Page 10 of Road Trip
Frannie laughed. “You mean Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh of Tarrymore?”
“That’s the one.”
“Well, Nana always had it hanging over the fireplace in her house, and she told us girls it came out ofhermama’s house, up in New York. Her mother’s name was Kathleen, and according to Nana, Kathleen brought that painting over on the boat when she came to America from Ireland.”
“Huh. So that story Mama always told about Lady Geraldine being our ancestor really is true?”
“I didn’t say that. I said that was your nana’s story. I don’t guess you remember her, because you girls were so young when she passed. But if you want to know where Mary Helen got her storytelling gift from, I’d say it was from our mom. Good Lord, that woman could tell some whoppers. Me and Bernie, we knew most of her stories were made up, just like the little people she claimed always knew when any of us girls weren’t telling the truth. The ‘wee ones’ she said whispered in her ear. But Mary Helen, she ate all of that stuff up with a spoon.”
“So… you don’t believe that portrait is the real thing? And that we’re related to Irish aristocracy?”
Frannie rolled her eyes. “Me and Butch went to Ireland for our twenty-fifth anniversary. And we actually went to the village where Nana said her mother was born. Bernadette, Big Bernie, we used to call her, was born in New York, which is where Kathleen came to after she left Ireland around nineteen-something.
“You want to talk about a place that was the back of nowhere? Honey, your uncle Butch swore we were lost, it was so remote. I forget the name of the town, but I know we went to this teeny little old church, St. Bonaventure, where all the Connors—that was Nana’s mother’s maiden name, Kathleen Connor—were supposedly christened, married, and buried.”
“Did you find Kathleen’s information?”
Her aunt shrugged. “We weren’t sure. The name Connor, in that part of Ireland, was like Smith or Jones over here. And the priest wasn’t very helpful. He was sort of a circuit-rider going between three different parishes because that church wasn’t big enough to have its own priest.”
“Oh.”
“I was real disappointed. I’d promised my sisters I’d find out all about Kathleen. Your aunt Bernie had gotten big into building our family tree back then, so we knew what we thought was her daddy’s name, but we couldn’t find her baptismal records. The priest suggested we go to the pub—it was right across the road—and ask the bartender about the Connors. He said Jarvis, that was the pub owner’s name, had lived in this village forever and knew everyone.”
“And did he know about our family?”
“He claimed he did,” Frannie said. “Jarvis was an old, old, feller, with these long white whiskers and eyebrows so bushy you couldn’t hardly see his eyes. He told your uncle Butch how to get to where he thought the Connor place was. So we drove way, way out in the country. We actually got stuck behind a herd of sheep for about thirty minutes. I had to get out of the car and shoo them out of the road with a stick.”
“Did you find the farm?”
“We thought we had. But when I knocked on the door of this little cottage, the owner said that the Connor place had been about a mile away. Her grandmother had known the family, but she said the farmhouse burned down many, many years ago.”
“Bummer,” Therese said.
“The thing is, honey, from what we could see ofTarrymore—that was the name of the village—the Connors were poor dirt farmers. I don’t see how a fancy portrait like the one in Mary Helen’s house could be of anybody we’re related to.”
Therese didn’t bother to hide her disappointment. “But then where would Nana have gotten that painting? Was there really a Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh?”
“I don’t honestly know,” Fran admitted. “But I will tell you, when Kathleen first came to New York from Ireland, she supposedly worked as a maid for some really rich family there. Maybe one of them gave her that painting. Or…” she said, with an impish grin, “maybe she stole it. Word was that Kathleen was a real spitfire. Didn’t take nuthin’ off nobody. My daddy always used to joke that back in the old days in Ireland, Nana’s family were all horse thieves.”
CHAPTER 4
The day after the funeral, Maeve was up early, and when she peeked outside her bedroom window, she didn’t know whether to be relieved or chagrined to discover that the Beast wasn’t parked in the driveway.
After her calls to her sister’s phone went directly to voice mail, she reluctantly called Aunt Fran, only to be told that Therese had spent the night on her sofa.
She brewed a pot of coffee, toasted an English muffin, and sat at the dinette table in the kitchen as she made a list of the day’s tasks.
The week before her mother passed away, she’d invited Angie Gary, one of her St. Mary’s classmates who was now a successful real estate agent, to drop by to take a look around the house and discuss listing it.
The instant the agent stepped inside the front door, Maeve felt naked, and somehow ashamed of her childhood home.
“Maeve,” Angie whispered, clutching both her hands. “I heard the news about your mom. I’m devastated! She was always so nice to all us girls when we’d drop into your uncle’s drugstore after school.”
“Thanks,” Maeve said. “You know, she and my aunts were all St. Mary’s girls.”
“Is she…?”
“Mostly she sleeps,” Maeve said. “The hospice nurse says it’s probably a matter of days. Mama made me promise I’d let her die at home, so that’s what I’m doing.”
