Page 153 of Road Trip
“Whoa,” Scotty said, loosening his tie and taking a step backward. His eyes traveled over her, and he whistled softly.
“To what do I owe this magnificent greeting?” he asked as she pressed herself against him.
“We’re celebrating. I got the paperwork today. The bank has written off the loan, and as of today, this house belongs to me, free and clear.”
“Fantastic.” Scotty took a sip of his drink and smacked his lips in appreciation. “Like this martini. Best I ever had.”
“I thought you said I was the best you’d ever had,” she said, winking at him as she took him by the hand and led him into her new not-pink bedroom suite.
“Listen! Did youhear that?”
Therese raised her head and stopped what she was doing.
“I don’t hear anything,” Scotty said. “Go back to what you were doing. Don’t ever stop what you were doing.”
Therese sat up. “There’s someone at the front door, Scott. Someone’s trying to get in the house.”
“Shit.” He groped in the half darkness for his glasses. Heard them drop onto the newly uncovered hardwood floor. Now he was on the floor on his hands and knees, searching for them, when he heard the front door open.
“They’re coming in,” Therese said, her voice frantic. “Do something.”
He found the glasses, donned them, then pulled on his underwear.
“You don’t have a gun, do you?” he whispered. They heard footsteps, moving through the living room, and now coming down the hallway toward the bedroom.
“No, I don’t have a gun. Why would I have a gun?”
“You’re probably the only woman in Georgia who doesn’t have one,” Scotty said, looking around the room for something to fend off their intruder.
Finally, his eyes settled on the corner of the room where Therese had paused her painting project. A canvas drop cloth covered the floor and on it stood a gallon of Benjamin Moore premium interior latex, a paint pan, roller brush, and the steel prybar she’d used to remove the baseboards.
The footsteps were coming closer. He seized the tool. “Hide!” he hissed as he inched toward the door, prybar raised over his head, poised to strike, while Therese, paralyzed with fear, could only pull the sheet over her head.
With agonizing slowness, the doorknob turned, and suddenly the overhead light snapped on.
Maeve Dunagin stood in the doorway, staring at the crowbar-wielding man standing in her mother’s bedroom dressed only in a pair of Minions boxer briefs.
“Scotty? What the fuck? Where’s my sister?”
“Here!” Therese yanked the sheet off her head.
Maeve took in the scene before her: the scattered clothes, empty martini glasses, and paper plates with pizza crusts. “I guess I don’t need to ask what you two have been up to.”
After they’d dressed,they joined Maeve in the kitchen, where they found her pouring herself a glass of wine.
“What are you doing here? Why didn’t you let me know you were coming home?”
“I tried,” Maeve said. “I called and called, but your phone kept sending me directly to voice mail.”
She pointed at the cell phone lying on the counter near the gin bottle. “You have to actually plug the phone in to charge it and make it work. And it also helps if you check your email occasionally.”
Therese picked up her phone. The screen was dark. She shrugged. “Sorry. I’ve been kind of busy with painting and yard work. But if I’d known you were coming, I would have picked you up at the airport.”
“It’s okay. I took a Lyft.”
Maeve glanced over at Scotty, debating whether to tell him his jeans were unzipped, or that his shirt was inside-out. She decided to cut him some slack because he was so adorably nerdy, his red hair standing up in tufts, the milky skin on his neck peppered with what looked like love bites.
“I didn’t mean to walk in on you guys, but I didn’t see a car in the driveway.”
