by Lila Dubois
The Irish Lover
A Glenncailty Castle Short Story
By Lila Dubois
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2013 Lila Dubois
First electronic publication: February 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9889107-0-6
Cover by Valerie Tibbs
Visit Lila’s website at www.liladubois.net
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. It may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to www.smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
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Growing up in America, Mary Callahan knew very little about her parents, who were killed when she was a baby. Returning to her native Ireland, she hopes to discover more about them…and herself. Michael is home from Dublin for the weekend when he sees a gorgeous American peeking in the pub door. Something about her calls to him. They don’t realize that it may be more than chance that brings them together, and when instant attraction leads to a night of searing passion they will both have to confront their sudden and powerful feelings for one another.
A nighttime excursion brings them face to face with lovers whose tragic fate has kept them bound to Glenncailty as ghosts. Michael knows the danger the past poses, but cannot protect her from things that happened long ago. Mary must decide if she’s willing to risk her heart for a chance at love and a place to call home.
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Chapter One
She may have been born here, but it wasn’t home.
Mary rolled down the window of her rental car letting in the cool, wet Irish air. She’d cranked up the heat when she got in and now the windows were fogged, making the misty morning seem downright gloomy.
The gloom didn’t dampen the romance of the view or lessen the feelings it inspired. She took a breath, tasting the loam of the earth. Little by little the windows cleared. Silvery light fell over rolling green hills. The rain made the land sparkle, as if it weren’t raindrops, but diamonds, that fell from the sky. And she was alone, with no one to share the wonder and beauty of the view with, no one to ease the burden of sadness and loss she carried.
Mary Callahan had come for The Gathering—the year when the Emerald Isle called all of her children home. Mary and her grandparents had emigrated after the death of Mary’s parents during the Troubles—a kind euphemism for the violence, bombings and murders that rocked Ireland in the latter decades of the 20th century. She’d been raised in Chicago since she was two and until now had never returned.
She’d never wanted to come here. When she was younger she hated any mention of Ireland, or her parents, because of the sadness that settle over their little house for days afterward. At her grandparents’ request--and due to the fact that at the moment she was jobless with nothing better to do--she’d come to a place as foreign to her as the moon.
Though she didn’t feel the connection to Ireland her grandparents insisted she would, it was a beautiful country. Resisting the urge to jump out and take yet another photo, Mary turned on the rental car’s GPS system. In a country without ZIP codes, and sometimes without street numbers, the best way to get somewhere was to ask, not to rely on a piece of electronic equipment but she used it out of habit.
“Glenncailty.” She keyed in the location, talking to herself to push away the loneliness. “Birthplace of one Mary Callahan.”
With the GPS ready, and more importantly a printed list of directions, Mary put the car in gear, heading deep into the Irish countryside in search of Glenncailty—the valley of the lost.
****
Michael Baker smiled as the glen came into view. The valley was hidden away out in the Meath countryside, rural as could be despite its location only a few hours from Dublin. Narrow at the far end, it opened like a fan into an area a few miles across. The village of Cailtytown spread across the flat land. From the ridge where the road ran he could see the patchwork of fields with their dry-stack stone walls, the too-narrow roads that wound through clusters of houses and shops. Farmland surrounded the town, making it seem like a little island of people amid a sea of green. As the glen narrowed the fields grew wild, and at the narrowest point sat the castle.
Gray shadows fell over the old fortified manor house. Whatever it may have been, it was now and always had been known as Glenncailty Castle. When he was a child, Michael and his mates’ most daring adventures had been sneaking over to the castle and exploring crumbling buildings and peering in broken windows. It wasn’t until he was older that he realized the true danger they’d put themselves in. People, many of them children, had died wandering through Glenncailty Castle. For that reason it had been boarded up, and the fear of God put in to the children of Cailtytown so that they wouldn’t go near it—not that it had worked.
All that had changed two years ago when Seamus O’Muircheartaigh, the owner of the castle, reopened it and started turning it into a posh hotel. The old stable had been converted into a nice venue for music and dancing, and there were rumors that the mews would become a spa.
It seemed strange to Michael that Glenncailty Castle might be anything other than an old, haunted ruin, but for the sake of those who lived in the glen he was glad. The recession had hit hard here. Most people in Glenncailty were farmers, and the fluctuating price of milk and grain had cut their incomes, threatening the whole village.
As he was about to turn left onto the road that led down into the valley, he caught sight of the car behind him, which was driving on the wrong side of the road. He honked and the car jerked into the left-hand lane. He turned off, then looked over his shoulder, a little worried about the other driver. He caught sight of a dark-haired woman he didn’t recognize, and a sticker from a rental company in the car window.
