went downstairs to make a drink. I sort of just wandered up here. I didn’t intend to bother anyone—and I don’t think I did—until now.”
He was studying her very closely and he did not reply. Jill could not guess his thoughts. That increased her discomfort, as did his scrutiny. But she was given the opportunity to study him as well. He had changed into a pair of very worn, faded Levi’s. They fit his slim hips snugly, like a glove. And he donned a butter-soft, yellow cashmere sweater—one that looked
very expensive. Not very many men could wear canary yellow and get away with it.
Jill looked away. Hal’s photography was everywhere. “I miss him,” she added helplessly. “I really do. I guess that’s why I came up here.”
“We all miss him.” Jill fidgeted as Alex glanced around the room, then at the photograph lying on the bed. “Were you looking for something?” he asked abruptly. His gaze was on the framed photograph. “What’s that?”
Jill was bewildered. “No. But I couldn’t help looking at his things. I almost felt him here, with me, a moment ago.” Was he suspicious of her? She tried out a small smile but he did not smile in return as she picked up the old photo of the two women. Her fingers slid over the frame of their own volition. “I found this on his night table,” Jill said slowly. Again, the woman with the mole caught her eye, seemingly staring at Jill. Jill stared back. One of these women was named Kate Gallagher. Something inside of her lurched unpleasantly.
She stared at the women in the photograph, having no doubt that Kate Gallagher was the one with the teasing, vivacious look in her sultry eyes. Of course her name was a coincidence. If only Hal hadn’t mentioned “Kate” with his last dying breath, she thought grimly. If only her last name weren’t Gallagher.
“What is it?” Alex cut into her thoughts.
She had been so absorbed that Alex’s soft question startled her. She had, for one moment, forgotten where she was and whom she was with. For an instant, perhaps only a second or two, she had been completely focused on Kate Gallagher. “The handwriting on the back of this is Hal’s,” Jill said slowly. “This is a photograph of two women, Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, and it’s dated 1906. I find this odd, because Hal was not a collector of other people’s work.” She finally looked up at Alex. “And isn’t it strange that I have the same name as one of the women in the photo?”
“Gallagher is an extremely common name,” he said without hesitation.
“But why was he keeping this? Do you have any idea?” She would never tell Alex, or anyone, that Hal had spoken another woman’s name as he died.
Alex shrugged, but he stepped closer to her and peered down at the photo she held. “Ann Bensonhurst was Hal’s grandmother and my great-aunt. That is obviously why Hal kept the photo.”
Briefly, Jill was relieved—that simple fact explained everything. “Anne Bensonhurst was his grandmother,” she repeated. Then her relief vanished.
Did it explain everything? She glanced at Alex, finding it difficult to take her gaze from the photo. “You know, don’t you, that Hal was very interested in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. In New York we used to go to museums. He was always drawn to the turn-of-the-century exhibits.”
“He was a history buff,” Alex said.
But Jill was suddenly remembering an afternoon spent at the Met. Afterward they’d sat outside at the Stanhope, drinking cappuccinos while people-watching, his arm around her shoulders. Suddenly it was there again, inside of her, a huge bubble of grief, the devastating sense of loss, the aloneness, the guilt. The pain was overwhelming.
“What is it?”
Jill swallowed. She must not think about Hal. She must think about Kate Gallagher. It was safer, easier. “Is Anne the one on the left with the darker hair?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like you, except plainer.”
“Her
He was studying her very closely and he did not reply. Jill could not guess his thoughts. That increased her discomfort, as did his scrutiny. But she was given the opportunity to study him as well. He had changed into a pair of very worn, faded Levi’s. They fit his slim hips snugly, like a glove. And he donned a butter-soft, yellow cashmere sweater—one that looked
very expensive. Not very many men could wear canary yellow and get away with it.
Jill looked away. Hal’s photography was everywhere. “I miss him,” she added helplessly. “I really do. I guess that’s why I came up here.”
“We all miss him.” Jill fidgeted as Alex glanced around the room, then at the photograph lying on the bed. “Were you looking for something?” he asked abruptly. His gaze was on the framed photograph. “What’s that?”
Jill was bewildered. “No. But I couldn’t help looking at his things. I almost felt him here, with me, a moment ago.” Was he suspicious of her? She tried out a small smile but he did not smile in return as she picked up the old photo of the two women. Her fingers slid over the frame of their own volition. “I found this on his night table,” Jill said slowly. Again, the woman with the mole caught her eye, seemingly staring at Jill. Jill stared back. One of these women was named Kate Gallagher. Something inside of her lurched unpleasantly.
She stared at the women in the photograph, having no doubt that Kate Gallagher was the one with the teasing, vivacious look in her sultry eyes. Of course her name was a coincidence. If only Hal hadn’t mentioned “Kate” with his last dying breath, she thought grimly. If only her last name weren’t Gallagher.
“What is it?” Alex cut into her thoughts.
She had been so absorbed that Alex’s soft question startled her. She had, for one moment, forgotten where she was and whom she was with. For an instant, perhaps only a second or two, she had been completely focused on Kate Gallagher. “The handwriting on the back of this is Hal’s,” Jill said slowly. “This is a photograph of two women, Kate Gallagher and Anne Bensonhurst, and it’s dated 1906. I find this odd, because Hal was not a collector of other people’s work.” She finally looked up at Alex. “And isn’t it strange that I have the same name as one of the women in the photo?”
“Gallagher is an extremely common name,” he said without hesitation.
“But why was he keeping this? Do you have any idea?” She would never tell Alex, or anyone, that Hal had spoken another woman’s name as he died.
Alex shrugged, but he stepped closer to her and peered down at the photo she held. “Ann Bensonhurst was Hal’s grandmother and my great-aunt. That is obviously why Hal kept the photo.”
Briefly, Jill was relieved—that simple fact explained everything. “Anne Bensonhurst was his grandmother,” she repeated. Then her relief vanished.
Did it explain everything? She glanced at Alex, finding it difficult to take her gaze from the photo. “You know, don’t you, that Hal was very interested in the late Victorian and early Edwardian period. In New York we used to go to museums. He was always drawn to the turn-of-the-century exhibits.”
“He was a history buff,” Alex said.
But Jill was suddenly remembering an afternoon spent at the Met. Afterward they’d sat outside at the Stanhope, drinking cappuccinos while people-watching, his arm around her shoulders. Suddenly it was there again, inside of her, a huge bubble of grief, the devastating sense of loss, the aloneness, the guilt. The pain was overwhelming.
“What is it?”
Jill swallowed. She must not think about Hal. She must think about Kate Gallagher. It was safer, easier. “Is Anne the one on the left with the darker hair?”
“Yes.”
“She looks like you, except plainer.”
“Her
Similar Books
