Mulligan Stew (5 page)

"Look, Momma," Jacob said, standing to peer out the window. "It sure is green."

Tentatively, Bridget unbuckled her seat belt and slid closer, holding her breath as she peered over her son's shoulder. "Well, I'll be."

"Is that where we're going?"

"I reckon that must be Ireland," Bridget whispered, banishing her fear as the plane eased through more air turbulence.
Lord, have mercy.
Even after the flight attendant compared the turbulence to speed bumps or pot holes, she still hated it. After all, she could
see
speed bumps and pot holes.

"What's that?" Jacob pressed his finger against the badly smudged window. His full face print was smeared onto the glass in several places.

Bridget saw sheer cliffs along the coast. "I remember reading about those." She'd done her homework before leaving Tennessee. The local library had contained more information about Ireland than she ever would have guessed. "Those are the Cliffs of Moher," she said, hoping she had the pronunciation right.

The man with the aisle seat next to them broke his silence and cleared his throat. "Aye, and what a grand place 'tis, too."

Bridget met his gentle gaze. His blue eyes twinkled amid a web of wrinkles and bushy white brows. "You've been there?"

"Aye, many times." The man sighed.

Bridget settled back and re-fastened her seat belt. "You're Irish, aren't you?" The man's accent was enchanting, reminding her of Culley. That persistent pang of guilt returned. If only she could undo the years of believing the worst of her poor dead husband.

"Aye, though I've been in the States with my daughter's family these past eleven years." He smiled, his face glowing. "But 'tis what I'm needing now, this homecoming." He held out his right hand. "I'm Brady, and I grew up right down the coast from the Cliffs in Ballybronagh."

Bridget shook the man's hand. "I'm Bridget, and this is my son, Jacob. Mr., uh...?"

"Just call me Brady, lass."

Brady had kept his nose buried in a book. Now that he felt like talking, she decided to pick his brain for information. "So you're from County Clare?"

"Aye, and proud of it I am."

Jacob withdrew himself from the window and turned his attention to the man. "Have you seen our castle?"

"A castle is it now?" Brady's eyes twinkled. "There be many castles in Ireland, though I fear most are crumbling away."

Bridget had explained to her son that she'd learned his father—no, his
daddy
—was dead, and that they were going to Ireland to meet Jacob's grandmother. She patted her son's hand now, grateful she'd found the guts to tell him the truth.

"Momma, how do you say our castle's name again?" Jacob asked, studying her intently.

"It isn't ours, Jacob. It belongs to your daddy's kin." Her cheeks warmed and she feared she would butcher the pronunciation. "I believe it's
Caisleán Dubh
," she said carefully, glancing at Brady for approval.

The old man's eyes widened and his lips parted in obvious surprise. "
Dubh
, you say?" He shook his head. "That one's a sight to be sure." He looked at Bridget curiously.

"What kinda sight, sir?" Jacob asked the way only a child could. Directly, without subterfuge. "Is it really black?"

"Aye, 'tis very dark, and there isn't another anywhere I've heard tell of with its design." He gave them a sheepish grin. "At least, not in Ireland."

"Unique how?" Bridget asked, tickled to meet someone who knew about
Caisleán Dubh
. Maybe he even knew the family....

"
Caisleán Dubh
is a square castle with a round tower keep to one side." Brady stroked his chin and squinted, obviously trying to remember. "Most castles are one or t'other—not both."

"It sounds interesting." Bridget chewed her lower lip. "It's very large, then?"

"Aye." He half-turned toward her, obviously warming to his subject. "
Caisleán Dubh
is built on a cliff, overlooking the Atlantic."

"A cliff?" Jacob leaned forward. "Way high, like the ones we just seen?"

"Saw," Bridget corrected, smiling at her son.

"Saw." Jacob made a face at her that warmed her heart.

