Now it was my turn to gulp. I opened the letter and read it aloud.
March 3, 1940
Dear Anna,
I am sorry if you have been trying to reach me. I have been on the run. Margarita is in a safe place. Things don’t look very good for me though, and I’m afraid when they catch up to me, it will be my demise.
I have accumulated substantial wealth during these past few years, and what I invested in coins and artwork I want to share with you, my dear niece. These items can be sold in the U.S. for enough money to take care of you for a long time. Life is short—enjoy yourself.
This will likely be the last time you hear from me.
Te amo y te extraño.
Nacho
The letter deepened the emotional state I was already in.
“That pretty much confirms my suspicion that Anna’s uncle made a lot of money working in the Mexican oil industry, probably illegally or at least underhandedly. So he put his wife in a safe place and sent Anna to the U.S. Who knows what happened to him.”
“And he tried to salvage at least some of what he had acquired by sending it to Anna.”
“Looks like it. The letter is dated 1940, the year after Anna bought this house.”
“I wonder if she even opened the trunk. The contents looked untouched.”
“And the letter was still sealed.”
“I wonder why,” I asked him.
We sat in silence for a long moment shaking our heads.
“I’d say you’re a pretty rich girl.”
“If he got it illegally, I don’t think I want anything to do with it.”
“Gracie?”
“Yes.”
“You remind me so much of her.”
* * *
Before I went to bed that night, I put the still-sealed envelope from Tymon on the nightstand intending to read it in the morning when I was more rested.
Two hours passed while I lay in bed, eyes wide open. I turned on the lamp beside me and opened the envelope.
Dear Anna,
If you are reading this letter, it means I must have finally mustered the courage to give it to you.
You’ve touched my life in ways you’ll never know, and I would give anything for the opportunity to try to do the same for you. I love you, Anna. I think I have from the very beginning. My mother used to say, ‘When it’s real, you’ll know.’ Well, I know.
You deserve to be with someone who is there unconditionally for you, to protect you, support you, someone to laugh with you when it’s funny, and hold you when it’s not. Someone to help raise your beautiful daughter, play with her, watch her grow up. I want to be that person.
You’ll have to forgive me for unburdening the feelings I have for you in a letter rather than face-to-face. Finding the right words to express what I feel in my heart doesn’t come easily for me, and if I were to attempt to tell you in person, I’m afraid it would come out all wrong or maybe not at all.
I don’t know how you’re going to react to this letter, but regardless of your feelings for me, I promise you I’ll always be there for you and Celina, and that’s a promise I intend to keep.
Love,
Tymon
It wasn’t easy reading someone else's love letter. It was even harder knowing the writer could be my father.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Bad Timing
I sat in my living room fantasizing about what my life might have been like if Anna, my father, and I had still been a family. If this had been their home, I might have been there with my husband and infant daughter visiting. Or I might have just come home from college where I was working on my master’s degree. Or I might have been in town visiting for a few days, away from my home in New York or Los Angeles or…Timbuktu.
Each time I studied this room, I saw it in a different light, or maybe I was just in a different place in my life and saw most things differently.
The court date to determine if I could take possession of my parents’ safe deposit box was five weeks away. I barely had enough cash—cash that I could truly call my own—to get by on until then.
If the box didn’t reveal the truths I was after, I made a promise to myself to forget the identity crisis and move on—no matter what. That promise was one that was very hard to swallow.
Before picking up the photos of the paintings in Minnie’s attic, I ran by the Illinois District Court office to see if I could find out Berghorn’s hearing date. When they told me none had been set yet, I was disappointed but not surprised. These things took time. Unfortunately, until I knew this man’s fate, I couldn’t relax.
I picked up the photos and browsed through them in my car. I then drove to the library and started researching the artists. Three names stood out: Diego Rivera, Frida Kahlo, and Angel Zarraga. If the paintings were authentic, they could be worth something.
My next visit was to an art appraiser recommended to me by the Art Institute of Chicago. The appraiser examined each photograph without expression.
“They’re quite impressive. Are you interested in selling them?”
“For now, I’m just interested in what they’re worth.”
“I’d like to see them in person.”
“They’re pretty bulky, and I wouldn’t want to damage them in handling.”
“Could I come to them?”
“Is that the only way you could appraise them?”
“Yes.”
“I can arrange that. Do you appraise other Mexican artwork—figurines, jewelry, masks?”
“Yes.”
We arranged for him to come to my house the following week.
“I hope you have these insured,” he said before I left.
When I got home, I called Raymond Webb to ask him if he could recommend an insurance provider for the artwork. I spent the rest of the day unwrapping the artifacts that had come out of the trunk and photographing them for the insurer. I threw in the small Cézanne painting that Minnie and I had found in the box of photographs that belonged to the couple who owned the house before Anna.
