The Irish Lover

by Lila Dubois

  “Michael Baker, how is it you found Mary Callahan on the way to the bar?”

  “I’m a keen sort of man.” He settled down in the chair next to Liam Murray, his friend and the Glenncailty Castle handyman. Liam’s wife Kristina had left them a few hours ago as she worked the registration desk in the morning and had to be up early.

  “And where’s my drink?” Liam griped.

  “Ah, well, here’s the thing…”

  ~~~~

  Chapter Two

  Two hours later Mary was drunk. Drunk and melancholy.

  Getting drunk was an accident, but entirely unavoidable, considering the number of people who’d come up to her, holding out pints as they kissed her cheeks. The melancholia was a product of those same conversations. She knew her parents through photos and her grandparents’ stories, but in the past few hours she’d been told things about them she’d never heard before. She loved them, but it was in an abstract way. They’d never been real to her, and she’d only resented Ireland for the sadness it brought to her grandparents.

  In this warm pub, surrounded by people who welcomed her as if she were family, she began to feel it—the connection to this place that was her home, and a connection to the parents she’d never known.

  In her mind they’d always been hardworking, simple people who loved her, and who’d been killed while in Belfast on a rare holiday. The stories she heard tonight painted a picture of a feisty woman, prone to mischief, and the solid, steady man who’d wooed and married her. The most touching of the stories was one from a man in his sixties who’d been in the same class at school as her father. He told her about the day her father, Andrew, had tried to take the pretty new school teacher, Siobhan, out for a picnic, only the car broke down part way there.

  “Now this was long before cell phones, and out here we wouldn’t have things like those call boxes on the motorway you understand.” The man telling the story—whose name Mary had forgotten—let out a little chuckle. “With no way of calling for help your father said he’d walk in to town, but Siobhan wasn’t going to let a little thing like a busted car get in the way. She grabbed the bag of food your father had packed and dragged him into the field, insisting they still have their picnic. But your father’s troubles weren’t done yet. When they opened the bag that was supposed to have the food they found milk bottles, meant to go back to the dairy.” He chuckled, taking a sip of his pint, which matched the one he’d brought Mary. “Andrew had grabbed the wrong bag he had, and now they were out in the countryside, stranded and with no food.”

  Mary smiled even as tears tightened her throat.

  “Now your da was sure he’d made a hash of it all. He was meant to be wooing your ma, but after a day like this he was sure he’d never convince the pretty Siobhan to marry him. Andrew had started back to town, but Siobhan still wasn’t put off. She’d led them through fields until they came to a barn, where she begged the farmer for help. They’d ended up being taken in by the farmer’s wife and fed lunch, tea and tart. Even after they’d called to let everyone know where they were they stayed, talking and laughing. Finally the farmer gave your mother a ride home while Andrew went and waited with the car until Brenden could tow him home.”

  Mary loved the picture the story painted of her quiet father trying so hard and seemingly failing to impress her mother, only to have Siobhan brush aside each setback and turn it into an adventure. It made sense that her grandparents—her father’s parents—would talk more about them as a quiet, hardworking couple. Her parents had worked with her grandfather in his furniture making shop, but she’d heard very little about them before they got married, back when her mother was working as a teacher, the job that had brought her to Cailtytown.

  “Thank you, for that memory.” Mary wiped tears from her eyes.

  The man hugged her, and Mary hugged him back, a few tears escaping before she could stop them.

  “Ah, you’re very welcome, Mary Callahan. And you’re very welcome here, home to Ireland. You’ve been missed.”

  Mary smiled, her lips trembling with emotion. When her companion wandered away she looked around to see that the pub’s crowd had thinned. It had to be four in the morning, long past the time that an American bar would be closed, but there were still a few people here. The bar was no longer serving, but that didn’t stop the conversation from flowing.

  Two women entered, trailed closely by a man. One of the women—a red head—wore a black jacket and a small gold nametag. Mary looked around for her purse, sure that the hotel staff person had come to throw them out. It took her a moment before she remembered that she didn’t have a purse.

