green eyes blinked open. “Where would you like to start?”
He shook his head. What she was talking on about?
One corner of her mouth turned up. “Where do you want to go this afternoon?”
“Oh.” He finished his coffee, dredging up his plan. “I’d like to check out cemeteries.”
“Good.” She shifted her bag higher on her shoulder. “Which one?”
“The one with all the statues.”
“Bonaventure. I love going out there.”
“And the Catholic Cemetery.” He set his empty mug on the tray set up for dirty dishes.
“Here’s a little-known fact.” She raised an eyebrow. “The colony of Georgia forbade the practice of Catholicism.”
“Really?”
“It didn’t change until after the Revolutionary War.” Her smile was coming back.
“Fascinating.” Having Dolley around was going to help focus his research.
“We can’t do both cemeteries justice in an afternoon.” She set her mug next to his. “You’ll need to choose—statues or Irish?”
“Statues.”
“Grab your cameras. I can’t go there without taking tons of pictures.”
He pointed to his camera bag. “Ready.”
“Okay, then.” Dolley led him to a small Volkswagen.
“I pushed the passenger seat back as far as it could go.” Dolley glanced over at him. “You have a lot of leg.”
He tucked himself into her car. “Next time we take my rental.”
“What are you driving?”
“Audi sedan.”
Her grin was full and happy. “Will you let me drive?”
He shook his head. “I don’t think I can.”
“Drat.” She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other on the stick shift. “We’ll circle a lot of the squares. This is Columbia Square. That’s Wormsloe Fountain. It came from the Wormsloe plantation, which was down on the Isle of Hope. It was owned by—” she tapped her nose “—Noble Jones. In the mid-1700s.”
She continued to give him background as they passed through the historic district.
“How do you remember it all?” he asked. “I wouldn’t be this good a guide if you came to Ireland.”
“Oh, I wish I could see Ireland.” Her fingers drummed on the stick shift. “I do the historical write-ups for the B and B’s blog.”
“I’m impressed.”
As Dolley drove, she spouted off information like she was a fountain. She intrigued him. Easy on the eyes, and she smiled—all the time.
He wanted what she had. She and her sisters worked together. Their family owned a mansion their ancestors had built. He wanted to be part of something that—deep. Have roots sunk into bedrock, so no one could yank them free.
What would his life have been like if his parents had survived their car accident? Would he have smiled more? Been happier?
He would never know. He’d been torn away from everything and everyone he loved and forced to live with Seamus.
“Liam?” Dolley jostled his elbow. “Where’d you go? You’re frowning.”
“Sorry.” He forced himself back to the car. “I hope I didn’t miss anything.”
“Maybe I should tape my tour guide talks.”
“Would you?”
She shook her head. “I was kidding.”
“I’m serious.” He turned toward her, their knees bumping. “Do you know much of how your ancestors got here?”
“Us? Our immigration was generations back. I don’t even know how many.” She shook her head. “Well, I do. My four-time great grandfather James Fitzgerald left Ireland in 1830. Came with some money and invested it in warehouses and shipping. Eventually, he was a part owner in the bank.”
“Facts just roll off your tongue. You’re some kind of walking computer, right?”
Her jaw clenched. “Something like that.”
They left the historic district. Squares no longer appeared every few blocks, but Spanish moss still swung from the massive oak trees, sheltering the streets. She pulled under a stone archway and into a small parking lot.
“We’ll walk from here.” She pulled her bag crossways across her chest. The strap molded her sweater to her breasts.
He shouldn’t admire the effect. She was essentially an employee.
He unfolded his legs. Grabbing his bag, he waved. “Lead the way.”
They walked between two weathered rock posts. Roads angled away from a building labeled Information. Avenues of oaks dressed with moss shaded the drives.
The cemetery stretched far as he could see. What a difference from the small graveyard set on a Kilkee hill where he’d buried his godfather.
He should find Michael FitzGerald’s grave in Ireland and see if he could find James Fitzgerald’s grave here in Savannah. He could use the two graves in the documentary.
Dolley led him deep into the cemetery.
Small stone borders, wrought iron fences or rounded tiles separated most of the family plots. There were headstones and markers. Some monuments had piles of stones on the memorials.
“Do they still bury people here?” His voice lowered in respect.
She nodded.
Their tree-lined road narrowed, changing to dirt, shells and sand. Birds serenaded them from the trees. In every direction, statues of angels, people and obelisks had blackened with soot or lichens. Some plots had signs that said Do Not Maintain. In those sections, headstones were tipped and weeds were knee-deep. Others were trimmed and looked like good spots for a garden party with their conveniently placed stone benches.
“When my great-grandmamma was young, they would picnic here. It was a social event.”
“They’d eat lunch in a cemetery?” On second thought, it sounded morbid.
“Over on the banks of the river.” Her smile crinkled her eyes. “We like eccentricities in Savannah.”
At a crossroads, signs pointed to different graves. Dolley stopped in front of a black iron picket fence. “This is Little Gracie Watson, probably the most