* * *
I asked Tymon if he would come down when the appraiser arrived. Not that I believed I needed a witness or anything, but as I had learned the hard way, you can never be too sure about people. I had transformed the dining room into an art gallery for the occasion. In total, there were twelve paintings, twenty-seven figurines, ten pieces of jewelry, and six clay masks.
Gordon Decker from D&E Appraisers arrived at two o’clock. With him was Benita Cruz, whom he introduced as an expert in Mexican art. Tymon joined us moments later. Benita, whose role was to authenticate the artwork, separated herself from the rest of us.
“While Benita is confirming the artwork’s authenticity, I am going to make notes on each piece and examine its condition,” Gordon explained. “Then I’ll go back to my studio and find out what similar pieces have sold for to determine a fair market value for you. Is that what you expected from me?” he asked me.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Tymon and I sat at one end of the room and watched them work. I didn’t have to see the final appraisal to know these were valuable pieces—I could tell by the way they handled the pieces and looks on their faces. Gordon finished first and joined us.
“What does Benita look for exactly?” I asked.
“She’s very familiar with these artists and can tell a fake. She’s mainly looking for certain brushstrokes and color tones.”
When Benita finished with the paintings, she proceeded to the figurines.
“With the rest of the pieces, unless it is signed, she’ll just authenticate that it is Mexican and, if she can, will determine from which civilization it came—Mayan, Toltec, Colonial. She’s good at all of that. I’m not.”
I excused myself while I fetched a tray of lemonade and glasses from the kitchen. It looked as though they were going to be there a while.
Gordon, Tymon, and I discussed current events, sports, and the weather while Benita continued her work. She fi
nished at five-fifteen.
We bade Gordon and Benita good-bye, and Tymon helped me rewrap everything and put it all back in the basement. According to Gordon, it would take two to three weeks to complete the appraisal.
Later, as Tymon and I sat at the kitchen table eating Chinese food, I told him about my plans for a small dinner party the following week to celebrate my new house. I had invited Fern and Naomi. The three of them had never met.
“Are you sure you want me there?” he asked.
“Of course, I want you there. Why do you ask?”
“Oh, I don’t know. You three girls...”
“It won’t be a hen party, if that’s what you’re afraid of. I promise.”
“What can I bring then?”
“Courage.”
“Gracie.”
“Sorry. Couldn’t pass that one up.”
* * *
My dinner guests would be arriving in an hour, and I still had a lot to do. A pork roast was in the oven that pretty much took care of itself, but I still had to prepare the green beans, potatoes, and salad fixings. The peach cobbler I had baked in the morning was sitting on the kitchen window ledge. It had been one of Minnie’s favorites.
I was on the way to my bedroom to change clothes when the doorbell rang. Couldn’t imagine who it could have been—it was too early for guests.
“May I help you?” I asked the woman standing on my porch—middle-aged, average height and weight, wearing a pale blue dress.
“Grace Lindroth?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Essie Noe.”
Whatever I had been thinking the moment before instantly disappeared from my consciousness. After an awkward moment of silence, I was finally able to speak.
“Essie. Please come in.”
I opened the door to let her into the foyer. At once, she glanced into the dining room where the table had been set for four.
“I’ve come at a bad time.” She turned toward the door and reached for the doorknob.
“No, not at all. Please don’t leave.”
“But you’re having company. I’ll come back.”
“It’s just a casual dinner. You could even join us and—”
“No, I’ll come back some other time,” she said. Before I knew it, she was out the door.
I wanted to shout, Please don’t go! I need you! But I didn’t.
“May I call you?” I asked instead.
She kept on walking, and when she reached the sidewalk she turned left, quickened her step, and disappeared down the block.
My heart felt like it had dropped as far down in my chest as it could go, and I had a hard time walking into my bedroom. So close! I dropped down on the bed and started feeling sorry for myself.
The doorbell again rang. I raced to the door.
It was Fern.
“Well, don’t look so disappointed,” she said. “You were expecting someone else? The Queen of England maybe?”
“Very funny. Come on in.”
“I came a little early to see if I could help you with anything. What’s up with the face?”
“I’m running a bit behind. Make yourself comfortable while I change. If Tymon or Naomi comes, would you let them in? But check through the window first to make sure it’s them,” I said halfway to the bedroom. “I’ll explain later.”
I tried to calm myself down while I slipped into a new dress I had purchased for the occasion. For the next few hours, I had to forget Essie had ever come here. I could do that. Sure, I could do that.
I heard Tymon’s familiar knock at the back door as I was putting on a little lipstick. Fern was going to have to introduce herself.
As I passed through the kitchen to check on dinner, Naomi pulled into the driveway. I let her in the back door.
Tymon had on a suit and tie. Bless his heart. It was mid-August, and he had dressed up for my dinner party. I hoped he had enough sense to take off his jacket before he roasted in it.
I put on my best hostess face and brought a tray of drinks into the living room. My guests were talking about the new television series, I Spy.
