Death of an Irish Diva by Mollie Cox Bryan Page B

her and her family to enjoy over the summer. She sighed.
    â€œHave you looked at the book yet?” Jon said as he walked into the kitchen with a bag of groceries and began to put them away.
    â€œOh, no,” she said. “I promised we’d look at it together.”
    It sat on the kitchen table, mocking Beatrice the entire time that Jon was at the store.
    He pulled up a chair and sat close to her.
    â€œJesus, Jon,” she said, placing her elbows on the table. “Give me some room, would you?”
    â€œOh, sorry,” he said and frowned. “Just get to it, woman.” He raised an eyebrow.
    She opened the tattered cover of the book. Its mildew scent made her nose burn. She could barely make out the writing on the page. “My Memory Book, 1871,” was written in a beautiful, flourishing handwriting so faintly, but still there.
    Light came through her lace curtain in patterned streams. A few dust particles flew around, but a hush came over the room. Beatrice clasped her hands, as if praying, and brought them to her lips. She almost didn’t want to breathe. She wanted to savor each bit of this moment.
    â€œJust lovely,” Jon said in a whisper.
    But there was no name there.
    She carefully turned the next page. There, in the same script, was a name: Willa Rose McGlashen.
    Beatrice gasped.
    â€œWhat? What is it?” Jon asked.
    â€œThe McGlashens were one of the founding families of Cumberland Creek,” she managed to say. “But we’ve never been able to prove that the McGlashen line had any progeny that carried the name. Looks like Emily may have been right. She may have come from our McGlashens.”
    â€œThis is eighteen seventy-one, just after the Civil War. Maybe there are records,” Jon said.
    â€œYes! Maybe those medals will tell us something! Maybe there was a McGlashen in the Civil War!”
    Beatrice sat back a bit in her chair, mulling over the possibilities. A McGlashen connection in her backyard? The historical society had never been able to figure out where the old McGlashen place existed. Maybe her house had been built on top of it. Maybe the old foundation in her backyard was the old McGlashen place.
    Jon touched her hand gently, as if to awaken her from her revelry. “Do go on, Bea. Turn the page.”
    The next page was translucent rice paper, but a face stared back at them through the paper. The paper swooshed quietly as she turned it. The next page held a photo of a beautiful young woman.
    â€œIs this her? Is this Willa?” Jon wondered aloud.
    â€œI don’t know. . . . Could be her mother, sister, aunt.... Maybe it says something on the back.”
    â€œInitials WRM. Hmm. It would appear that this is Willa,” he said, running his finger along the edge of the thick picture. “It’s almost like a postcard, eh?”
    â€œYes, that’s exactly what a lot of older photos are,” she explained. “People would send them through the mail.”
    The woman looked to be in her late twenties. Since the photo was sepia toned, it was difficult to ascertain exactly the color of her hair, but it was dark and was pulled back into a severe bun, with a few escaping wispy curls on either side of her face. Her eyes were light and heavy lidded, as if she was tired or sad. Hers was a heart-shaped face, with high cheekbones and a high forehead. A slice of a shadow fell along her cheekbone line. Beatrice couldn’t tell if it was rouge or just the lighting. Something about her gave Beatrice pause. She looked utterly . . . familiar. As if she’d just seen her yesterday. Now, who did this woman look like?
    Her thick lips were almost in a frown, but not quite. Folks didn’t really smile for photos then. And really, what was there to smile about? The years of the Civil War and just after were hard on the whole country. Especially the South. Even though the Shenandoah Valley was spared compared to Richmond and farther