Maureen Barry O'Sullivan
Eric escorted Calleigh's grandmother to the motor pool and signed out a Hummer. Like the gentleman he was raised to be, he held the door open for her and helped her up into the behemoth vehicle before going to his own side and getting in.
"Ya know the way to my Calleigh's, then?" Maureen asked, looking him over.
"Yes, ma'am, I do. Calleigh and I have been friends for a long time. There was a time that we'd do pizza and movies at her place every Friday night with another one of our teammates," Eric said, feeling oddly comfortable around the diminutive Irish woman.
Maureen eyed him closely. "Ya said 'used to'; what happened that ya don't anymore?"
"Speedle was killed in the line of duty. It was too hard to do after he died," Eric said, steering into traffic.
"'Tis a sad thing, that's for sure, to lose a good friend like that. Calleigh told me about it. She cried like a babe, she did. She said he was like a big brother to her and they were very close. She said that he made a last request of her, to sing at his funeral. She said she did," Maureen said, trying to get to know the young man that her granddaughter told her so much about.
"She has a beautiful voice," Eric murmured quietly, remembering Speed's funeral. "His mom told us that he had overheard Cal one morning at the Lab and he wanted to share with those he loved what he heard."
"And what of ya, son?" Maureen said, switching the topic in a mind blowing speed.
"Me?"
"Are ya the Russian-Cuban that my Calleigh is so fond of?" she asked.
Eric concentrated on the road for a moment before answering. "I guess that's me. My dad is Russian and my mom is Cuban. They were viceros, or refugees, from Cuba. I was born here, but my sisters were all born in Cuba."
Maureen was silent for a while. "Eric, if ya don't mind spendin' some time with an old woman, can we make a detour? If ya have the patience I think ya do, I'll make it worth your while."
"Sure, Mrs. O'Sullivan," Eric said. "Where do you need to go?"
Maureen gave him detailed directions and he took her everywhere she needed to go, getting the "essentials" for any Irish household, including Guinness stout and Bushmill's Irish Whiskey, despite knowing Calleigh's reluctance to have any alcohol in her home. Maureen bought all the makings for both brown and Irish soda breads as well as enough yellow "floury" potatoes and Belgian endive to knock over a horse and they weren't finished. She bought Irish butter by the pound and cheese and sea salt; sausages, lamb and more. Eric didn't know that all those things could even be found in Miami.
Finally, she was done with the shopping and they brought everything back to Calleigh's and Eric helped her lug the groceries in. He called in to Horatio, letting him know where he was and to page him if he was needed. Horatio had sounded amused by the information and gave Eric the rest of the afternoon off.
When Eric made his way back into Calleigh's kitchen he found Maureen hard at work. She had already stowed the groceries. She was mixing something in a large bowl.
"I called in and let Horatio know where I was in case he had an emergency. Cal gets more call outs than I do. She's H's second in command and takes a larger work load."
"That girl will work herself to death, she will," Maureen observed, pouring an amount of buttermilk into the dry mix without measuring and adding a good shot of the whiskey as well. "Ya seem to me to be a grand young man and care a great deal about my granddaughter. Promise me that you'll look out for my sweet Calleigh. I know she tries to be as tough as old shoe leather, but I know her heart and I still worry about her."
"I already do, Mrs. O'Sullivan," he admitted before asking. "What are you making?"
"Part of your reward for spending time with an old woman," she replied cryptically, now shaping the dough into a round and placing it on a baking sheet, cutting a deep X in the center. She then crossed to the counter and doled out a few potatoes, an onion, carrots and all the cubed lamb. "Are ya handy with a knife?"
Eric stood and helped her carry everything to the kitchen table. "Yes, ma'am, I am. I like to cook."
Maureen gazed up at him, a twinkle in her eyes so much like her granddaughter's. "Good; then ya cut up the vegetables and I'll start browning the meat. You're helpin' me to make the stew."
Eric couldn't help but grin at her. "Now I see where Calleigh gets her spirit."
"That's my girl. She always was high spirited growing up. I think that was the only reason she survived that disaster of a family of hers. Now don't get me wrong, I love my daughter, but she married just the wrong man. Kenwall can be just as charmin' as a blue jay when he's sober, but he's useless when he's on the drink. And Bridget? Too easily led into the drink. It's a curse of bein' Irish sometimes. I think it's in the blood that we tend to love drink more than we should," Maureen said, giving Eric a glimpse of Calleigh's family that he had only guessed about.
"Cal doesn't talk much about her family. I guess, knowing that, I'd be kind of quiet, too," Eric said thoughtfully, chunking the potatoes into large cubes and then placing them in ice water.
"Did ya know that Calleigh had a pet lamb growing up?" Maureen asked.
Eric couldn't help but laugh. "No, I didn't. I thought she didn't grow up on a farm."
"She didn't. The lamb was with her grandda and I. She loved that thing and would pamper him for hours every time she visited. She wouldn't let her grandda slaughter him for meat, either. She actually begged for his life and learned to shear, card, wash, spin and knit wool so that he'd be considered useful. I guess he loved her back because he'd follow her around like a puppy wherever she went. She wouldn't eat lamb until she was almost an adult and Winston had died a very old sheep," Maureen said. "Eric, dear, get me a Guinness, please."
Eric rose and retrieved the Guinness from the refrigerator and handed it to her. "Is that why her father calls her 'Lambchop'?"
"He teased her mercilessly about Winston, but yes, that's why," she said, cracking open the bottle and pouring half it's contents into the stew pot with the now browned meat. "Guinness makes it richer and one for the cook doesn't hurt."