“You do realize it’s not that exciting in real life,” I chimed in. “Most of the time, PIs are sitting around waiting for something to happen or doing something very mundane—not chasing spies and gorgeous women.”
“If they showed that, nobody would watch it,” Fern said.
I laughed. “I’m just trying to set the record straight, that’s all.”
We spent the next half hour talking about television, celebrities in the news, and Beatlemania, a subject on which Tymon had little to contribute. At seven o’clock, I herded them into the dining room.
Dinner conversation centered on the house and what I was going to do to it to make it my own. Naomi, who knew my whole story by then, asked how it felt after all those years to be living in the same house in which I had been born.
“Well, I’m still not one hundred percent sure I was born here, but it feels good,” I told them. “Like I belong here. Like I’m home.” I tried not to get emotional.
“Do you ever feel her presence,” Naomi asked. “You know—your mother’s?”
“Don’t tell me you believe in ghosts.” Tymon said to her.
“Yes, I believe in ghosts. You don’t?”
“There’s no such thing. Whenever something happens they can’t explain, they call it a ghost.”
“Grace?”
“I have to admit, I feel something in this house, something in the atmosphere, but I’m not sure it’s her ghost or anything.”
“Safe response, Grace,” Fern said.
“I try.”
“What about aliens, Naomi?” Tymon asked. “Do you believe in them too?”
“Now you’re just teasing me.”
“Okay, you guys, why don’t you continue this conversation in the living room.”
After I cleared the table, I brought in a tray filled with plates of cobbler and beverages. I was about to take my first bite when Fern got up from the sofa and handed me a gift-wrapped package.
“This is from all three of us.”
All three of them? They had just met on this night.
“You guys shouldn’t have bought me anything. I didn’t expect that.”
“Well, we wanted to,” Fern said through laughter.
“What’s so funny?”
“It wasn’t easy for us to connect. I’m surprised we were able to pull it off without you knowing...you being a PI and all.”
“That just goes to show you how bad I am at that. I didn’t suspect a thing.”
I unwrapped the box and lifted out a beautiful crystal bowl.
“This is gorgeous, but you really shouldn’t have.”
“We thought you might be a crystal kind of gal.”
We spent the next hour talking, laughing, interacting like old friends, and when they left, I felt so good about things, I almost forgot I had missed talking to Essie three hours earlier.
Tymon offered to help with the dishes, but I declined his offer. I hated crying in front of people.
THIRTY-NINE
The Photo
“Gracie, if you don’t mind me saying, you look a little lost these days.” Tymon and I were sitting at the kitchen table. The hearing that would determine the fate of my parents’ safe deposit box—and potentially my fate as well—was still two weeks away.
“I suppose I do feel a little lost. There’s so much I could be doing, should be doing. Instead, I do nothing, and it’s driving me crazy. At least when I was doing PI work, I was helping others, contributing something.”
I chose not to admit to him that after balancing my checkbook the previous day I had realized I’d made a math error in my favor and was down to forty-seven dollars and twelve cents. My savings account didn’t look much better.
“Have you heard from Essie?” I had told Tymon and Fern about Essie’s visit the previous week.
“No, not a word.”
“What about the Ir
ish money? Have you decided what to do with it?”
“According to my lawyer, it’s rightfully mine, but I’m not at all comfortable cashing it in.” Even if I was a month away from going back to a steady diet of ramen noodles.
“It would be interesting to know if the inheritance laws in Ireland are similar to ours.”
“Yes, it would.”
Later that afternoon, I called the Irish American Heritage Center to ask how I could find out about a will executed in Ireland for someone who had died in this country. The woman on the phone told me it was different in Ireland in that there was no central registry of wills. She believed the best source would be the solicitor who had prepared it. She asked if I knew what county the man had been from. I told her I wasn’t sure, but it could have been Dublin.
“Dublin, the city, is the capital of Ireland, so there are many solicitors there. Wouldn’t be easy to find. And you say he died how long ago?”
“Twenty years.”
“So there’s a chance the solicitor is gone as well. It might be easier to locate friends or family. I can give you names of a few organizations that help people in the U.S. find relatives in Ireland, if you like.”
“Not now, but I may call you back for that.”
I retrieved the letter Minnie had received from O’Gowan’s supposed sister. It was dated April 25, 1950—almost fifteen years earlier. It had been signed by Darina O’Brady, who had provided an address underneath her signature. Who knew if she was even still alive, never mind still residing at that address?
I called the Irish American Heritage Center back.
“I’m sorry to keep bothering you with this, but do you know where I can find a current phone book for Dublin?”
“That I can help you with. I get one every year.”
“Can you tell me if it lists a Darina O’Brady at 20 Dawson Street?”
“Hold on a minute, and I’ll check.” She came back to the phone a couple of minutes later. “Sorry. There’s no one in Dublin listed under that name.”
* * *
“Ready?” Raymond asked me.
I hadn’t believed this day would ever come.
Regarding Anna Page 27