Alex looked at Fiona as if for permission to tell it all. When she nodded he turned to the others. “I found a couple of guys that your dad worked with. One remembered your dad talking about going to get his heart healed just before they left.”
“Wow,” Fiona muttered. “Imagine him remembering that.”
“It was the way your dad phrased it,” Alex explained. “’Getting his heart healed.’ It stuck in this guy’s mind, especially then with the accident and all.”
“It sure answers a lot of questions,” Cassie said.
Alex glanced at Fiona, his eyes dark with a hint of worry. “Now, I haven’t talked to any doctors yet,” he told them. “Or to the Mayo Clinic. I can pursue this further if you want. You know, get proof of my suppositions.”
Fiona just looked at her sisters; the two of them stared blankly back at her. They were letting her take the lead.
Finally Fiona just shook head. “I don’t think we need written proof. This makes so much more sense than Mrs. Cochran’s ramblings. I don’t know why none of us ever considered the possibility.”
“Because you trusted the source of your information,” Alex said. “Hey, I’m the investigator and the truth took me by surprise at first, too.”
Sam leaned against the sofa back, her eyes distant. “I wish I remembered them more. If it wasn’t for the pictures we have, I don’t think I’d remember what they looked like.”
“I’d like to know all sorts of little things,” Fiona said. “You know, stories about when they were growing up. Or how they met. But if I had to choose one thing to know, it was this.”
She smiled over at Alex, clutching his hand tightly. “We all owe you,” she said. “Big time.”
“Hey, glad to be able to help.”
Help? That made it seem so minor, so simple. He really had slain a dragon that had been attacking her for twenty years. There was no way she could pay him back.
“Well,” Alex said, although his two feline companions were pretty much ignoring him. “The breakfast dishes were all washed and put away. The bed is made. Now what?”
Prissy yawned.
“Naw, I don’t really want a nap.”
Elvis scratched his ear. Then he began washing the top of Prissy’s head. It was obvious that they didn’t care what Alex did or did not want. They had their own lives.
“Well, the heck with you little bums,” he muttered.
Fiona had been so pleased with his discovery about her father. But it hadn’t seemed quite enough. There was more that he could give her. There had to be. Hell, he was a good P.I. If she wanted to know more about her parents, he was going to find out more. She wanted to know about them as kids. All he had to do was dig up some relatives. How hard would that be?
He went back to the newspaper clippings he had, frowning when he realized that the three girls were the only living relatives listed. No brothers or sisters. No aunts and uncles.
He got out the phone book. There were three Fogartys listed and by some miracle all were home. But the miracles ended there. None was a relation. None even knew of Fiona’s branch of the family. He went back to the death notices and got Fiona’s mother’s maiden name—Mentzer. There was one in the phone book and it was no relation.
“Katherine Mentzer?” the woman repeated. “I kinda remember another bunch of Mentzers when I was growing up, but they weren’t related. Don’t think they had any other family in town. At least not Mentzers.”
He even tried Cochran, Cochrane, and Cocharan. The mother’s friend could help find other relatives or even with some info herself, but nothing. So much for his great skills at detective work. He needed some place to start. His gaze drifted and he stared into space as if an idea might be found there, when suddenly he stopped at the pictures on the wall. Horace Waldo Fogarty looked back at him. He was a relation, but since he was long dead, he wasn’t someone Alex could talk to. Still, he could provide a trail.
Alex scanned Fiona’s bookshelves to no avail, then called the reference desk at the library.
“Horace Waldo Fogarty?” the librarian repeated. “Why, he was born just down the road in Mentone.”
“Where’s that?” Alex asked.
“Oh, thirty miles from South Bend, I’d say. Take you about forty-five minutes to get there.”
Hot dog. He pulled out Fiona’s road atlas and found Mentone. Just as the librarian had said, it was about thirty miles away. He grabbed a scrap of paper and jotted down the route—Route 31 south to Route 30 east. Through Etna Green and bingo! He’d be there.