He shook his head. Maybe the parish council should put up signs reminding drivers from America and Australia which side of the road they should be on. Cailtytown had seen its share of people leave in the recessions—including the current one—so they were expecting more than a few of the diaspora to return home to their little part of Ireland for The Gathering.
Once he hit the town he waved at nearly every car he passed. Though he’d lived in Dublin since attending Trinity College, Cailtytown would always be home.
Pulling in to a little parking spot behind his family’s house he took flowers off the seat and headed for the kitchen door.
“Ma, I’m here.” Michael shut the back door, wiping his feet.
“Well Lord love you, there you are.” Rose Baker rose from her seat at the table in the kitchen. It was comforting to see his mother, who was still young and beautiful in the eyes of her son, sitting in the same spot at the kitchen table she always sat in. “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?”
“I’ll make it.” Michael’s protest was brushed aside as she filled a kettle and set it boiling.
“These are for you.” He held out the thing he’d been hiding behind his back.
She accepted the flowers, turning the bouquet in her hands to admire the lilies. “And what are these for?”
“For you, because I love you.”
“Just like your father, a charmer.” She set to cutting the stems under running water and arrangin
g them in a vase. “I’ll trust nothing you say now, as I’m sure you’re up to something.”
“Is that the thanks I get for bringing you flowers?”
“Enough out of you.” Her scolding was softened by a smile. “Do you want me to iron your shirt for the party?”
Tonight was a ceilidh—a party—to raise money for the son of a local family. The boy was in medical school and traveling to Africa to do relief work as a doctor while on holidays. As worthy as the cause was, the anticipated massive turn out had more to do with where the party was being held than its purpose. The ceilidh would take place in Finn’s Stable—the massive stone stable at Glenncailty Castle. Once a haunted ruin, it had been renovated and revamped, becoming a beautiful performance and party space. In the past months it had hosted some very high profile concerts and events. This ceilidh was the first event hosted by someone from Cailtytown in the new Finn’s Stable, and it was a fair bet that most of the town would be in attendance.
Michael was going with his mother, at her request, but he had to admit that he might have come back on his own, as curious to see the place as anyone else.
“I was going to wear this.”
His mother cast a critical eye over him. “That’s fine, but I’ve got a shirt for you in the hot press. Let me just give it a quick iron.”
Michael’s lips twitched as he took a seat at the table, cup of tea in hand. There was little point arguing with his mother. Though he was a grown man, certainly capable of dressing himself, he’d never been able to convince his mother of that fact. He’d stopped protesting, knowing that she liked to take care of him, and with his father gone Michael was the only one she had to take care of.
An hour later, after a light supper—to hold them over until they got there, where they’d be eating again—and a change of shirt, Michael cocked his elbow.
“Would you accompany me to a dance, fair maiden?”
His mother scoffed at him, but she was smiling as he led her out the back door to the car.
****
She couldn’t sleep.
Mary rolled over and bunched her pillow under her head. She thought she’d be over her jet lag by now, but it was two in the morning and she was wide-awake. After arriving at Glenncailty Castle—she was staying in a castle!—she’d been too tired to do more than go to her room and crawl into bed. Now she was up and couldn’t fall back to sleep.
Part of her wanted to explore the castle—a big, stately structure that was actually three buildings. The main wing was the largest, and according to the website there was a library and billiards room the guests could use. She was staying in the east wing, on the second floor. The main building—or at least the foyer and hallways she’d been in—had been elegant and stately. Her room seemed a bit standard for a hotel room, though everything was of the highest quality. Despite her Irish roots Mary had been somewhat hoping she’d be staying in an old drafty room complete with stone walls and spooky noises—her grandmother always teased her about her “American ways” and Mary bet wanting to stay in a ruin instead of a lovely, well-appointed room was her American upbringing coming out.
Flopping onto her back she stretched. The room may not be a derelict ruin, but she did think she heard something. Mary froze, straining to identify the noise.
It was a woman’s voice, but Mary couldn’t make out the words. It seemed to be coming from her left. Mary turned her head, staring at the corner. There was a strip of silver moonlight cutting across the floor from where she hadn’t drawn the curtains all the way. Her breath caught in her throat. A silvery mist, wavering like rippling water, floated in the corner. Mary tensed, but when she blinked it was gone.
Then it came again, a faint noise.
Music. She realized that it was music—and not haunting soft music, but a bright, happy tune. Mary sat up, shaking her head. Her imagination was running away with her. There definitely was music. The woman’s voice must have been bits of song. Now that she’d heard it—and that her blood was pumping after she’d scared herself—she wanted to know where it was coming from.
Turning on the bedside light she pulled on the clothes she’d been wearing—jeans and a sweater. It was a bit chilly out from under the thick duvet, so she looped her sparkly scarf around her neck, and slid on her shoes. Tucking the key—an actual key, not a plastic card—into her pocket, Mary set out in search of the music.
