The Irish Lover

The Irish Lover

A Glenncailty Castle Short
Story

By Lila Dubois

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2013 Lila Dubois

First electronic publication: February
2013

ISBN: 978-0-9889107-0-6

Cover by Valerie Tibbs

Visit Lila’s website at
www.liladubois.net

~~~~

This book is a work of fiction. The names,
characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s
imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be
construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead,
actual events, locale or organizations is entirely
coincidental.

Smashwords Edition, License
Notes

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and
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this author.

~~~~

Growing up in America, Mary Callahan knew very
little about her parents, who were killed when she was a baby.
Returning to her native Ireland, she hopes to discover more about
them…and herself. Michael is home from Dublin for the weekend when
he sees a gorgeous American peeking in the pub door. Something
about her calls to him. They don’t realize that it may be more than
chance that brings them together, and when instant attraction leads
to a night of searing passion they will both have to confront their
sudden and powerful feelings for one another.

A nighttime excursion brings them face to face
with lovers whose tragic fate has kept them bound to Glenncailty as
ghosts. Michael knows the danger the past poses, but cannot protect
her from things that happened long ago. Mary must decide if she’s
willing to risk her heart for a chance at love and a place to call
home.

~~~~

Chapter One

She may have been born here, but it wasn’t
home.

Mary rolled down the window of her rental car
letting in the cool, wet Irish air. She’d cranked up the heat when
she got in and now the windows were fogged, making the misty
morning seem downright gloomy.

The gloom didn’t dampen the romance of the view
or lessen the feelings it inspired. She took a breath, tasting the
loam of the earth. Little by little the windows cleared. Silvery
light fell over rolling green hills. The rain made the land
sparkle, as if it weren’t raindrops, but diamonds, that fell from
the sky. And she was alone, with no one to share the wonder and
beauty of the view with, no one to ease the burden of sadness and
loss she carried.

Mary Callahan had come for The Gathering—the
year when the Emerald Isle called all of her children home. Mary
and her grandparents had emigrated after the death of Mary’s
parents during the Troubles—a kind euphemism for the violence,
bombings and murders that rocked Ireland in the latter decades of
the 20th century. She’d been raised in Chicago since she was two
and until now had never returned.

She’d never wanted to come here. When she was
younger she hated any mention of Ireland, or her parents, because
of the sadness that settle over their little house for days
afterward. At her grandparents’ request--and due to the fact that
at the moment she was jobless with nothing better to do--she’d come
to a place as foreign to her as the moon.

Though she didn’t feel the connection to
Ireland her grandparents insisted she would, it was a beautiful
country. Resisting the urge to jump out and take yet another photo,
Mary turned on the rental car’s GPS system. In a country without
ZIP codes, and sometimes without street numbers, the best way to
get somewhere was to ask, not to rely on a piece of electronic
equipment but she used it out of habit.

“Glenncailty.” She keyed in the location,
talking to herself to push away the loneliness. “Birthplace of one
Mary Callahan.”

With the GPS ready, and more importantly a
printed list of directions, Mary put the car in gear, heading deep
into the Irish countryside in search of Glenncailty—the valley of
the lost.

****

Michael Baker smiled as the glen came into
view. The valley was hidden away out in the Meath countryside,
rural as could be despite its location only a few hours from
Dublin. Narrow at the far end, it opened like a fan into an area a
few miles across. The village of Cailtytown spread across the flat
land. From the ridge where the road ran he could see the patchwork
of fields with their dry-stack stone walls, the too-narrow roads
that wound through clusters of houses and shops. Farmland
surrounded the town, making it seem like a little island of people
amid a sea of green. As the glen narrowed the fields grew wild, and
at the narrowest point sat the castle.

Gray shadows fell over the old fortified manor
house. Whatever it may have been, it was now and always had been
known as Glenncailty Castle. When he was a child, Michael and his
mates’ most daring adventures had been sneaking over to the castle
and exploring crumbling buildings and peering in broken windows. It
wasn’t until he was older that he realized the true danger they’d
put themselves in. People, many of them children, had died
wandering through Glenncailty Castle. For that reason it had been
boarded up, and the fear of God put in to the children of
Cailtytown so that they wouldn’t go near it—not that it had
worked.

All that had changed two years ago when Seamus
O’Muircheartaigh, the owner of the castle, reopened it and started
turning it into a posh hotel. The old stable had been converted
into a nice venue for music and dancing, and there were rumors that
the mews would become a spa.

It seemed strange to Michael that Glenncailty
Castle might be anything other than an old, haunted ruin, but for
the sake of those who lived in the glen he was glad. The recession
had hit hard here. Most people in Glenncailty were farmers, and the