  “Ah Caera, give us a song love, before you run off with that American.” Someone at the front of the room was talking to the gorgeous dark-haired woman who’d come in. She looked at her companion, who held an instrument case.

  “I’m game if you are.” The man had just a hint of a Boston accent.

  “How are you doing, Mary Callahan?” Michael was at her side, taking a seat at the bar stool next to her.

  “I’m…” Her words trailed off, because she didn’t know what to say. She was both happy and terribly sad. “I don’t know what I am.”

  “A lot to take in?”

  “Yes. My parents…these people knew my parents.”

  “And did you not know anything about them?”

  “I did, from my grandparents, but it’s different, hearing it from their friends.”

  “They weren’t forgotten, nor were you. Glenncailty still mourns for their death.”

  Fresh tears filled her eyes. She blinked and one slid down her cheek.

  “Ah now, pretty Mary, I didn’t mean to make you cry.”

  “I’m sorry.” She let out a watery laugh and wiped her eyes. “I don’t mean to cry, because I’m happy to hear the stories. Happy to know they’re remembered in their hometown.”

  His next comment was forestalled by the first notes of a song. She looked over to see the guy with the Boston accent holding a fiddle under his chin. The dark haired woman smiled softly then started singing. Mary’s breath caught as a lovely ballad swept through the room. It was a story of love lost, love longed for.

  A warm arm came around her shoulders. She looked over to Michael leaning against the bar, his arm around her shoulders pulling her against his side. He was good looking, handsome even, but not in the polished way she was used to. His hair was that color between brown and blond. In the dim lights of the pub it looked brown, but she suspected that in the sun it would be gold. He was probably about her age—thirty—and had just a few lines at the corners of his eyes.

  It was strange to have this man she’d just met touching her, hugging her, and yet it was far from the first hug from a stranger she’d experienced that night. Stranger still was the fact that this didn’t really feel all that strange.

  They stood together, Michael warm and strong at her side, as the music flowed around them.

  ****

  Michael reminded himself that he was a good man. Not the kind of man who would seduce a woman who’d just been through what must have been a trying night. Maybe it had been too long since he’d been with someone—and it had been a long time—but Michael couldn’t stop himself from fantasizing about pulling Mary into his arms and kissing her. Maybe it was the pints, maybe it was the music or the air of melancholy that had fallen over the place once they realized who she was, but Michael found himself longing for things he normally tried not to think about.

  Caera Cassidy, the events manager who handled Finn’s Stable, sang three songs with her new American boyfriend, who was an accomplished musician and performer. The rumor was that she was taking a career break to go on tour with him in America. When the couple was done and the last notes faded to silence Mary leaned into his shoulder, soft and warm. Her hair smelled like shampoo, a clean scent that shouldn’t have affected him the way it did.

  As she tucked herself against his side, Michael gritted his teeth. Every fiber of his
being wanted to take Mary back to her room, strip her clothes from her and make love to her until the sun rose. He wanted to touch her, taste her and figure out what it was about her that drew him to her. He wanted to, but he wouldn’t.

  Calling himself a fool he eased her away from him. “You’ve had quite the night, haven’t you, pretty Mary?”

  She nodded, eyes watery once more.

  “Can I walk you to your room?”

  Her gaze searched his face. “If you hadn’t made me come in here I might never have met all these people and heard the stories about my parents.”

  “Then I’m glad I did. Come on, I’ll make sure you get there.”

  Michael guided her out of the pub. They took the elevator rather than the stairs and he walked her down the hall to her door. She fished the key from her pocket then froze, looking at something just over his shoulder. Michael turned and saw a small flash of light, as if someone were moving a mirror in sunlight.

  “I thought I…” Mary shook her head. “I think I’m well and truly overwhelmed, to the point I’m seeing things.”

