older sister, Juliette, was my great-grandmother.”
“And how did your branch of the family wind up in America?” Jill was genuinely curious. She wiped her eyes with her fingertips.
Alex seemed to relax. “My grandmother married an American, it’s as simple as that. Actually, she was very fortunate. There was nothing left for her here in Britain.”
There was something in his tone that made Jill regard him closely. “What do you mean?”
“My great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as a young woman. The Bensonhurst fortune passed on to Anne. Not the title—titles can’t be passed down to females, but the wealth. My grandmother, who was born a Feldston, was sent away to a girls school when her father remarried. Most of his small fortune went to his son. My grandmother was the “poor” relation, and it was extreme good fortune that an American gentleman fell in love with her and whisked her off to a foreign land.”
Jill wondered if he identified with his grandmother. But there was nothing penniless about this man. Even in his jeans, he had a strong aura of success, self-assurance, and power. He did not seem bitter, either, but she felt certain that he was good at hiding his emotions. “So you’ve returned to your roots,” Jill remarked.
An extremely intense gaze pinned her down. “My roots are Luigi’s, where my mother waited table her entire adult life. My roots are Coney Island, not Mayfair.”
Jill didn’t flinch from his stare. “How did you wind up here?”
He glanced away. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen. I was no stranger to the family—they had us out every summer. They took me in.” He smiled briefly. “Hoodlum-in-training that I was.” His smile faded. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Jill was silent, trying to imagine this man as a young streetwise boy from Brooklyn being thrown into the midst of this family and this kind of life. “It must have been very hard.”
He shrugged, clearly no longer willing to discuss the subject.
Which was fine with Jill. She glanced at Anne and Kate again. “Wouldn’t it be the strangest coincidence if Kate Gallagher was a relative of mine?” The words had come forth unbidden and unpremeditated.
“The odds are a million to one.”
Jill agreed with that. On the other hand, she had this inkling that there was more here than met the eye … “Do you know anything about her?” Jill asked curiously, studying the two women. Now it seemed to her that Kate was smiling ever so slightly at the photographer. She inspected the photograph more closely and decided that Kate was interested in the photographer, either that or she was a ham.
“No. Why would I know anything about some person in an antiquated photograph?”
“Do you know where this was taken?” Jill asked, suddenly handing it to him.
Alex studied the picture. “Frankly, I don’t have a clue. It could be anywhere.” Ignoring her, he put the photograph back on the nightstand, laying it down, faceup. “Hal was the historian in our family,” he said. “My interests lie in the present and the future, not the past.”
“Well.” Jill hesitated. “I guess I’m drawn to history, too.”
When he did not respond, she became aware of how late it had become, how tired she was, and the fact that she was standing barefoot in the room with him. Suddenly she noticed that he was barefoot, too. She folded her arms across her breasts. “I guess I should return to my room and try to get some sleep.” She glanced back at the nightstand. For some reason, she wanted to take the photograph with her, and study it again. But it was a family heirloom and it belonged to Hal and his family. She did not think Alex would let her take it to her room.
But what if Kate Gallagher was her ancestor? Obviously she could not be her great-grandmother, because they shared the same last name. Jill was intrigued, so much so that she shivered … until she recalled Hal’s
dying
“And how did your branch of the family wind up in America?” Jill was genuinely curious. She wiped her eyes with her fingertips.
Alex seemed to relax. “My grandmother married an American, it’s as simple as that. Actually, she was very fortunate. There was nothing left for her here in Britain.”
There was something in his tone that made Jill regard him closely. “What do you mean?”
“My great-grandmother died in a carriage accident as a young woman. The Bensonhurst fortune passed on to Anne. Not the title—titles can’t be passed down to females, but the wealth. My grandmother, who was born a Feldston, was sent away to a girls school when her father remarried. Most of his small fortune went to his son. My grandmother was the “poor” relation, and it was extreme good fortune that an American gentleman fell in love with her and whisked her off to a foreign land.”
Jill wondered if he identified with his grandmother. But there was nothing penniless about this man. Even in his jeans, he had a strong aura of success, self-assurance, and power. He did not seem bitter, either, but she felt certain that he was good at hiding his emotions. “So you’ve returned to your roots,” Jill remarked.
An extremely intense gaze pinned her down. “My roots are Luigi’s, where my mother waited table her entire adult life. My roots are Coney Island, not Mayfair.”
Jill didn’t flinch from his stare. “How did you wind up here?”
He glanced away. “My mother passed away when I was thirteen. I was no stranger to the family—they had us out every summer. They took me in.” He smiled briefly. “Hoodlum-in-training that I was.” His smile faded. “It was the best thing that ever happened to me.”
Jill was silent, trying to imagine this man as a young streetwise boy from Brooklyn being thrown into the midst of this family and this kind of life. “It must have been very hard.”
He shrugged, clearly no longer willing to discuss the subject.
Which was fine with Jill. She glanced at Anne and Kate again. “Wouldn’t it be the strangest coincidence if Kate Gallagher was a relative of mine?” The words had come forth unbidden and unpremeditated.
“The odds are a million to one.”
Jill agreed with that. On the other hand, she had this inkling that there was more here than met the eye … “Do you know anything about her?” Jill asked curiously, studying the two women. Now it seemed to her that Kate was smiling ever so slightly at the photographer. She inspected the photograph more closely and decided that Kate was interested in the photographer, either that or she was a ham.
“No. Why would I know anything about some person in an antiquated photograph?”
“Do you know where this was taken?” Jill asked, suddenly handing it to him.
Alex studied the picture. “Frankly, I don’t have a clue. It could be anywhere.” Ignoring her, he put the photograph back on the nightstand, laying it down, faceup. “Hal was the historian in our family,” he said. “My interests lie in the present and the future, not the past.”
“Well.” Jill hesitated. “I guess I’m drawn to history, too.”
When he did not respond, she became aware of how late it had become, how tired she was, and the fact that she was standing barefoot in the room with him. Suddenly she noticed that he was barefoot, too. She folded her arms across her breasts. “I guess I should return to my room and try to get some sleep.” She glanced back at the nightstand. For some reason, she wanted to take the photograph with her, and study it again. But it was a family heirloom and it belonged to Hal and his family. She did not think Alex would let her take it to her room.
But what if Kate Gallagher was her ancestor? Obviously she could not be her great-grandmother, because they shared the same last name. Jill was intrigued, so much so that she shivered … until she recalled Hal’s
dying
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