Brady chuckled and nodded his approval. "As a teacher, lad, I can tell you how fortunate you are to have a mum who cares enough to make sure you learn to use proper grammar." He winked at Bridget. "Even if 'tis American grammar."

Bridget liked this man, and she smiled. "So there's a large castle and a tower. The stones are black." She sighed, trying to picture it. "Does it have a drawbridge?"

"No," Brady said. "They positioned the castle close enough to the sea not to need one. The windows are high enough to prevent attackers from scaling the walls. From the land and sea, it appears inaccessible until you're right in front of it. At one time, there was a drawbridge that opened to the land through a wall built around the fortress, but only a few crumbling stones remain. It opened to the ground level, beneath the main hall."

"Oh, I can't wait to see the inside of it." Goosebumps popped out on Bridget's arms as she tried to picture
Caisleán Dubh
.

"The
inside
, is it? That would be a treat." Brady's brow furrowed and his expression grew solemn.

"I want to go inside, too," Jacob said. "Can we?"

"Well, lad... with the curse and all, I doubt you'll be seein' the inside of
Caisleán Dubh
."

An icy wave washed through Bridget. "Curse?" she echoed in a small voice.

"A real curse? Wow!" Jacob stretched half across Bridget to get closer to Brady. "What kinda curse? Is there a dungeon? Is it haunted? Is there a pit and a pen... pen—you know, like that movie?"

"Jacob." Bridget's cheeks flamed even hotter now and she placed a firm but gentle hand on her son's shoulder. "Don't bombard the poor man with questions."

The boy's face fell and he slumped back in his seat. "Sorry."

"'Tis all right," Brady said. "I'm the one who should be apologizin'. Perhaps 'curse' isn't quite the right word."

Bridget sighed in open relief. "I certainly hope it isn't cursed." She gave a nervous laugh.

"
Caisleán Dubh
is owned by the Mulligans," Brady said, watching her very closely. "So, I'm guessin' your husband must be a Mulligan." His brow furrowed and he stroked his chin with thumb and forefinger.

"Yes, sir." Bridget squared her shoulders. Now was the time for her to become comfortable with being Cully Mulligan's widow. "Culley Mulligan was my husband."

"Ah, Culley was it? I remember hearing about his passing from my granddaughter," he said quietly. "I recall young Culley as being a fine lad. I taught school for twenty-six years and he was one of my finest pupils. 'Tis a tragedy."

Tears burned her eyes, but she blinked them away. "Yes, he was a good man."
And I'll see to it his memory is good and pure, Lord.

Brady leaned forward and directed his question at Jacob. "So Culley Mulligan was your da, lad?"

Jacob shot Bridget a questioning glance and she nodded, hoping she could undo some of the damage her doubts about Culley had created in her son's mind and heart. Though she hadn't raved about Culley within her son's hearing, how could he not have picked up on her resentment all these years?

"Yes, sir." Jacob's eyes widened and he inched closer. "Do... do I look like him?"

Though she'd already told the boy at least a hundred times how much he looked like his daddy, Bridget recognized Jacob's need for confirmation. She bit the inside of her cheek, praying.

"Why, you're the image of young Culley. Aye, lad, you favor your da."

Thank you, Lord.

"And your Uncle Riley, as well."

"He's my daddy's brother." Jacob bit his lower lip, obviously struggling to remember all the names. "And my aunt's name is..."

"Aye, an aunt it is." Brady smiled. "I'll not be rememberin' her name now, as she was but a wee lass when I left for the States."

"Mary Margaret," Bridget said quietly, stroking the curls that framed her son's face. "Culley called her Maggie, though."

"Ah, a fine name to be sure." The older man studied Bridget with renewed interest. "For that matter, Bridget is a fine Irish name in its own right."

She smiled, remembering her grandpa's stories about their ancestors fleeing Ireland during the Potato Famine. Of course, he hadn't been alive then, but the tales were passed down from generation to generation. And now she was returning to the scene of the crime. So to speak.

