Free Buried in a Bog by Sheila Connolly Page B

want to listen, I’m happy to talk.”
    “I’d like that,” Maura said. “Where was it Gran lived? Or she was born? If she ever told me, I’ve forgotten the names.”
    “She was one of the Ballyriree Sullivans, a mile or so to the west. Now, your grandfather, James, he came from up toward Drinagh. He’s buried in the old cemetery there; not the one by the new church, but the one up the hill a ways from it, where the old church used to be. With his people.”
    “I’ll have to see if I can find it.”
    “I’d go with you, dear, but I’m afraid my old bones aren’tup to it, this early in the spring. Maybe when the weather turns warm. Heavens, what am I thinking? I near forgot about the tea!”
    “Can I help?” Maura offered.
    “No, I’m good. Don’t trouble yourself.” She stood up and went to the kitchen, where Maura could hear the clink of china as Mrs. Nolan filled the teapot and arranged cups and sugar and milk.
    Gran hadn’t talked much about her early life in Ireland, or her marriage, Maura reflected. As a result, Maura hadn’t given much thought to the people her gran had left behind. After all, it had been decades, and somehow Maura had assumed that those people were either dead or scattered. Now her shadowy grandfather was taking shape in her mind, and she had a sneaking suspicion there were other people, living or dead, who were somehow connected to her. In Boston she couldn’t have named all her neighbors who lived in the triple-deckers on either side of her. Yet here there were any number of people who knew her, or at least knew of her. She wasn’t sure how she felt about that. Mrs. Nolan emerged from the kitchen carrying a tray and walking carefully. She set it down on the table. “There you go. I baked the bread fresh this morning.” She sat down with a small sigh of relief. “Milk and sugar?”
    Maura accepted her cup from Mrs. Nolan’s unsteady hand. “Gran sent you a lot of letters over the years?” Maura asked.
    “She did.” Mrs. Nolan nodded. “She told me when your father married and when he died, but after that it was a dark time for her. She only started up again after a year or two had passed.”
    “She must have had her hands full, working and taking care of me.”
    “Ah, but you were the light of her life! Her very words. She wanted to do right by you, but it wasn’t easy. She was sorry that you didn’t go to university.” Mrs. Nolan looked at her as if asking for an explanation.
    “There was no money. Oh, I know, there were community colleges, and I did take some classes, but I was lousy at useful things like accounting or computer classes, and mainly I had to work to help out. Boston’s an expensive place to live.”
    “She told me. She was so grateful that you wanted to help, but it still made her sad that you ended your schooling. She said you were a bright girl.”
    Maura found herself fighting tears—again. Why did that keep happening? She had always felt that she’d let Gran down by not going to college, but the money just hadn’t been there. They’d never really sat down and talked about it, but they both knew the cold realities. Apparently she had fallen into the same pattern as her grandmother: don’t look back, just keep moving forward and hope that things improve. Was that any way to live a life? Her grandmother had died alone, except for Maura, leaving barely enough money to bury her. She’d been only seventy, and if things had been different, she could have looked forward to more healthy years ahead of her. Instead she’d worn herself out, sacrificed her health just to keep her head above water and take care of Maura. It wasn’t fair.
    “She loved you very much,” Mrs. Nolan said softly. “She wrote far more about you than about herself. She was so proud of you.”
    “Thank you,” Maura said, then took a swallow of the dark tea to cover the lump in her throat. She’d done as much as she could for her grandmother, but it hadn’t been