“You guys are in charge,” he told the cats as he shrugged into his jacket. Both cats were already asleep on the windowsill and didn’t even flick an ear or a tip of the tail at him. “What a life,” he muttered as he made his way to the door and outside to his car.
After several minutes he was on U.S. 31 going south, where he kicked back and put his driving on automatic pilot. He and Fiona had been having a wonderful time these past few days. And although he really needed to check in at his apartment, he had no desire to leave. What did that mean? Was he luckier than his mother in love? Or was he just as foolish as she was, believing each little pang of the heart was a signal that this was the real thing?
A sign warned that the turnoff for Etna Green was coming up, so Alex slowed and turned onto the county road. At thirty miles per hour, he sailed through Etna Green in the blink of an eye. Within moments, he was outside of town again. Out where the land—green and flat as a pool tablestretched out for miles on either side of him. There was a sense of peace in the air, as if it grew there and was free for the taking. He let himself breathe deeply and actually felt his whole body relax. This was right. Mentone came up a few miles later.
It was a quiet little burg with an undertaker at one end of Main Street and a bank at the other. The undertaker had a giant chicken guarding his parking lot, while the bank was next to a big stone that looked like an egg. The town’s economy must depend on eggs and chickens.
There were no signs directing visitors to Horace Fogarty’s birthplace or grade school or fishing hole, but Alex wasn’t surprised. He just headed toward the public library. That would be the best place to find out about the local writer. For all he knew, Fogarty’s house might still be standing. He got out of his car and went into the building.
There were no obvious displays about Fogarty’s life so he wandered over to the reference desk. An older woman was behind the desk, talking to a younger redhead who was carrying a baby in a pouch that hung in front of her. The older woman wore a name tag proclaiming she was Mrs. MacAllister.
“Well, I’ll let you go, Mom,” the young woman was saying. “Sean will come straight home from school. Make sure he finishes his homework before he goes to baseball practice.”
“Fine, Merry. I’ll take care of things.” The older woman bent down and kissed the sleeping baby on the head. “Bye, Holly, honey. Have a nice visit with your doctor.”
The young woman gave him a nod before hurrying away. The older woman turned to face him. “May I help you, Mr.—?”
“Rhinehart,” he said. “Alex Rhinehart. And I’m look ing for information on Horace Waldo Fogarty. I understand he was born and raised here.”
“My goodness,” Mrs. MacAllister said. “We don’t get many people looking into Mr. Fogarty’s early life. Not many people connect us with him, even though he was born here.” She came around the counter and led Alex toward a file cabinet in the corner where she pulled out a number of notebooks. “I’m actually working on a display about him. Next fall it’ll be the 125th anniversary of his birth.”
“Oh?” Alex flipped through some of the copies of newspaper clippings she’d pulled out. They were clippings of editorials he’d written. “How long did he live here?”
“Until he was sixteen. Then he went to college—Princeton University—and never came back.”
“Not even to visit his family?” Alex found that a bit bothersome. Fogarty was a hero to him and he didn’t like l
earning that the man had no interest in his family.
“His family home burned a few months after he’d left for college and his parents perished in that fire. I’m sure he came back for the funeral, but there was no reason to come back after that. He had no other family here.”
No reason? That didn’t sound positive.
“Are you a reporter?” the woman asked.
Alex looked up from an article Fogarty had written for his college newspaper and shook his head. “No, I’m trying to gather some information for one of his descendants.”
“One of his descendants?” the woman repeated, frowning. “But he had no descendants.”
Alex frowned back. “He had to have.”
Mrs. MacAllister was shaking her head. “He married twice but never had children with either woman. Records were kind of sparse from his early life but there was an epidemic of mumps around the time he was a teen. It’s assumed that he must have had it and was unable to father children.”
“But—” Alex closed his mouth abruptly. The woman had to be wrong.
“In fact,” she was saying as she paged through a notebook of plastic-enclosed papers. She stopped near the back of the notebook at a copy of a handwritten paper. “We have a letter here that he wrote one of his friends late in his life where he expressed regret at not leaving any progeny.”
