Page 21 of Road Trip
“Who’s the fancy lady?”
“This portrait has hung in our living room my whole life. I need to find out if it’s the real deal or not.”
“And that’s why you’re asking about Wyllona?”
“Well, yeah. I was wondering if maybe you’d call her and ask her to take a look.”
“No way. She’s pretty pissed at me right now.”
“What’d you do?”
“It’s more what I didn’t do. She came into town over the weekend, and figured I’d drop everything to make a big fuss over her. But hey, I got my pride.”
“She’s here, right now? In Savannah?”
“At her dad’s place out on Wilmington Island. It was his sixtieth birthday.”
“Call her up, okay?” Therese said. “I need to see if she’ll take a look at my painting.”
“You call her,” Thad said. “She ain’t talking to me.”
“Gimme her number,” Therese grumbled. “And another hit of that Blanton’s.”
“Who did yousay this is?” Wyllona asked, when she finally answered her phone.
“Therese. Dunagin. I was a couple years ahead of you at St. Mary’s. My sister Maeve was probably a year ahead of you.”
“Yeah, I remember Maeve. Senior class vice president, right?”
“I guess. Listen, Wyllona, your boyfriend Thad gave me your number, and I have a big favor I want to ask you.”
“Ex-boyfriend,” Wyllona shot back. “Where are you calling from? Pinkie’s?”
“Well, yeah.”
“Is he standing right there?”
“Uh, sort of.”
“Are you the one he’s been running around with?”
“What? No! I haven’t lived here in years. I just came into town over the weekend for my mom’s funeral.”
“Hmmph. Well, you can tell Thaddeus I said to delete my number from his phone. And you can also tell him I don’t appreciate his sharing my personal information with any chick who happens to walk into Pinkie Masters.”
“Wait!” Therese said. “Please don’t hang up. It’s not Thad’s fault. I kinda begged him to give me your number, because I’m desperate for information about an old family portrait my sister and I just inherited.”
“I don’t do appraisals.” Wyllona’s tone was icy. “Especially over the phone, with strangers.”
“I’m not really looking for an appraisal,” Therese said, the words coming out in a rush. “This portrait has been in my family for over a hundred years. It’s signed, and I looked up the artist, and from what I can tell, his work is pretty valuable. I saw a piece inThe New York Timesthat a portrait that’s just like mine sold at auction for over a million dollars recently. The artist’s name is Valerian DeJongh. He studied at the Royal Academy of Art—”
“I know where he studied,” Wyllona cut her short. “And there’s no way you could actually have a real DeJongh. His work is exhibited in major galleries around the world, and every portrait he ever painted has been catalogued and well-documented. Who is the portrait supposedly of?”
“Lady Geraldine Fitzhugh,” Therese said. “She was my great-great-grandmother. From Ireland.”
“You’re right about one thing,” Wyllona said, after a long pause. “That portrait did just sell at Sotheby’s. So yours must be a copy. Or a forgery. Doesn’t matter which.”
“That can’t be,” Therese said, not bothering to hide the desperation she was feeling. “My mother’s grandmother brought this portrait with her when she came to New York from Ireland. Listen, I know it’s a lot to ask, but could you please just take a look at it? Please? As one St. Mary’s girl to another? Please?”
