by Eliza Watson
Mom enveloped George’s hand in hers. “Even after I wrote that poem in fourth grade, she didn’t confess I had a brother.” Mom took an encouraging breath. “I want a brother named Barry, not a sister named Teri. One who will beat up Lenny Fritz, who tried to give me a kiss. One who will…” Mom’s eyes widened. “He just clutched my hand.”
Our gazes darted to their hands. George’s moved slightly. A twitch more than a clasp, but it was comforting to think he might be able to hear us.
The door opened and Fanny Bing entered, wearing a blue-and-white floral-patterned dress under her blue coat and a fancy blue hat. “Oh my, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize George had company. I’ll come back.”
“Nonsense,” Mom said. “Come in.”
I introduced George’s friend to Rachel and Mom.
“I’m here earlier than I’d expected. Mary is minding the church bake sale, so I didn’t have to wait until this evening.”
“About your scones…” I explained how our art-mystery event would now be afternoon tea and asked if she’d provide her yummy baked goods.
Fanny’s face lit up. “What a lovely idea. I can also make lemon poppy seed and blueberry ones. And Mary has a cupboard full of homemade jams. The woman is obsessed with making jam. Emma makes wonderful cucumber and salmon sandwiches. We’ll start spreading the word at the bake sale today. I’m sure others will want to be involved. Everyone loves George.” Fanny’s porcelain cheeks flushed a light pink, the color of her lipstick.
Some loved him more than others.
“That’d be great,” I said. “We’ll reimburse you for all costs, of course.”
“You’ll do no such thing. George refuses to accept my help, but now he has no choice. We all want to see him keep the estate, except his nasty cousin Enid, of course.”
“And if you have any furnishings you’d like to loan us, we need to fill up the salon and the library.”
“That would be nice for George to not come home to an empty house. He always comments on how much he likes my blue couch. It was my grandmother’s. I had it reupholstered.”
I told her about our encounter with Cousin Enid and her threat to prove George wasn’t a Daly.
“I would think George was baptized at St. Catherine’s, where the bake sale is today. I’ll ask Pastor Alldridge if he might have a look at the baptismal register for George’s record.”
Grandma and Michael had been married Protestant, but I couldn’t recall if their marriage record had noted the name of the church.
“That’d be great. Hopefully, we won’t need it.”
But all the better if it noted Grandma and Michael Daly as his parents.
Fanny peered over at Mom. “Will you be making your mother’s delicious brown bread? George had me over for tea one day and told me it was his mother’s recipe.”
Mom nodded hesitantly. “At least she shared her secret recipe with us, even though she didn’t share all her secrets.”
“Neither did George’s mother. So sad you didn’t have the chance to get to know him sooner.” She peered over at George lying in bed. “That this is what brought everyone together. He was so happy to have found your family, never having had any siblings, merely his nasty cousins.”
“What were his parents like?” Mom said. “Did he have a happy childhood?”
Please don’t mention his mum had been mad as a hatter if she had been before the theft.
Fanny nodded. “They were good people. Didn’t put on airs like so many who live in such style. I’d never even heard a rumor of them not being his biological parents.”
I’d been surprised Cousin Enid hadn’t known the truth. Yet if her parents had been closer to George’s family than she had, they’d likely been willing to keep the secret. And the woman was several years younger than George.
“It happened so long ago, I suppose not many were around to spread the rumor, and the family led a quiet life even before the theft. But I’ll let George tell you more once he’s better.”
We all nodded reassuringly that George would be up in no time and reminiscing about his childhood on the Daly Estate.
Fanny gazed over at George, a sentimental look on her face. “George and my husband, Bernard, were best friends growing up. We moved to Scotland many years ago for Bernard’s job, but he and George stayed in touch as much as they could. After Bernard passed away, I moved back here. It was so nice to come home. To spend time with George…” Fanny’s eyes watered.
“He’s going to be just fine.” Mom embraced Fanny’s petite form.
I walked out before I started bawling and gave Mom and Fanny a moment alone with George. Rachel joined me in the hall.
My sister’s gaze darkened. “All these years we had an uncle and never knew. We could have been there for him when that bitch left him with nothing and helped him figure out a way to save the estate so he hadn’t had to sell off his heritage.”
This was the first time I’d heard Rachel sound bitter toward Grandma.
“We can’t judge Grandma when we don’t know what she went through.” Was I a hypocrite or what? I’d been judging Grandma. “We’re here now to help.”
“One weekend of events isn’t going to save the place. We need to look at the big picture, a long-term plan to sustain the estate.” Rachel’s gaze darted back and forth. A pensive, determined look I’d seen before.
She was right. This event was merely a Band-Aid. But it was a start.
If anyone could come up with a solution, it was Rachel.
However, I was quite proud that I was becoming more proactive, no longer always scrambling to recover after a disaster had occurred. At least now I was better able to foresee the disasters. Except for George’s circumstances.
I certainly hadn’t seen that one coming.
Chapter Eleven
When we returned to George’s house, a small black car sat in the drive. A tall man with short dark hair, rugged good looks, jeans, and a brown sweater was talking to Declan.
Gerry Coffey.