Alex cleared his throat. “Maybe—”
Mrs. MacAllister was skimming the letter, her finger running down the page. “Here it is,” she said. “’How it saddens me to leave this life with nothing but my words to live on. What a weak legacy, for who has listened even now? Would that I had sown some wild oats in my youth, for I would embrace gladly any child of my loins.”’
The woman looked up at him, shrugging slightly. “No descendants. And apparently not even the possibility of illegitimate ones.”
“Sounds like that.” Alex was thoroughly confused. “Maybe I misunderstood.” Although he knew he hadn’t.
“Perhaps it was a different Fogarty family,” she said. “It’s not that uncommon a name.”
“That could be it.” Alex closed the notebook. “Well, thanks so much for your help.”
“I wish it had been more helpful.”
Alex just nodded and wandered back out to the car. What now? His search to find Fiona some relatives had turned up information that would devastate her.
He thought back to all the times she’d mentioned Fogarty—he hadn’t just been some famous relation to brag about. He had been her anchor when she had needed it most. Hell, she was still clinging to him. He was still just as much a part of her life as he had been years ago.
So did he tell her the truth? Or did he pretend that he’d never learned it? Did he destroy her self-image or did he live a lie?
Well, he sure as hell wasn’t going to take away her pride in old Fogarty. What purpose would that serve? He’d just pretend like he never found any of this out. It wouldn’t matter to him.
Chapter Twelve
Fiona put the jug of orange juice in Mrs. Torcini’s refrigerator and closed the door. Two more bags to empty and she’d be able to rush back to her apartment. Mrs. Andrews had called with another report this afternoon and Fiona could hardly wait to tell Alex that things were looking even better.
“Fiona!” Mrs. Torcini shouted. The old woman was standing by the sink, holding out a large head of cauliflower. “Why did I buy this?”
Fiona took the vegetable and put it in her neighbor’s crisper. “You’re making a cauliflower casserole to take to your Sunday-evening church supper. Remember?”
“Oh, yeah.”
Mrs. Torcini paused, as if contemplating some eternal truth, while Fiona stacked the canned cat food in the pantry. It didn’t look like Mrs. Torcini’s Oscar would go hungry. At least not in this century.
“Are you going to remind me to make it?” Mrs. Torcini asked.
“Sure.” Fiona gathered up the empty grocery bags and put them under the sink. “That’s what neighbors are for.”
After straightening up, she checked that everything was in order. She always took her elderly neighbor grocery shopping after school on Friday. It was when she did her own, so it was no problem. And she enjoyed the company.
“I saw that young man of yours the other day,” Mrs. Torcini said. “He was going out to his car.”
That young man of yours. Her neighbor’s words sent a warm glow washing over Fiona, which immediately caused her to force some common sense into her euphoria. She didn’t own Alex or even want to. Well, maybe a little, but not too much. No more than any two people who cared about each other as they did.
“He looked happy.” Mrs. Torcini paused to rub her nose. “Too happy, if you ask me.”
Fiona’s smile got hung up on some question marks. Too happy? “How can anybody be too happy?”
“He had that spring in his step.”
“Spring?” Fiona felt especially dense.
“The kind men have when they’re getting it regular,” Mrs. Torcini said. “You know. He ain’t gonna buy milk at the grocery store if he can get it wholesale at the dairy.”
Fiona’s face grew hot as she stuttered and stammered. Sounds fell from her lips, but no words. Certainly nothing intelligible.
“You got him talking marriage yet?”
Her treacherous cheeks were glowing like a Yule log. Mrs. Torcini had grown up in another time; she didn’t understand how things were done these days. Fiona settled for a noncommittal shrug.
“You young people.” Mrs. Torcini shook her head sadly. “All you think of is fun. Me and the mister, now. We didn’t start having fun until after the boys were born.”
