplaceable. Could you have a word with Brendan, just in case he’s thrown him out?”
Sean nodded. “I’m sure he’ll turn up. Maybe he was just blown away in last weekend’s storm?” Maureen wasn’t convinced. “He’s solid. Besides, he’d still be here.”
“Okay, well we’ll have a proper look for him over the weekend,” Sean promised. “Let’s have dinner now.”
“But it’s St. Patrick’s Day on Wednesday,” she continued. “Every Irish girl needs her lucky leprechaun on March 17th, Sean!”
The next day, Sean enlisted Brendan’s help to finish painting the barn. It was nearly dark when she saw them washing the brushes out under the back tap and heading inside.
She’d made beef in Guinness with cranberry soda bread for dinner, Sean’s favorite. But first he needed a shower: Maureen had noticed a whiff of turpentine coming off him when he’d passed by her earlier in the day.
As she served the meal half an hour later, Maureen felt a glow of satisfaction.
The phone rang and she answered. It was Paul.
“I hope you didn’t accuse him of stealing Lenny,” Sean said as Brendan rose to take the call.
“No need,” Maureen smiled, wrapping her arms around her husband’s shoulders affectionately.
“I know who’s taken him. And I know why.”