Rachel’s face lit up. She peered in the rearview mirror, smoothing a hand over her ponytail and wiping a spec of mascara from under an eye. “I can’t believe he’s here.” Her gaze darted to me. “Did you know he was coming?”
I shook my head.
“He could help Mom and Fanny with the catering. How perfect would that be? He does group events all the time.”
They apparently hadn’t discussed the status of them dating other people, or that leprechaun chick at the bar. It bode well for Gerry that he’d hauled his cookies over to England to discuss the matter in person. And that I wasn’t the one forced to tell Rachel about the woman. Fingers crossed my sister kept that in mind when he dropped the bomb.
“Who is that?” Mom asked.
“A friend,” Rachel said, hopping out of the car. She ran over and greeted Gerry with a fairly intense kiss.
“Not how I’d normally greet a friend,” Mom said.
“That’s Gerry Coffey, my landlord.”
Mom smiled. “Oh, how nice to finally put a face with his voice.”
How did she know what Gerry’s voice sounded like?
I glared over my shoulder at Mom in the backseat, and her smile faded. “You’ve been talking to Gerry on the phone, checking up on me?” So much for her confidence in my ability to survive on my own in Dublin. “I can’t believe you’d do that.”
“I honored your wish to not call you every day, but I had to know that you were all right. I’m your mother. And I’m not going to apologize.” She stepped out of the car.
I reined in my anger, reminding myself that we were both stressed to the max right now. I didn’t want an argument to send either of us over the edge.
Rachel introduced Mom and Gerry. He acted like it was their first time speaking. Nice try.
“You aren’t both leaving me for Irish fellows, are you?”
I doubted Rachel would be.
My sister flushed at Mom’s comment.
I nod
ded hello to Gerry, giving him an encouraging smile.
Good luck. Poor bloke was going to need it.
Mom, Declan, and I headed inside.
“So nice to finally meet your landlord,” Mom said. “What a nice man, giving you such a great deal on an apartment that is the perfect size…” For one? She trailed off, noticing my look warning her to proceed with caution.
Declan brushed it off, smiling at Mac racing up and down the stairs, chasing his shadow rather than a mouse.
“His energy is exhausting,” I said.
Declan walked over to an easel in the middle of the foyer, a sheet of plastic covering the floor under it.
“See you found painting supplies,” I said.
He raised a halting hand. “Don’t be looking. It’s not finished.”
“Can’t I please just peek?”
He relented, stepping back from the painting.
Mom and I walked over and viewed the work in progress. Lots of dark green with a few swooshes of red and yellow and rudimentary outlines of…something. If this painting didn’t turn out, I hoped Declan wouldn’t give up on his art.
“That’s lovely,” Mom said.
I nodded enthusiastically. “Incredible. You really captured the green…”
“You haven’t a clue what it is,” Declan said.
I studied the canvas, hoping it would take form.
He pointed at several brown brushstrokes. “That’s a desk…and a woman…”
“Ah,” I said as if the painting suddenly became clear.
“I just started the bloody yoke. You’re not seeing any of that.”
I about collapsed with relief that it wasn’t nearly finished.
“Well, I’m sure it will be magnificent when it’s done.” Mom peered around at the empty walls. “I can’t imagine having such paintings to begin with and then to have them taken from you in such a horrific way.”
The front door flew open, and Rachel marched inside, the sound of car tires spitting gravel outside. She slammed the door, and the echo vibrated through the room and my chest. I expected the stained-glass window to shatter. Gerry was apparently free to date all the slutty leprechauns he wanted to.
Rachel plastered on a perky smile. “We better get planning the event. No time to waste.”
“Okay,” I said. “We could go buy dishes.” I didn’t want to use Grandma’s delicate teacups or any of the Daly china and have guests break what few family heirlooms remained.
Yet china shopping probably wasn’t the best idea with Rachel’s mood.
“I’ll meet you in the car.” She marched out with as much fervor as she’d entered, and we all cringed, preparing for the slamming door.
“Guess she doesn’t want to talk about it,” Mom said. “What a shame when he came all the way from Ireland to see her. I’ll stay here and clean, keep Declan company while he paints. We can get to know each other better.”
Declan wore an uneasy smile.
I gave Mom a cautious look that said not to drill him about apartment hunting. I’d rather have her share embarrassing childhood stories or pictures of me running naked through the sprinkler when I was two, refusing to wear a swimsuit.
I still hated swimsuit shopping.
* * *
An awkward silence filled the car until Rachel zipped around a sharp corner and I let out a gasp of fear. My white-knuckled grip tightened on the door handle of the compact rental car. A good thing Mac had stayed home or Rachel’s car would also smell like he had puked up a fruit stand.
“Can you please slow down?”
“Sorry.” She eased up on the accelerator, and my blood pressure lowered slightly.
Had Gerry mentioned that I’d seen him with that other woman? Was she pissed I hadn’t told her, even though it hadn’t been my place to tell? If Gerry hadn’t told her I’d known, I should act clueless about the reason for their fight.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
“Yep, perfect. Better to know now that he’s a cheating bastard than to find out later.”
