The Irish Lover (4 page)

Mary stepped away from Michael, laying her hand
on the griffin’s head. “This was Grandpa’s shop.”

Michael looked up. “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 you 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.”

“Well then, I need a cup of tea; how’s about we
head?”

Together they made their way to the
car.

~~~~

Chapter Three

“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
realized quickly 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
grab her and hug her.

“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, milk, 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 worked with your mother as a teacher. 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 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?”

“No, 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.

She ignored him and cleared a place on the
table to set down the book. Mary scooted her chair so she could see
better. Michael could feel himself going pink with
embarrassment.

“Here’s Michael, wasn’t he a nice fat
baby?”

Mary’s lips twitched and she looked at him
under her lashes. “He certainly was.”

With a groan Michael dropped his head onto his
hands.

“Here we are.” She flipped through the pages
until she came to one near the middle of the book. There was a
series of photos of three-year-old Michael sitting in the grass
with a younger child leaning against him. The little girl had curly
red-brown hair and wore a pretty green dress.

“That’s you, Mary.”

Mary looked at the photo and then at Michael,
surprise writ large on her face.

“What?” Michael was as surprised as Mary
looked.

“That’s the both of you. Cailtytown isn’t such
a big place that there would be many babies at any time, so the two
of you played together.”

Michael knew he’d seen the pictures before, and
his mother must have told him who the little girl was, but he
hadn’t remembered, or associated the little curl-haired baby with
the dark-haired beauty he’d met in the pub.

His mother turned a page and there they were,
Michael’s arms around the little Mary, whose eyes were closed, baby
lashes crescents on her chubby cheeks.

“Michael was quite in love with you, and you
were smitten with him, sure you were.”

Now it was Mary’s turn to blush, and Michael
couldn’t keep from grinning. It was strange and almost comforting
to know that they’d met before. Maybe that was why he was drawn to
her.

“You would have been eighteen months here, and
Michael is just after turning three.” His mother’s lips pressed
together. “Six months after this your parents were gone and your
grandparents had closed the shop and gone off to
America.”

Mary touched the photo album. “It must have
been hard for them, after.”

“It was, it was. We thought we were far enough
south that the Troubles wouldn’t touch us.” Rose touched Mary’s
hand. “We all mourned for them, and for you, to lose your parents
so young.”

“Thank you.” Mary took a breath, and Michael’s
heart clenched when he saw the tears in her eyes. “My grandparents
were wonderful, and I loved growing up in Chicago.”

“Sure enough, sure enough, but this is your
home. Now tell me, what are your grandparents up to over in
America?”

The conversation lightened as Mary described
her life growing up. Her grandfather worked as a carpenter, and her
grandmother a bank manager. They were comfortably retired in a
suburb of Chicago.

“And what do you do, Mary?”

“At the moment, nothing. I worked in TV,
producing a local interest show called Chicago’s Time. Due to the
economy there wasn’t funding to keep the show going.”

“In TV you were; tell me, do you know
Oprah?”

Mary laughed. “I did meet her once. She’s very
nice.”

The conversation turned to her work in TV.
Michael had always assumed people who worked in TV, especially
American TV, would be wild and egotistical, but as she spoke with
calm assurance he could imagine Mary in command of people,
directing a program.

His mother rose from the table, carrying out
the tray with the teapot and plate of scone crumbs. When the door
closed behind her Mary smiled.

“Your mother is lovely.”

“I’m quite fond of her myself. Though I cannot
believe she showed you baby pictures.”

Mary shook her head, a half smile on her face.
“We were babies together. That makes me wonder if it wasn’t fate
that you invited me into the pub last night.”

Michael raised his cup, gaze locked with hers.
“To fate.”

His mother returned with a tray laden with
