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truth. Or, they’re telling what they believe to be the truth. I also know that sometimes ancestors will do whatever they can to keep something they’re ashamed of a secret, but the data on my family tree was all documented. I only used the family legends as background. The documents were what hold up all of the branches.
    â€œDoes she even own a computer?” I asked.
    He looked at me weirdly and shook his head. “That’s not the point. She has information that suggests that John Robert Keith may not be the son of Nate Keith.”
    My head spun. Not the son of Nate Keith? I’ll tell you right now that Nate Keith was a son of a bitch, but he was still responsible for me being here, and we can’t pick our ancestors. Among other things, Nate Keith was vindictive and beat his wife. I’d love to not have his blood running through my veins, but I do. It’s who I am, regardless of whether it makes me happy. I’d had customers come to me before, trying to manipulate data so that they could be descended from the person they thought they ought to be descended from. I had a friend who’d started tracing her family tree just so she could find the famous French theater actress that her mother claimed her great-grandmother had been, only to find a family tree full of Irish and Germans, no French, and definitely no famous French actress.
    In my own family, I’d been told many times how my great-grandmother had died when my grandma was only four years old. But then I found her obituary and death record, which showed she’d died five years later than I’d been told she had. My grandma was actually nine when her mother died, not four. How does that happen? There are all sorts of reasons, but I had two independent records giving the exact same date, and the obituary couldn’t exactly have been faked, since it was published when the event actually happened.
    At any rate, I had mixed feelings about Nate Keith. I despised the man, but then, all of his ancestors that I had painstakenly researched wouldn’t be my ancestors at all if he suddenly wasn’t my great-grandfather. Just off the top of my head, I could think of at least two really cool families that I’d no longer be associated with, and I wouldn’t be descended from the highland clan of the Keiths. This bothered me. Which was ridiculous, I knew. Because I was being just like the people I complained about. My ancestors would be who they would be, regardless. So the angst I would feel over no longer being a Keith was sort of … silly. But I felt it all the same. For one thing, my maiden name wouldn’t even be Keith. This irritated me, to say the least, and my irritation was a bit more evident than I intended when I answered Mr. Morgan.
    â€œPhoebe is a nutcase,” I said. “What reason she’d even have to reresearch the family is beyond me.”
    â€œThe music, Mrs. O’Shea. It’s in the music. I’m afraid, whether you like it or not, we’re cousins.”
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œI’m saying that your grandpa, John Robert Keith, was actually the son of Scott Morgan.”
    â€œBased on Phoebe’s discovery?” I asked, crossing my arms.
    â€œThat and more. Look, I want you to listen to this CD,” he said, and handed it to me.
    â€œWhat is it?” I asked.
    â€œIt’s a recording of the Morgan Family Players,” he said. “Never-released recordings. Your grandpa is the main fiddle player on at least four songs.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œJust listen, you’ll know. There’s more where this came from. After you’ve listened to it, please call me. I’ll meet you,” he said.
    â€œMr. Morgan…”
    â€œCall me Glen.”
    â€œGlen, I’ll be honest. If it came from Phoebe, I’m skeptical. I love her, but she’s not always all there. She once said that a rosebush told her to bet four