fluctuating price of milk and grain had cut their incomes,
threatening the whole village.

As he was about to turn left onto the road that
led down into the valley, he caught sight of the car behind him,
which was driving on the wrong side of the road. He honked and the
car jerked into the left-hand lane. He turned off, then looked over
his shoulder, a little worried about the other driver. He caught
sight of a dark-haired woman he didn’t recognize, and a sticker
from a rental company in the car window.

He shook his head. Maybe the parish council
should put up signs reminding drivers from America and Australia
which side of the road they should be on. Cailtytown had seen its
share of people leave in the recessions—including the current
one—so they were expecting more than a few of the diaspora to
return home to their little part of Ireland for The
Gathering.

Once he hit the town he waved at nearly every
car he passed. Though he’d lived in Dublin since attending Trinity
College, Cailtytown would always be home.

Pulling in to a little parking spot behind his
family’s house he took flowers off the seat and headed for the
kitchen door.

“Ma, I’m here.” Michael shut the back door,
wiping his feet.

“Well Lord love you, there you are.” Rose Baker
rose from her seat at the table in the kitchen. It was comforting
to see his mother, who was still young and beautiful in the eyes of
her son, sitting in the same spot at the kitchen table she always
sat in. “You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you?”

“I’ll make it.” Michael’s protest was brushed
aside as she filled a kettle and set it boiling.

“These are for you.” He held out the thing he’d
been hiding behind his back.

She accepted the flowers, turning the bouquet
in her hands to admire the lilies. “And what are these
for?”

“For you, because I love you.”

“Just like your father, a charmer.” She set to
cutting the stems under running water and arranging them in a vase.
“I’ll trust nothing you say now, as I’m sure you’re up to
something.”

“Is that the thanks I get for bringing you
flowers?”

“Enough out of you.” Her scolding was softened
by a smile. “Do you want me to iron your shirt for the
party?”

Tonight was a
ceilidh
—a party—to raise
money for the son of a local family. The boy was in medical school
and traveling to Africa to do relief work as a doctor while on
holidays. As worthy as the cause was, the anticipated massive turn
out had more to do with where the party was being held than its
purpose. The
ceilidh
would take place in Finn’s Stable—the
massive stone stable at Glenncailty Castle. Once a haunted ruin, it
had been renovated and revamped, becoming a beautiful performance
and party space. In the past months it had hosted some very high
profile concerts and events. This
ceilidh
was the first
event hosted by someone from Cailtytown in the new Finn’s Stable,
and it was a fair bet that most of the town would be in
attendance.

Michael was going with his mother, at her
request, but he had to admit that he might have come back on his
own, as curious to see the place as anyone else.

“I was going to wear this.”

His mother cast a critical eye over him.
“That’s fine, but I’ve got a shirt for you in the hot press. Let me
just give it a quick iron.”

Michael’s lips twitched as he took a seat at
the table, cup of tea in hand. There was little point arguing with
his mother. Though he was a grown man, certainly capable of
dressing himself, he’d never been able to convince his mother of
that fact. He’d stopped protesting, knowing that she liked to take
care of him, and with his father gone Michael was the only one she
had to take care of.

An hour later, after a light supper—to hold
them over until they got there, where they’d be eating again—and a
change of shirt, Michael cocked his elbow.

“Would you accompany me to a dance, fair
maiden?”

His mother scoffed at him, but she was smiling
as he led her out the back door to the car.

****

She couldn’t sleep.

Mary rolled over and bunched her pillow under
her head. She thought she’d be over her jet lag by now, but it was
two in the morning and she was wide-awake. After arriving at
Glenncailty Castle—she was staying in a castle!—she’d been too
tired to do more than go to her room and crawl into bed. Now she
was up and couldn’t fall back to sleep.

Part of her wanted to explore the castle—a big,
stately structure that was actually three buildings. The main wing
was the largest, and according to the website there was a library
and billiards room the guests could use. She was staying in the
east wing, on the second floor. The main building—or at least the
foyer and hallways she’d been in—had been elegant and stately. Her
room seemed a bit standard for a hotel room, though everything was
of the highest quality. Despite her Irish roots Mary had been
somewhat hoping she’d be staying in an old drafty room complete
with stone walls and spooky noises—her grandmother always teased
her about her “American ways” and Mary bet wanting to stay in a
ruin instead of a lovely, well-appointed room was her American
upbringing coming out.

Flopping onto her back she stretched. The room
may not be a derelict ruin, but she did think she heard something.
Mary froze, straining to identify the noise.

It was a woman’s voice, but Mary couldn’t make
out the words. It seemed to be coming from her left. Mary turned
her head, staring at the corner. There was a strip of silver
moonlight cutting across the floor from where she hadn’t drawn the
curtains all the way. Her breath caught in her throat. A silvery
mist, wavering like rippling water, floated in the corner. Mary
tensed, but when she blinked it was gone.