Eric brought her the rest of the vegetables and she dumped it all into the pot, seasoning it lightly with salt and pepper before covering the pot and turning it down low. She retrieved the same bowl that she used for the other bread and began piling ingredients into it without measuring. She stirred it all together and spooned it into several small loaf pans, setting them aside to rest.
"Mrs. O'Sullivan, you must be tired after your trip. Why don't you take a nap for a little while? I can keep an eye on the stew and bread," Eric offered, realizing the amount of work the woman was doing.
"Sleep is for babes and the elderly and I am neither. Now get me four good sized potatoes and the endive. We're makin' colcannon. If we don't, Calleigh will be disappointed," she said briskly.
"I'm sure she doesn't expect you to cook all this food for her," Eric said, doing as he was told. He took the knife and began finely cutting the potatoes into small chunks.
Maureen began to chop the endive. "No, my muirnin doesn't expect it of me, but she knows that I will no matter what she says. Ya see, these are comfort foods for her. When it was bad at home, she'd come to our farm and tell me what was wrong over soda bread and tea. Sometimes she'd stay the night and I'd wake her with fresh bread and a good breakfast before school. Her grandda and I didn't live too far outside town and Calleigh either walked or ran everywhere. Sure, her parents had plenty and she never went without all the material comforts she needed, but when the drink flowed and things got bad, she was in want of what she could get with us. I've probably said too much since ya said that she doesn't talk much about her family."
Eric was quiet for a long time before speaking. "I'm glad you told me, Mrs. O'Sullivan. It explains some things that always puzzled me about Calleigh."
The oven timer dinged and Maureen pulled out the golden, fragrant loaf of soda bread and set it aside before putting the small loaves in the oven and resetting the timer. She placed the potatoes in one pot and the endive in another, salting the water in both pots with a little sea salt. Retrieving a kettle, she poured herself and Eric a cup of tea each.
Eric poured a little sugar and milk in his. "Mrs. O'Sullivan, did you really dodge bullets in Ireland?"
"Yes, I did, lad. I grew up in Belfast and the city was divided in two at the time. I hear it still is, but things aren't as bad since the Good Friday Peace Accord. They've mostly stopped bombin' each other and shootin' each other. Now it seems that they're down to a nasty word every now and then. But not when I was growin' up. I know what a shot up body looks like. I know what they smell like, too."
"I've never lived anywhere but Miami," Eric said, his natural curiosity overwhelming him. To him, Mrs. O'Sullivan was wildly exotic. "What's Ireland like?"
Maureen took a long sip of tea, retrieving the soda bread and butter and cutting some slices before settling herself down for some storytelling."Well, I will be tellin' ya, it's a lot colder than here! But we have palm trees too, on the west coast, thanks to the Gulf Stream. It's that same Gulf Stream that keeps it from getting' too hot or too cold. In the city it was very dirty when I was growin' up and there were a lot of poor folk linin' up outside the St. Vincent dePaul Society to get things like clothes and shoes. But that was on the Catholic side of town. The Protestant side wasn't really any better, but we thought it was.
"But, lad, once ya got out into the country...it was green as a green there ever was as far as your eye could see. And it wasn't just one green. There were many greens only to be broken up by low stone fences and little fluffy sheep, some black faces and some white and the occasional farmhouse or cottage. It rained for a little while every day, too, which made the green all the greener. The rain normally falls softly on ya, almost as light as a mist, but not nearly as heavy as a drizzle. In Cornwall they call it a mizzle and I think that's a grand way to describe it. Nothin' smells like Ireland. The freshness of the grass and the earthiness of the dirt and somethin' else, maybe it's Ireland's faery past that rolls down through time. If ya notice that butter on your bread, that's from Ireland and it tastes different than the butter here. It's sweeter and richer. That's the gift of the fae, Eric and Ireland is a place steeped in tales of Giants and Kings, Heroes and Magic. The Tuatha de Dannan ruled Ireland long before the Celts came from across the sea and chased them into the hollow hills and far underground. The Great Brian Boru, High King of all Ireland and Cu Chullian, the Hound of Ulster and many more heroes and villains roamed the land"
Eric leaned in, caught up in the narrative as if he were still a little boy and chewed on his soda bread. He could almost taste that faery magic that she said was in the butter. He was swept away, seeing green hills and heroes bravely battling and feasting a drinking far into the night in grand halls glittering in faery light. He was so enthralled by the tales that he jumped when his phone rang, breaking the magic spell.
Annoyed, he reached for it. "Delko."
"Hey Eric, everything okay? Did Gran settle in alright?" Calleigh asked.
"Yeah. In fact I'm still at your place with her. She's been telling me stories about Ireland," Eric replied around a mouthful of warm soda bread.
"Let me see...that sounds like soda bread dripping in Irish butter and Irish faery stories, am I right?" Calleigh said, her voice musical with stifled laughter.
"Yeah," he said.
"Can you tell Gran that I'm afraid I'll have to be late tonight and for her not to wait up for me? And don't eat all the soda bread," Calleigh admonished with good humor. "Oh, and Eric, watch out for the pooka on the way home. Don't let him catch you and if you see an old woman washing clothes on the beach, avoid her at all costs and go straight home. Bye."
"What did my Calleigh tell ya?"
"She said she'll be late so don't wait up and for me to stay away from old women washing clothes on the beach and to avoid the pooka. What's she talking about?" Eric asked, reaching for another piece of bread.
"Sit back, my lad and I'll tell ya," Maureen began.