Page 155 of Road Trip
“Yeah, my finances are getting a little tight too,” Maeve said. “But we need to be cognizant of the fact that a portrait of Lady G already sold, at the top of the market. We think our painting is better, but potential buyers might not know that.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
“I was thinking we counter the offer. See if we could get the buyer up to eight hundred thousand. By selling direct, we save on the commission and other seller’s costs.”
Therese glanced at Scotty. “What do you think?”
“Is your solicitor looking to take a cut of the sale price?”
“See why I’m crazy about the guy?” Therese asked. “Hotandsmart.”
“That is a great question. Since he’s the executor of Esme’sestate, I think he’s already being paid handsomely,” Maeve said. “And he’s aware we’re not his garden-variety heiresses. I’ll just flat out tell him, we want to net at least eight hundred thousand.”
“I like it. Simple and timely,” Therese said.
“Good. I’ll text Billy Mac and let him know. In the meantime, where am I sleeping tonight?”
EPILOGUE
Six Months Later
Therese’s breath caught in her throat when she walked into Maeve’s bedroom at the gardener’s cottage.
Maeve stood in front of a full-length gold-framed Victorian mirror, bathed in sunlight. She turned slowly to face her sister.
“You look amazing,” Therese said. “Turn around again and let me see the back.”
The gown was creamy satin with three-quarter sleeves, a deeply cut simple bateau neckline, and approximately sixty tiny satin-covered buttons marching down the back that cinched the bride’s waist to stunning effect.
Maeve did another twirl, demonstrating her favorite thing about the dress. “And it has pockets!”
Both Maeve and Therese had rejected their mother’s wedding dress as too small, too fussy, and too “not Maeve.”
Three months ago, on her last trip home to Savannah, they’d browsed every bridal shop in town, but it was Aunt Frannie who’d come up with the perfect solution.
Fran and Bernie had arrived at the Blueberry Hill house with a huge cardboard box, which they’d carried into the house with deliberate pomp.
“This,” Frannie said, removing the lid of the cardboard box with a ceremonial flourish, “is Nana’s wedding dress. It’s been up in the attic all these years and I’d almost forgotten about it.”
Bernie folded back layers and layers of brittle tissue paper and lifted Julia Mary’s dress out of the box and shook it.
All four of the women sighed in unison as the satin layers rustled to the floor.
“Yes,” Maeve said. “Definitely yes.”
“Hell yes,” Therese chimed in.
The wedding gown had been her maternal grandmother’s, but the bridal veil was her mother’s. It was tulle, fingertip length, with edging of re-embroidered Alencon lace. Therese pinned the veil to Maeve’s updo.
“You look like a dream, Maevey,” Therese said. “Like a fairy princess.”
Her sister squeezed Therese’s hand. “You’re not looking too shabby yourself.”
Therese, the maid of honor, was wearing a vintage sleeveless periwinkle-blue silk slip dress with a dropped waist and a fine gossamer netting overlay decorated with hand-sewn sequins set in flower patterns. She’d accessorized the dress with a long rope of pearls that had been Esme’s, and opera-length kid gloves in the same hue of blue.
They’d found the dress, along with dozens of other examples of period clothing, packed away in the boxes of what Esme had termed “rubbish” sent over to the gardener’s cottage by her stepmother after the manor house at Tarrymore was turned over to the National Trust.
Therese had laid claim to the dress immediately, and both sisters had been thrilled when they found old black-and-white family photographs showing Delia Rossington wearing the same gown at a fancy dress party in the Tarrymore ballroom.