"Yes, Bridget Colleen Frye is my maiden name."

"Irish as can be." Brady's smile spread from ear to ear.

The old man's obvious pleasure at hearing about her Irish roots delighted her for some reason, and she returned his smile. "My grandpa claims I was named after my great-granny, though I never knew her."

"'Tis a fine thing to name children after those who came before them." A distant expression entered Brady's eyes, but he quickly resumed smiling. "There's somethin' about the name Frye I should be rememberin'." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "It'll come to me later, to be sure."

"Tell us about the curse," Jacob said, leaning across Bridget's lap.

"Jacob." Bridget really didn't want to hear about a curse. She'd faced enough of those in real life without dealing with a make-believe one, too.

Brady exchanged glances with Bridget and seemed to sense her reluctance. He shrugged and flashed Jacob a cock-eyed grin. "I might've stretched the truth a wee bit, lad."

"No curse?" Jacob's disappointment was downright palpable. "Well, there was a tragedy at
Caisleán Dubh
, to be sure," the old man said. "Do you know the story of
Romeo and Juliet
, Jacob?"

Jacob shook his head and Bridget gave him an indulgent smile. "I don't reckon they teach Shakespeare in kindergarten," she said, ruffling her son's hair.

"Well, what happened at
Caisleán Dubh
is somethin' akin to that tale," Brady continued, shaking his head solemnly. "You ask your mum to read the story to you. A lad is never too young to be learning."

Bridget sighed and whispered, "Thank you."

"Besides," the Irishman said with an emphatic nod, "I believe you'll be hearin' all about the Curse of
Caisleán Dubh
soon enough."

* * *

Riley Mulligan shoved a stubborn shock of black hair out of his face and unfolded himself from his mum’s car. He despised the city, and the nature of his mission today made his belly burn and his temples throb.

Fiona Mulligan was beside herself, because she had badly wanted to make the trip. However, an attack of gout had different ideas. The poor woman wouldn’t be able to venture farther than her rocking chair for at least two days. And Maggie was too young to send alone to Shannon, though she’d been driving for over a year now. Besides, she had school today.

Riley sighed and made his way across the parking lot and into the terminal. A quick glance at his watch confirmed that he should reach customs in plenty of time to meet the woman.

He’d rather drink a watered down pint. Jaysus, he’d even rather eat Maggie’s pitiful excuse for soda bread—a shudder rippled through him at the thought of his sister’s most recent effort in that regard. Truth be told, given his druthers, he’d choose to be doing anything but this.

But a promise had been made, and keep it he would. Mum’s tears and pleading had done him in, just as she’d known. He’d never been a man to deny a weeping woman anything, so long as it made her stop. A weakness among the Mulligan males, it was, handed down from generation to generation. Alas, Riley Francis Mulligan was no exception.

And now, Jaysus help him, he was in the city to fetch the woman who claimed to have married Culley and borne his son.

Renewed anger vibrated through Riley as he emptied his pockets and passed through airport security. Soon he would see the liar's face for himself, and he’d be having nothing less than the truth. Culley wasn't here to defend himself, so it fell to his brother to do it for him. And do it he would.

Clenching his fists, he paused before a monitor and checked the flight number and gate. "On time," he muttered, shoving his unruly hair out of his face again. He glanced at his watch, and moved to the area where passengers would emerge after going through customs.

They didn't have so much as a photograph of the woman or the lad, though the attorney Mum had spoken to had provided a description. Bridget Mulligan was, so Mum had informed Riley, an attractive young woman with wavy brown hair, above average in height and slender. The boy was said to have nearly black curls.

Like Culley's... and his? By the saints, he didn't want to ponder any of this. The woman was a fraud and he would prove it. Any resemblance would be pure coincidence.

Armed with this certainty, he stood staring as passengers emerged from customs. He'd refused to hold the sign his sister had made bearing the woman's name. She could find him on her own or turn around and go back to the States where she belonged.