brown bread, cold sliced ham, relishes and salad. “I saw the time
and thought we might need a spot of dinner.”

Mary looked at the food, then her watch. “I’m
so sorry, I didn’t mean to stay so late.”

“Not at all, not at all. Now Mary, did I tell
you that your grandfather made this furniture?”

“Really?” She swiveled in her seat to look
around the room. “It’s beautiful.”

“Does he still make it?”

“Not like this. He’s made a few things, but
most of his work was repairing and replacing wood pieces in
historic homes. He did make me a doll house.” Her smile was soft
with remembrance. “It was beautiful, like this.”

“I remember your mother coming with your father
and grandfather to assemble it. That piece over there is too big to
come in the door, so they put it together right here.”

“I know my mother worked for
Grandpa.”

“She stopped teaching when they married, but
went right into the shop, whipping that place into shape. By the
time you were born she was as good as your father at putting pieces
together, and small enough that her hands would go places your
father’s couldn’t.”

Mary’s eyes were once again bright with tears.
“I wish I’d come back before this, to hear these stories about
them.”

His mother was blinking and Michael put his
hand on her arm, more grateful than he could say to have
her.

She pulled a tissue from her sleeve and wiped
her nose. “You’re here now, and that’s good. Michael, why don’t you
take Mary for a walk. When you come back, I’ll have a bit of sweet
stuff for us.”

For the second time that day Mary walked, arm
in arm, with Michael. Her emotions were swinging from near joy at
learning about her parents to an aching sadness that she was not a
part of this place, these people.

“How are you, Miss Mary Callahan?” They were
away from the house, wandering along a narrow road lined with tidy
cottages. The sun was low in the sky, and the wind was cold.
Michael wrapped his arm around Mary’s shoulders when she
shivered.

“That’s a loaded question. I don’t quite know
what to feel.”

“Fair enough.” He kept the silence as they
walked on. He’d guided them out of the town, and they were now
walking down a winding road that snaked between the fields. Michael
opened a gate in the stone wall on their right and led her off the
road. There was a path bisecting the field of knee-high grass.
Slowing their steps, they wandered slowly amid the lake of green.
When they were midway down the field Michael stopped her. “If I
were any kind of gentleman I wouldn’t do this.”

****

“Do what?” But she knew the answer, even before
his hands cupped her cheeks, and his lips met hers.

The kiss was soft, gentle. The breeze swirled
around them and Mary leaned into Michael. His arms came around her,
cradling her body.

Mary pulled back, looking up into his green
gaze. Soft as the kiss had been, its effect on her was anything
but. She felt alive, every inch of skin tingling and sensitive. A
kiss hadn’t affected her that much in a very long time, maybe
ever.

Michael was smiling, rubbing her arms, and a
horrible thought struck her. “Michael, I’m only here for a few
days, and I’m sorry, but I don’t do vacation flings.”

“Who said that’s what I’m interested
in?”

Mary didn’t trust the warm feeling in her
belly, didn’t trust Michael, though he’d given her no reason to
distrust him.

“As far as I know, you might have a wife and
two kids in Dublin.”

Micahel’s lips twitched. “A wife and two
kids?”

“Maybe.”

“And my mother wouldn’t have said
something?”

“Why would she? We were just there having
tea.”

“No man can bring a pretty woman to tea without
his mother making a guest list for the wedding.”

“That’s…that’s…”

“That’s Irish Mammys for you.” A gust of wind
made her shiver and Michael pulled her against his chest. Mary went
willingly. “I want nothing from you, pretty Mary, that you aren’t
willing to give.”

“This is nuts.”

“It may be, but there’s something about you
that calls to me. I’ve not felt this before, and I’d be a fool to
ignore it. I’d like to spend more time with you.” Michael tipped
her chin up, their gazes locked. “I want to do far more than kiss
you.”

~~~~

Chapter Four

Mary’s heart overruled her head. They walked
back to his house and would have gone straight to the car if
Michael’s mother hadn’t called them in for sweet mince tart. As
soon as the plates were cleared, Michael jumped up, telling his
mother Mary was jet lagged and needed to rest and that he was
headed back to Dublin. Before she could say anything they were out
the door.