by Lila Dubois
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 were 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’ll apologize again, and also say I’m glad I did it. 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. “No. Chicago is home, but Ireland is…something.”
They stared at each other, neither seeming willing to bring this strange epic night to an end. It felt like they’d known each other forever, like two magnets that had been held apart finally snapping together.
“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.”
Chapter 3
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 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 Mary had to look away, fighting twin urges to cry or snap that this wasn’t her home. Before coming to Glenncailty she would never have considered Ireland home. Home was Chicago. But after last night, “home” seemed like a much more complicated term than she’d imagined it to be. She blinked back unwelcome tears.
“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 through the gap. Michael entered, shutting the door. He wore corduroy pants and a collared shirt with a fleece 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.
His gaze scanned the foyer, and when he looked at her he smiled. Mary sucked in a breath. That man had a killer smile.
“Mr. Baker, 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, probably every woman he met fell a little in love with him. Mary had made the mistake of thinking kindness was something more when she was in college. The agonizing embarrassment when her crush gently told her that he’d love to still be friends, but wasn’t interested in her that way was something she had no desire to repeat. Learning about her family and making some decisions about her life were the priority. Not make an idiot of herself crushing on one of the town’s more eligible bachelors.
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 into 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 blue-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 thought 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 of 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 were 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 a 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 well kept, with brightly painted window trim and wood signs 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, as were all those that came after him. 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.”
Mary found that she was hanging on each word, and when Michael paused she squeezed his arm. “What happened?”
“One night many years later the man went to the castle. He listened to the cries of pain coming from the serving girl the Englishman was abusing. He whistled and the dog came to the window. The dog was vicious and he growled at the man outside. The lord looked out, bold and secure in his power. The Irishman whistled to the dog, a tune he'd taught him as a pup. The wolfhound turned on the Englishman and tore him limb from limb.”
“So the dog was a plant. A furry assassin.”
“Furry assassin? I quite like that.” Michael chuckled. “Yes, the dog was sent to the castle to rid the glen of the hated lord. It’s a tradition now, that the Lord of Glenncailty have a wolfhound.”
“Is there still a Lord of Glenncailty?”
“There is, but since the revolution, Glenncailty is in the hands of an Irish family.”
“No more nasty Englishmen?”
“Exactly.”
She looked up at the figure. “And no one knows who the statue is?”
“No, though everyone has their preference.”
They walked along in silence for a moment and Mary realized she was snuggled against his side, almost leaning on him as they walked. She was once again struck by a sense of familiarity and comfort in his presence. It was as if she’d known him her whole life. She straightened, putting distance between them. They passed a fish and chip takeaway shop, a bakery, and a sewing store with a window full of brightly colored yarn. Next to that was a solicitor's office—the solicitor's name was written on the window in sedate gold lettering, but the frame of the window was beautiful scrolled wood, polished to a high gleam. In each corner was a fanciful carved creature—griffon, dragon, mermaid and gargoyle. Above the window was an old wooden sign: “Callahan and Son Fine Wood Furniture.”
Mary stepped away from Michael, laying her hand on the griffin's head. “This was Grandpa's shop.”
Michael looked up. “You’re right. I'd forgotten that. I always knew it as the solicitor's office.”
“I wish I had my camera. Grandpa would love to see this.”
“Should we go in? I'm sure they'd let you have a look around.”
Mary stroked the wood carving, imagining her grandfather’s fingers where hers now were. “Do you think I could come back later? I want to take pictures and I don't want to get all teary before I go to have tea with your mother.”
Michael's arm came around her shoulders and a little thrill went through her at his touch. “You're allowed to be sad.”
Mary bit her lip, pushing back the tears that threatened. “I know, but I don’t want to be. I never really knew this place, or my parents.”
“That doesn’t mean you can’t mourn them, or the life you didn’t have here.”
Mary stiffened. “I had an amazing childhood, and love where I grew up.”
“I didn’t mean offense. I just thought…”
Mary sighed, breathing out the anger that curled in her belly. “I shouldn’t have snapped at you. This situation is complicated.”
“That it is.”
A breeze tumbled along the main road, cool air cutting through her tights. Mary shivered.
Michael touched her arm and his smile was soft. “I need a cup of tea; how's about we head?”
Together they made their way to the car.
Chapter 4
“Mary Callahan, I would have known you even without the name. Come in, come in, you're very welcome.”
Michael watched as his mother ushered Mary in, taking her coat and scarf and fussing over her.
“Are you cold, Mary? Would you find it cold here? Sure you wouldn't, Chicago is a cold enough place isn't it?”
Mary opened her mouth several times, but seemed to realize quick enough that his mother didn't require a reply. Michael winked at her when she glanced over her shoulder at him. Mary relaxed a bit after that, and Michael had to check the urge to wrap his arm around her protectively. What was he protecting her from? His mother? Not that his mother was harmless. Rose Baker was a force second only to God.
“Michael, will you show Mary to a seat? Good lad.”
“In here.” Michael ushered her through a door to the front room. Used only on holidays and when the priest came to visit, the front room was a buttery yellow with lace curtains and carved dark wood furniture. The round table was set with three places. Jam and cream for scones were already on the table in delicate china bowls.
A moment later his mother came bustling in through the other door, which led to the less formal sitting room and the kitchen beyond. He stood and took the tray from her, holding it as she unloaded a teapot, mil
k, sugar and a plate of fresh baked scones.
“Thank you so much, Mrs. Baker, this is lovely. I hope you didn't go to much trouble.”
“No trouble, no trouble at all.” Tea was poured, scones passed out, and finally his mother took a seat. “I would have known you were Siobhan's daughter easy enough. You have the look of her.”
“Thank you. How did you know my parents?”
“I took over teaching your mother’s class when she left to get married. Your father was a few classes ahead of me in school, so I knew him well enough too. You wouldn't have thought they'd go together. You father was a quiet man, and Siobhan a bit wild, but they were good for each other.”
“I hadn't heard that she was wild; my grandparents never described her that way.”
“She was a proper daughter-in-law when they were around; it was only when she was out with your father or on her own that she let her hair down a bit. But don't think that she was a bad woman—she was as kind as any you could find. She was good craic, she was.”
“Crack?” Mary looked confused.
“Craic. It's Irish and it means good fun.” Michael reached for another scone, ignoring his mother’s look.
“Oh right. I'm sorry, I knew that.”
“Do you speak Irish?”
“I only know a few words.”
For an hour Michael's mother told story after story about Siobhan. Mary hung on each word, her attention absolute. Michael's heart clenched for her. He couldn't imagine what it would be like not to know your parents, to be disconnected from your home. He’d thought that in the light of day his inexplicable fascination with Mary Callahan would be gone, but it wasn’t. Instead it was growing with each breath she took, each word she spoke.
“And you and Michael are of an age,” his mother was saying. “In fact, I have something to show you.” She rose and went to the china cabinet against the wall. The lower compartment held a variety of photo albums and mementos from Michael's childhood. She pulled out an album he recognized—a pale blue book containing his baby pictures.
“Mother…”
He would never forgive her if she forced Mary to sit through a page-by-page photo narration of his childhood.