****
Mary didn’t see the figure in the hallway. Couldn’t hear the whispered words of the silvery outline of something that had once been a person. Couldn’t feel the ghostly hand that reached out to her, passing through her shoulder as she walked down the hall towards the stairs.
****
Michael picked up his fresh pint. “Slainte.” He nodded to the bartender, who was pouring a second pint for Michael. The ceilidh was over, but most of the younger crowd, and a few of the liveliest older folks, had moved from Finn’s Stable to the pub on the first floor of the east wing. The good craic—the good times—continued even at this hour, music pumping through the speakers, people looking around as those who hadn’t been out to the pub before commented on how it had been renovated. His mother had gotten a ride home with a friend, leaving Michael to chat and drink.
Michael was impressed. Seamus had done the place up properly, and the pub was certainly big enough, with a few snugs and two separate bars for when the crowds were large like they had been earlier. Nodding to the bartender he picked up his drinks and turned. The people at the table beside the bar were standing and gathering coats, blocking his way. Leaning back he looked around as he waited for the crush to clear. That’s how he spotted her.
The door between the pub and hotel opened and a dark haired women peeked in. She was lovely, with hair straight as rain spilling across her shoulders. Her skin was lightly tanned, and though he couldn’t see their exact color from here her eyes were bright, inquisitive. After a moment of looking around she bit her lip and pulled back, the door closing.
Without questioning why, Michael slid through the crowd, pint in each hand. When he reached the door he bumped it open with his hip. There was a small hallway on the other side, with the stairs and elevator that lead to the hotel rooms on the second floor. The dark-haired woman was on the stairs, only her lower legs visible.
“You leaving already?” Michael kept the door propped open with one leg, the sounds of the pub spilling out.
The woman stopped, came back down a few steps and ducked to look at him. “Are you talking to me?”
“I am. Come back inside.”
“Oh, um, no I’m not…I’m just staying in the hotel. I’m not invited to the party.”
“And what makes you think it’s a party?”
Her lips twitched and Michael wanted to see her smile, really smile. “There’s a banner up that says ‘Good Luck, Ed!’”
“Well fair enough to that. What if I invite you to the party?”
“Are you Ed?”
“No.”
“Do you know Ed?”
“I’d say so, but I can’t be certain. I know his family.”
“It doesn’t sound like you get to invite random people to the party.”
“Ah, sure I do. This is a public pub, we just moved the party here from Finn’s Stable. All are welcome.”
“I really shouldn’t.”
“But I already bought you a pint.” Michael held up the glass originally intended for his friend. He wasn’t sure why he was so insistent that she come down, that she join him for a glass. There was just something about her that called to him.
“You what?” She came the rest of the way down the steps. She was slim, and even prettier up close. Her eyes were gray, the light, silvery gray of a spring morning.
“This is yours.” He pushed the pint at her.
“You bought me a pint?”
“I did. But I’m afraid you’ll have to come in here to drink it.” Michael smiled, coaxing her into the pub.
She laughed, the sound bubbling
up through her. Her smile was perfect, as were her lips.
“Okay, thank you for the drink.” She took the pint glass from him. “I’m Mary, by the way. Mary Callahan.”
Michael nodded and ushered her in, letting his hand brush against her back. “You’re an American from the accent, but we’ve Callahans around here. I’m Michael Baker.”
“It’s nice to meet you, Michael.” She looked around the pub curiously. “My grandparents are from Cailtytown. Brenden and Emer Callahan.”
Michael blinked. He recognized those names. Cailtytown was not such a large place that those who moved away were forgotten, especially when they moved away after such sadness.
“Your parents...”
Clear silver eyes regarded him. “They were killed in a bombing in Belfast when I was a baby.”
“Miss Mary Callahan, welcome home.” The story of her parent’s death and her grandparents’ emigration, fleeing both the Troubles and bad memories, was one of the many sad tales told in Cailtytown when the rain beat at the windows. Maybe that was why he was drawn to her—despite her accent, she belonged here.
Michael turned to face the pub, put his fingers in his mouth, and whistled. Everyone’s eyes focused on him and someone turned the music off.
“We’ve one of our own, home to us.” He gestured to Mary. “It’s Mary Callahan, granddaughter of Brenden and Emer Callahan.”
There was a beat of silence and then a cheer rose up. The few older people still in the pub stood, heading for her. Some had tears on their face.
“Welcome home, Mary Callahan,” Michael whispered as old Mr. Ryan leaned in to kiss her cheek.
The pretty brunette looked stunned. She turned to look at Michael as she was guided to a table. Their gazes met, held, and something shifted inside Michael. The next moment she was surrounded. He heard people welcoming her and asking after her grandparents. Michael stepped back, gave her space and returned to the table he’d been sharing with his friend.
