Page 15 of Road Trip
“Why?” Maeve asked. “Why not put it in the bank, where it would earn interest?”
“I think it gave her a secret thrill. She got a kick out of the idea of ripping off Uncle Sam. You know how Mary Helen was. She did hate paying taxes.”
Therese took the coffee can and removed the lid. She reached inand pulled out a wad of cash. A couple of twenty-dollar bills fluttered to the floor. She raised an eyebrow. “Do you know how much is in here?”
Keith blushed a little. “I took the liberty of counting it. There’s a little over nine thousand dollars.”
“That’s all?” Therese asked. “For real? That’s not even enough for a down payment on a used Yugo.”
“For real,” Keith said, taking the coffee can back. “Also, there’s a catch. One little stipulation.”
The sisters rolled their eyes in unison.
“Your mom hated the idea that you two were ‘estranged’—her word, not mine. It broke her heart. Not long after she retired, she asked me to come over here for lunch. That’s when she showed me this coffee can. She had a plan for this money. A plan for the two of you.
“‘Keith,’ she said, ‘I can’t stand that Maeve and Therese are fighting. Their daddy would be heartbroken if he were still alive. I’ve tried talking to them, but those two are stubborn. Almost as stubborn as me.’”
“Nobody was as stubborn as Mary Helen Dunagin,” Maeve said.
“You got that right,” Therese agreed. “So what was her evil plan?”
“I’m coming to that,” Keith said, sipping his coffee. “She had her heart set on the two of you using this money to go to Ireland. Together. Like a road trip, in her words. She wanted you to go to County Wicklow, where her people were from. To spend time together and figure out how much the two of you have in common, instead of all the ways you’re different.”
“Nope. No way,” Maeve said. “I’ve got to get back to work. Especially now that it looks like we won’t be getting a dime out of this house.”
“For once, I agree,” Therese said. “Even if I wanted to go to Ireland, which I don’t, that’s not nearly enough money for the two of us to get there.”
“Right. We’ll just split up the money. She can maybe get her carrepaired, and if I’m lucky, there might be enough to catch up on some of my bills. Then, maybe we’ll use some of it to go out to dinner together,” Maeve said. “Before Terri blows town again.”
“Who said anything about blowing town?” Therese said, scowling.
“Sorry, but your mom made me promise.” Keith clutched the coffee can to his chest. “And I made her a sacred vow. This money is for your trip to Ireland. And I’ll tell you what. To sweeten the pot, I’ll match what she left you. That’s like eighteen thousand dollars. You can take a hell of a trip for that much money. Stay in first-class hotels, really see the country.”
Maeve chewed the inside of her lip, trying to summon patience. “Uncle Keith, you’re not hearing me. I’ve been on unpaid leave for three months. Your offer is very sweet and generous, but I absolutely cannot take off any more time from work. This”—she gestured around the living room—“has swallowed up my life for the past year. Even before Mama’s illness, I was spending every spare minute over here, bringing her groceries, making sure her bills were paid and she was eating right.”
She found herself fighting back tears. “I just want to be done with all of this. And if I sound like a cold, heartless bitch, well, maybe that’s what I am.”
Keith Dunagin didn’t look surprised. He leaned forward and patted his niece’s hand. “I understand. This is a lot to take in. And maybe I shouldn’t have sprung the mortgage stuff on you so suddenly. Or the trip.” He carefully placed the coffee can back in the paper sack and stood.
“I’ll leave you two alone now. I’m sure you’ve got a lot to talk about. Call me if you change your mind, okay?”
“Wait!” Therese protested. “That’s it? You’re actually not going to give us the money Mama left for us? How the hell is that okay?” She glanced over at her sister, who was blowing her nose on a sodden tissue. “Tell him, Maeve. Tell him we want the money. It’s ours. Mama meant for us to have it.”
“Shut up, Terri,” Maeve said wearily. She walked down the hallway to the bedroom and slammed the door behind her for emphasis.
Alone now, Theresestudied the portrait of Lady Geraldine. The signature in the lower right corner was tiny and the paint faded. She snapped a photo with her phone, then enlarged the frame, squinting to try to make out the writing. She really was going to have to break down and buy herself a pair of reading glasses.
Then she remembered the table by the front door. It was the place Mary Helen always dropped the mail before she sorted it, and the home for seven or eight pairs of dollar-store readers, because Mary Helen could never keep track of her glasses.
With the glasses sliding down the tip of her nose, Therese traced the signature with a fingertip. “V DeJongh,” it read. Or maybe theVwas really aU?
She typed “V DeJongh” and “artist” into the phone’s search bar, and “U DeJongh.”
“Ahh,” she mumbled. There was a listing for a Valerian DeJongh. Born 1868, died 1929, Devonshire, Great Britain.
Studied at the National Academy of Art, followed by further studies in Madrid and Paris. Admitted to the Royal Academy of Art. Exhibited at Galerie Paul Guillaume in Paris and the National Gallery in Berlin. Named MVO in 1902. Principally painted portraits of wealthy politicians and leading members of society in Great Britain and the Continent, although he did occasionally paint landscapes and still lifes. Best known for hisPortrait of Ernest, Lord Philpott, which hangs in the National Gallery. Married briefly to Lady Clementine Gordon in 1912 but divorced soon after. No children.
Inspired by the success of this search, Therese typed “Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh” into the search bar and was enthralled by thefirst entry her search yielded. It was a color photo of the portrait. The same one that was now leaning against the time-worn sofa in Mary Helen Dunagin’s living room.