  Michael scanned the hall, examining the corners and what shadows there were in the well-lit, carpeted hallway. When Mary had her door opened, he faced her.

  “It was nice to meet you.” The words seemed inadequate, but he didn’t know what else to say.

  “Thank you, for everything. Hearing about them means more than you’ll ever know. Everyone has been so kind and welcoming.”

  “Ireland is your home.”

  She smiled, leaning her head against the doorframe. “Yes, it is. I hadn’t expected to feel a connection with this place.”

  “Mary?”

  “Yes?” She tipped her head, looking at him through her lashes. Her lips were pink and soft, parted just a bit.

  Michael cursed mentally, trying to think of anything but how much he wanted to kiss her. “Would you like to have tea tomorrow, with my mother?”

  “Your mother?”

  “I think she knew your parents, and if she didn’t know them personally she’d be able to help you look at records.”

  “Oh, thank you. I would like that.”

  “Would tomorrow, or later today as it seems, around two o’clock work?”

  “Yes. Can you write down the address?”

  “I’ll come and collect you just before two.”

  “Okay. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.” Michael didn’t kiss her, but he touched her cheek with one finger. “Goodnight, Mary.”

  “Goodnight, Michael.”

  ****

  The next day at precisely two o’clock Mary was in the hotel foyer. As she waited, she smoothed her palms against her hips, checking to make sure that the gray wool skirt she wore with black tights, boots and a blue sweater was in place.

  “Can I help you with something?”

  The redheaded woman she remembered from last night approached Mary. Today her nametag was pinned to a pretty green jacket that made her hair look even redder.

  “Uh, no, I’m fine. I’m waiting for someone.”

  “You’re Mary Callahan, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Mary shook the redhead’s offered hand.

  “I’m Sorcha, guest relations manager. Welcome to Glenncailty Castle, and welcome home.”

  At her words tears formed in Mary’s eyes, and she had to look away, blinking. Before coming to Glenncailty she would never have considered Ireland home. Home was Chicago. After last night, “home” seemed like a much more complicated term than she’d imagined it to be. It didn’t really make sense—she’d left when she was two—but Glenncailty was starting to feel like home.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make you upset.”

  “I’m not.” Mary waved her hand, laughing a little. “I must be tired, or jet lagged, because this is happening a lot. Are you from around here?”

  “Not from Glenncailty, no. Who are you waiting for?”

  “Michael Baker. I met him last night and he said his mother knew my parents.”

  “I don’t know Michael well since he lives in Dublin, but Mrs. Baker is a lovely woman.”

  The massive front door opened. The wind whistled as it pushed though the opening. Michael entered, shutting the door. He wore corduroy pants and a collared shirt with a fleece sweater or jumper over the top. His hair—she’d been right, in daylight it was more gold than brown—was rumpled and tossed by the wind.

  “Michael, I hear you’re taking one of my guests out to tea.” Sorcha smiled, then winked at Mary. “I’ll expect her back at a decent hour.”

  “Ah, Sorcha, you wound me thinking I’d step even one toe out of line with a lady like Mary.”

  Mary felt herself blush. She knew they were just teasing by pretending this was a date, but it hit a little too close to home. Michael was one of those guys who was so nice every woman around him had a crush on him, and hoped he liked her in return. Mary had made the mistake of thinking kindness was something more in the past, and so she was being careful not to misread Michael. She was going to chat with his mother, nothing more, and it didn’t mean anything.

  Last night had been wonderful, but hearing stories about her parents and how they fell in love also reinforced how alone she was. Her life back home wasn’t exactly going to plan, but it was easy to forget that when she could fill her days and nights with friends and activities. Since landing in Ireland she was more aware than ever that she was missing something in her life—the kind of love and companionship that her grandparents, and apparently her parents, had. That made it hard not to fantasize about a date with Michael, a future with a man like Michael so she’d never be alone again.

