The Girls on Rose Hill (13 page)

I reached into my purse. "I'm not doing research. I only told your son that. The real reason I'm here is this." I placed the old creased photo on the table in front of Denis. "That's my mother Rose on the left. I never knew my father. My mother refused to tell me anything about him. She's in hospice now, cancer, and I came across this old photo recently. I asked Molly about it and she gave me your name."

Denis' face went white. "I don't understand. You think I'm your father?"

"Yes."

He stared at the photo. After a moment he looked up and met my steady gaze. "This is the first I'm hearing about this. Bobby Connelly was my partner for years. Why didn't he say nothing?"

"I don't know. I think Molly and my mother swore him to secrecy. I know this must be a shock for you. It was for me as well. But, you don't have to take my word for it." I pulled a folder out of my bag. "Here's some information I found on paternity testing along with a photocopy of the St. Patrick's Day photo. Your doctor can take a cheek swab or a hair sample." Denis' bushy eyebrows knit together in concentration, or a scowl, it was hard to tell.

"Of course, I'd be happy to cover all of the cost," I said.

Denis rose from his chair and without a word left the room. I sat in that hot kitchen for several minutes and sipped the flat soda with my stomach in knots. When he returned, he handed me a framed photo of a young blond bride, her blue eyes wide apart, cheekbones high. She appeared to be taller than me and her chin was more square than mine, but it was clear that we were related.

"You look a lot like my daughter, Anne Marie. I don't need a test. I believe you."

I managed a weak smile. "I'm so relieved."

His eyes narrowed. "So now what? My son told me you drive a fancy car and you look fairly prosperous, so you obviously don't need money, and even if you did you'd be out of luck. Other than my pension and this house, I don't have much."

"Mr. Lenihan, Denis, no. I don't want your money."

"Well, what then? You're in your forties, right? You certainly don't need a daddy at this point in your life."

This wasn't going as I'd planned at all. But, Denis was a cop, I rationalized to myself. Of course he's a little suspicious. In an attempt to appease him, I said in as calm a voice as I could manage, "I want to get to know you, Denis. That's all. I want you to get to know me, know my kids."

He fiddled with the soda cap and refused to look at me. "You seem like a nice lady and I'm sure your kids are great, but I don't think I can give you what you want."

"I don't want much, Denis," I said, trying not to sound too frantic. "I won't take up much of your time."

He rubbed his eyes and then said in a low, toneless voice, "I started drinking before I joined the force. Before I graduated high school. My old man owned three bars in Brooklyn and I started pulling pints as a teenager. I never missed a day's work. Never raised a hand to my wife or my kids. But, that don't seem to matter to my kids. Not Denis, of course. He's on the job. He knows what it's like. But the other two, they barely speak to me. They blame me. For not showing up at baseball games, for talking too loud at Anne Marie's wedding, for how I acted at my wife Annette's funeral and I don't know what else."

"I'm sorry."

Denis barely seemed to hear me as he continued. "After Annette died, my daughter said that she wouldn't let me see my grandkids unless I quit drinking. I been in AA since last March. My son Denis swore to her that I been sober for four months so she agreed to let me visit. We had a good time. No fights, no arguments." He looked up at me. "She kissed me at the airport. Told me she loved me. Told me she was proud of me."

"And you don't want to tell her about a long lost daughter," I said.

"I can't. Denis would understand, but the other two wouldn't. And Denis, he's a big mouth and he'd eventually slip. I can't risk telling him"

"I was born years before you were married. Long before you had a family. Surely your daughter wouldn't see your relationship with my mother as any type of betrayal of your wife."

Denis sighed and his shoulders sagged even further. "Look, I can't even remember meeting your mother. I know that must be hard to hear, but it's true." He picked up the faded photograph, turned it over and read the back. "St. Patrick's Day. I'm sure I had a load on. This is all my daughter would need to see, another example of me gettin' drunk and screwin' up. She'd wonder if there were any other surprises out there. Hell, it makes me wonder too."

I grabbed his hand. "Then we won't tell your children. We can have a relationship without involving them."

He pulled his hand away. "Look girlie, I'm sorry. I just quit drinking after nearly fifty years and I'm barely hanging on here. I'm not capable of being your father."

Tears filled my eyes. I found a business card in my wallet and laid it on the table. "Denis, take my card. In case you change your mind."

My father stared at it. "I won't."

Chapter 14

Ellen

"Hello! Anyone home?" Lisa called out. The front screen door closed with a bang.

I shouted from my bedroom, "I'll be down in a minute."

"You'd better hurry. The tour started twenty minutes ago."

Honestly, that woman will be the death of me. I swiped lipstick across my dry lips and smoothed the front of my tailored linen shirt, already wrinkled from the heat. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were two sunken holes and the bright lipstick only highlighted my dull pallor.

I found Lisa in the kitchen, her tight yellow blouse damp with sweat, huffing and puffing while she complete the arduous task of arranging Ritz crackers and cheap orange cheese on a very fragile looking china platter. Lisa looked up. Heavy makeup formed a line at her chin. "There you are. You do know the tour started at one, don't you?"

"Yes, but Danny was late and I didn't leave St. Francis until 12:30." Did I really have to explain myself to this lunatic?

"Then why didn't you leave earlier? I'm sure Rose would've understood that you had to prepare for the tour."

My limited patience at an end, I snarked, "Oh yes, Lisa, that's right. The tour is my mother's number one priority."

"Rose is very proud of the house being included on the tour, Ellen."

It was Lisa who was proud of the house being on the tour; I couldn't imagine that my shy mother had ever relished allowing her snooty North Shore neighbors to poke through her dark rooms. But, fighting with Lisa was like fighting the weeds that had once again overtaken the garden: pointless. "So what do you need me to do?" I asked in a resigned, but more conciliatory tone.