Fiona didn’t know what to say. She wished goodbye was possible, but she couldn’t run out in the middle of a conversation. Sometimes her damn rules were a pain.
“It wasn’t like we didn’t know how everything worked.”
“Uh-huh.” Fiona looked around the kitchen, searching for diversion. Some of Mrs. Torcini’s conversations were like sitting in a wagon pulled by a team of runaway horses.
“We just didn’t have the touch. You know what I mean?”
“Yes, yes.” Lord, she could feel her cheeks getting hot again, and she shoved the last of the canned goods onto the shelf. She was going to assert herself for once. “I have to get going, Mrs. Torcini. I have my own groceries to put away.”
“You and your young man going out tonight?” Mrs. Torcini suddenly asked.
“Ah…” Fiona’s hands fluttered for a moment. “Probably. I don’t know. He wasn’t home when I got back from school.”
“He’s gone?”
“Oh, no.” A teeny ripple of concern shot through her heart, but Fiona immediately squelched the emotion. He wouldn’t leave without telling her. Not after all they’d shared. “He was just out. He has work to do.”
Mrs. Torcini nodded and reached down to pick up her cat. Oscar was of indeterminate age with one good eye and tattered ears, souvenirs of numerous back-alley battles. He was a foul-tempered old reprobate but Mrs. Torcini loved him unconditionally. She started scratching Oscar behind his ears while he shone his one hate-filled eye on Fiona. He wasn’t too fond of Fiona and was obviously telling her that she was dismissed.
“Men wander, you know,” Mrs. Torcini said.
Oscar was right; Fiona could leave now. “I’d better get going,” she said. “I still have my own groceries to put away.”
“Just like Oscar here.” Mrs. Torcini paused to smooth his fur, eliciting an almost-obscene groaning and purring. “He used to wander all the time.”
“Male cats are like that,” Fiona replied.
“Yep, he went all over town. Maybe even to Lydick, for all I know.”
This was not a conversation she needed to hear. “I bought some ice cream. I hope it’s not melted by now.”
“But then I got him fixed.”
Fiona stepped toward the door. “I’m going to the mall first thing in the morning. I’ll call and see if
you need anything.”
“You know.” The old woman moved two fingers like they were a scissors. “Snip, snip.”
“I’ll call you by nine.”
“Mr. Torcini, he sometimes used to wander. I thought about—” she made the scissors motion again “—snip, snip. But then what would I have?” The old woman laughed heartily for a moment. “It’d be like living with my sister.”
Fiona pulled the door open. It was time to go. “See you tomorrow.”
“Of course, I mighta been better off with my sister,” she said. “At least I wouldn’t have had someone leaving the toilet seat up all the time.”
Fiona slipped out the door and closed it firmly behind her, fighting the urge to laugh until she had grabbed two bags from her car and was carrying them up to her apartment. And then, laugh she did. That woman was a real pistol.
“Hey, about time you’re home.” Alex was at the door and took the bags from her arms. He leaned forward to brush her lips with his. “I missed you.”
“That’s what you get for working,” she teased and slipped down to the car for her last bag.
When she got back to the porch Alex was there waiting. He took the bag from her, leaving one arm to slip around her shoulders. He was so good to come home to.
“Mrs. Andrews called,” she told him. “It really looks like the transplant’s working.”
“That’s the best news,” he said and punctuated the words with a kiss. “You must have given her some great bone marrow.” He let go of her as they went inside. “Why don’t we go out to dinner tonight to celebrate? My treat.”
“We don’t have to,” she said. “I got some steaks and a bottle of wine.”
“Then let me cook them,” he said. He put the bag on the counter and took her in his arms completely.
“Why don’t we do it together?” she suggested.
“Because I want to take care of you tonight.”
She smiled up at him, her heart melting at the fervor in his eyes. She reached up to meet his lips and drank of the wonder there. Life was so perfect; so magical. She’d never dreamed that love could be like this. She’d thought it was full of anguish and fear, not of sharing joy and happiness.
On Mother's Day (Great Expectations #1) Page 19