  “I’ll hold you to that. Have a lovely afternoon, and Michael, tell your mother I have everything arranged for her St. Vincent de Paul meeting next week.”

  “I will. Mary?” Michael held out his arm.

  With her arm threaded through his they made their way out to his car—a black Jaguar. “Nice ride.”

  Michael winced. “Bought in better times—I wish I’d been a bit more practical.”

  He held open her door and Mary slid in. “What do you do?” she asked as he got in to the driver’s seat.

  “I was a mortgage broker. In the height of the Celtic Tiger that meant I was living very well indeed.”

  “Hence the car.”

  He nodded. “Then, when things started to go bad I was offered a golden handshake—a nice financial package if I left early. Only a few months later my coworkers were being laid off without any severance pay. I was lucky.”

  “I heard the recession hit very hard here.”

  “Very hard, indeed. Ireland has been through hard times before, and they’ve come again.”

  “So what do you do now? I heard you live in Dublin.”

  “Asking about me were you?” Michael’s eyes—a pretty pale green—sparkled as he smiled at her.

  “No, I mean, I didn’t ask. Sorcha just told me.”

  “I’m only teasing you, pretty Mary.” They were driving along the road she’d come in on—the one that curved along the walls of the glen. Now he turned off, descending once more into the valley. “I work for the Citizen’s Advice Bureau. The truth of it is that I was part of the problem, dealing in mortgages that were rotten. We though that we could do no wrong, that the good times would never end. So now I help people understand their rights and options.”

  “That’s noble of you.”

  “Hardly. It’s the least a body can do to help clean up the mess.” Michael was quiet for a moment, and Mary could see the effort he was making to come out the dark mood her question had put him in. “Please God, we’ll see an end to these hard times soon.”

  Not sure what to say, Mary looked out the window as they made their way down a winding road flanked by fields. Soon the fields gave way to the first buildings.

  “Is this Cailtytown?”

  “It is. I’ll give you a bit of a tour before we stop.”

  The streets w
ere narrow, not made for cars, and more than once they had to pull to the side, wheels on the footpath, to allow another car to pass.

  “This here is the town center.”

  There was a small square, with grass sectioned off by paths, flowers in huge stone urns, and a pedestal in the center with a life-size statue of man mounted on it.

  “Who is the statue of?” Mary ducked to look out the window at the figure.

  “No one knows for sure, as the original plaque is long gone. It’s either the first lord of Glenncailty, or the man who killed him.”

  “Killed him?”

  “Yes.”

  “There must be a story there.”

  “There’s a story to everything in this part of the world. Here, we’ll take a bit of a walk so you can see things.”

  Michael parallel parked in one of the few parking spaces around the square. When Mary got out, he met her and offered his arm. The shops around the square were small, but each one was well kept with brightly painted window trim and wood signs proclaiming what they were hanging from the front of the two- and three-story stone buildings.

  “The Lord of Glenncailty was an Englishman, given the title and our lands in order to subjugate the Irish. Many lords never set foot in Ireland, instead sending others to collect taxes and sit as judge and jury, but the Lord of Glenncailty came and built the manor house that you’re staying in.”

  “The castle?”

  “It’s no proper castle—you’d need to go to Trim for that—but it was certainly built for defense.”

  “Defense against who?”

  “Us.” Michael grinned. “The people of Glenncailty are a stubborn lot, and we’re not fond of the English, which brings me to our story.” He motioned to the statue. “It’s said that the first Lord of Glenncailty was a cruel man. He used his power and position to rape the people and the land.” Michael’s eyes were pinched at the corners, his expressive face telling the story as much as the words. “It’s said that one of the men in the village went to the castle, as it was called even then, and gave the lord a gift. The gift was a wolfhound pup, one of the man’s own prize-winning dogs. The man’s friends were angry with him, thinking he’d betrayed them by giving the Englishman such a gift. The lord grew bolder after the gift of the dog, and everyone lived in fear of him.”