"There is no ice. How you could survive in a house with no ice I'll never know, but there should be plenty in the boathouse. And bring up some glasses while you're at it."

Happy to have an excuse to escape, I said, "Fine."

The historical society decorated each of the tour houses with red, white and blue bunting, which in our case helped conceal the peeling paint and neglected garden. Billy's pick-up was parked in his mother's driveway, but he and his shirtless torso were nowhere in sight. I was unsure whether I was relieved or disappointed. He hadn't been around much lately, although between my hours at St. Francis and my disastrous trip to Levittown, neither had I.

The boathouse door was open and I filled the ice bucket and carried back a tray of glasses. When I entered the kitchen, Lisa dumped a jar of store brand salsa into a chipped bowl and shouted, "You have no napkins. People will be here any minute!"

I placed the ice and glasses on the counter. "Let me try the boathouse."

I was in the walk-in pantry when the boathouse's sliding glass door opened. I looked up.

"Hey, Ellen. What're you looking for?"

"Napkins."

"I think I took them on the boat," my uncle Paul said as he reached into the fridge for a six pack of beer. "Come on, let's get them." Paul, with his goofy fishing hat and baggy shorts, looked much younger than his fifty years.

"You're not really going fishing, are you?" I asked as we walked to his new sailboat. Fiberglass and over fifty feet, it was a great improvement over the ramshackle wooden rowboats we used as kids. In the past few weeks Paul had softened towards me and seemed to have forgiven me for not coming home last Christmas, and the Christmas before that. I was relieved since, aside from Kitty, I'd felt closest to Paul growing up. Only seven years my senior, Paul was more of a brother to me than an uncle and I knew he felt closer to me than to Danny. Although Paul was a popular athlete at our local high school and ran with the "cool" crowd, he'd always tolerated me following him around like a puppy dog. Unfortunately, we'd grown apart over the years as a result of my move to D.C. and my feelings towards Lisa. If my mother's illness accomplished one good thing, it had brought us closer. If I could only hold my tongue and not tell Lisa to fuck off for the next few weeks, then this closeness had a chance of becoming permanent.

He smiled. "Of course I am."

"But what about the tour? Lisa seems to think that you have a meeting this afternoon."

He laughed. "Yeah, I have a meeting with some fish." Paul climbed onto the boat, held out his hand and pulled me aboard. I went below deck to the small kitchen area, and just as I found a damp pile of napkins, the boat lurched away from the dock.

"Hey, what's going on? Lisa will have a fit if I don't bring back these napkins."

"Lisa will have a fit anyway," he shouted over the boat's motor. "Besides, I need a fishing buddy and you haven't come out with me since you've been back."

A small rowboat manned by two teenage boys bobbed in our wake as we tore away from the Centershore bridge out toward the Sound. As we moved further from the shore, the heavy sour air of low tide was replaced by a cool breeze. I sat down and stretched my hand over the side. The roiling water splashed my arms and face.

Paul settled on a small cove just east of Northport harbor and dropped anchor. "It's a little late in the day, but I sometimes have luck over here. Want a beer?"

I squinted in the now hot afternoon sun. "Sure."

Paul handed me a beer before he began his ritual of baiting the hook and casting off. I'd seen him do this a hundred times, so I looked out onto the water and savored the view and the beer. Once his rod was settled into its holder, Paul sat next to and tapped his bottle against mine. "Cheers. Here's to successfully avoiding yet another house tour."

"I'll drink to that. Although, I'm not sure how you define success since I'm sure I'll get an earful when I get back. Lisa might even call Molly so it can be a two-prong attack."

"Oh, Lisa'll be fine and Molly, well, I thought she had thawed a little towards you."

"Little being the key phrase. No, I guess that's not fair. She's trying. And she did finally identify Mr. Mystery."

Paul almost dropped his beer. "What? She knows who your father is? I don't believe it."

"Believe it. My father was in the police academy with Bobby Connelly and later they were partners. Molly and Bobby even went to his wedding."

"Wait a minute, this guy knew all this time that he had a kid and never came to see you?"

"No, that's the strange thing. He didn't know I existed until I went to see him last week." I took another swig and finished the beer. "You want another one?"

"Yeah, but let me get it." Paul reached into the cooler, expertly opened the bottles and handed one to me. "I can't believe you met him. So what's his name? Where does he live?"

"Name's Denis Lenihan and he lives in Levittown."

"Jesus, El. Remember we used to pretend he was an astronaut? I can't believe he was a cop from Long Island, although I guess being a cop is kind of exciting. So what's he like? Is he a hard ass like Uncle Bobby was?"

The sun came out from behind the clouds. Whether from the heat or the conversation, my forehead was slick with sweat. I held the cold bottle against my head for a moment. "Broken is probably the best word I can use to describe him."

"Broken? What does that mean?"

"Just that, broken. His wife died last year, two of his kids don't really talk to him. He says he was a heavy drinker, an alcoholic really. He just stopped drinking this year."

Paul looked like he unsure what to say. "Well, that's good El, that he stopped drinking."

"Yeah, I guess it is for him." I stared out into the horizon.

"So what now?"

"Nothing." I didn't meet Paul's eyes. "He doesn't want to see me again."

"No, Ellie, that can't be. Why wouldn't he want to have you for a daughter?"

"He says he can't. It would upset his kids."

"Oh, Ellie." Paul gathered me in his arms. "It's his loss, sweetheart. It's his loss."

The stress of the last few months caught up with me and I began to cry. Paul stroked my hair while various fish stole his bait. We sat together for at least twenty minutes until I was all cried out.

"Feel better?" Paul wiped away my tears with a rough paper towel as if I was his ten year old daughter Kathleen and not a forty-three year old woman.