“But you guys weren’t really dating, you said. You never called and wished him a happy Valentine’s Day after he mailed you that card. You e-mailed him a thank-you. Blew it off like it was nothing. What’s he supposed to think?”
Rachel’s gaze darted to me. “Are you taking his side?”
“No, I’m just saying, in all fairness, you guys weren’t exclusive. The fact that you’re upset shows how much you care.”
“Did care.”
I wanted to assure Rachel that when her name had come up at the pub, Gerry hadn’t given that chick another look. But if I confessed that I’d known, she might drive off the road in a mad frenzy and take out some innocent sheep in a field.
“I don’t want to talk about him, all right?”
“Okay, fine.”
I let it go, even though Rachel didn’t hesitate to butt her nose into my relationship with Declan. Not to sound selfish, but this better not affect my current living situation above Coffey’s pub, not to mention my friendship with Gerry. Outside of Emily Ryan, he was the only person I knew in Dublin.
Finding it odd that Emily still hadn’t checked on George, I resent my original e-mail. Maybe the first one had gotten lost in cyberspace.
Ten minutes later, we were browsing among the teacups outside Nicole’s Vintage Finds.
“The mismatched ones are half the price and would add a bit of eclectic charm,” I said.
Rachel selected a blue floral cup and a yellow saucer. She stared at the delicate china. “How sad to think each lonely piece was once part of a full set that a couple picked out for their wedding or had been passed down to them through generations. And now a cup doesn’t even have a matching saucer.”
I was usually the sentimental one, not Rachel.
She was a total basket case over Gerry.
“I’m so glad you discovered that Grandma’s teacup collection was from our Flannery family’s china company and not a hodgepodge of ones she’d randomly collected over the years.” Rachel’s voice cracked, and she cleared her throat. “Thank God Aunt Teri is a hoarder and had them stored away in her basement.” She sucked in a shaky breath.
Was she going to cry? I honestly didn’t know if I’d seen my sister cry in her adult life. I wished she would. That might sound callous, but she could use a good cry. Letting out her emotions, other than an occasional fit of anger over work, would be good for her physically and emotionally. Keeping stress bottled up inside had damaged her kidney. She’d had a major kidney infection in college, and when she got too stressed out, her right kidney throbbed.
“You know he talks about you nonstop?” I said.
“Thanks.” Rachel placed a cup and saucer in an empty wooden bin. “But I’m really not ready to talk about it.”
I reluctantly let it go. For now.
“How many cups do you think we need?” I asked.
“We have to cram as many people as possible into the library. If we sell fifty tickets at a hundred pounds each, that’s five thousand pounds per event.”
“I hope we sell fifty tickets period.”
“We need to do two back-to-back events daily so we sell three hundred tickets for thirty thousand pounds.”
I envied the way Rachel could do math in her head and rattled off numbers like nothing. I was lucky my math was correct when I used a calculator.
“So that’s seventy-five pounds for fifty teacups,” she said. “And we need a few extras in case of breakage.”
“If the events are back to back, we’ll need at least two hours between them for washing dishes and resetting.”
Dessert plates cost one pound each. Two matched here, three there. Teapots were ten pounds. A deal, but pricey for our budget. Rachel hadn’t yet created our budget, but I knew it wasn’t much. I wasn’t letting Declan pitch in more than the art supplies if he didn’t have to.
“People will have to share teapots,” she said. “We’ll only offer two or three kinds of t
ea, so fewer pots.”
The shop owner joined us and introduced herself as Nicole Duvall. She was American, thirtyish, with bangs and long dark hair, dressed in jeans and a cozy cream sweater.
“Where are you from in the States?” Rachel said.
“Southern Arizona, wine country. Moved here five years ago.”
“How’d you manage to get citizenship?” I asked.
“My husband’s British. He grew up in this area and was in Arizona for a month on business when we met.”
I smiled, yet was disappointed that she couldn’t provide some helpful insight into obtaining foreign citizenship.
“Do you happen to sell silverware?” Rachel asked.
She eyed our bins filled with china. “Are you hosting a tea party?”
I explained the event.
Her blue eyes widened. “Well, I’d certainly come. Would love to see the inside of that place.”
“Do you have any furniture for sale?” Rachel asked. “Like couches and chairs? We don’t have quite enough seating.”
She shook her head. “Just a few occasional tables. But if you need couches and chairs, I know where you can get a few for a small donation. I belong to the local theater group. We have some furniture, props, and 1920s attire.”
“Did you do a Downton Abbey play?” I asked.
“No, we perform a Hercule Poirot play every three months. Are you familiar with the detective series?”
We nodded. Mom watched it on PBS.
“We might need a few actors also,” I said.
“I’m in.” Nicole smiled. “I can close for lunch and take you to get the costumes.” She went over to lock up.
“It’ll be just like when we were growing up and you wrote plays to perform in the backyard,” Rachel said to me. “I was always inside studying or creating a business plan for my first company.”
Rachel’s entrepreneurial spirit began with a lemonade stand. Not your typical boring lemonade but flavors such as peach, blackberry, and watermelon. She’d even created a list with suggestions for combining flavors. She’d put Courtney Shepherd’s stand out of business in one afternoon.
