The Irish Lover (2 page)

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.

“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.