Page 23 of Road Trip
“Possible, but not likely. The only way you’ll ever be able to prove your painting has real value is to absolutely nail down the provenance.”
“Huh?”
“Provenance means the chain of ownership of this painting. Like its pedigree. You’ll have to be able to trace your Lady Geraldine all the way back to the beginning. Who commissioned the portrait? Where was it painted? Experts would want assurance the painting isn’t stolen.”
Therese bristled. “Stolen? Why would anyone think that?”
Wyllona gestured at the portrait. “This is supposedly a member of the British aristocracy. So how in the hell did she end up spending the last what, seventy years, hanging in someone’s living room in Savannah, Georgia?”
“She’s not stolen,” Therese insisted.
Wyllona wiped beads of perspiration from her forehead. “Jesus! I forgot how hot it is down here in the summer. I gotta get out of this heat.”
“So that’s it?” Therese asked. “Can you give me any idea of what the painting is worth?”
“I told you before, I don’t do appraisals. Any number I’d give you would be suspect, unless and until you come up with a foolproof chain of ownership for Lady Geraldine here.”
“And how do I do that?”
“Not my problem,” Wyllona said. “But do me a favor. When you go back to Pinkie’s, tell your buddy Thaddeus to lose my phone number.”
CHAPTER 10
On the way back to her mother’s house from the lawyer’s office, Maeve realized she hadn’t eaten all day. She pulled into the drive-through line at Carey Hilliard’s on Waters Avenue and ordered a chopped pork barbecue sandwich, onion rings, and half-and-half iced tea. But when she reached into her billfold to pay, she frowned.
She’d gotten two hundred dollars from the ATM the day before, but as she counted the folded bills, she realized she was missing a hundred dollars. She handed the drive-through girl a twenty, and silently fumed while she waited for her change, because she had a very good idea how that money had gone missing.
By the time she’d gotten back to the house, she’d devoured the sandwich and onion rings and sucked down half the iced tea. She’d called Therese’s phone twice, but of course, her sister didn’t pick up.
Maeve used her mother’s house key to open the toolshed in the carport. It smelled of gas from the lawn mower and was crammed with her father’s long-unused tools, rakes and shovels, and a narrow wire shelving unit groaning under the weight of half a dozen cardboard banker’s boxes.
She hit pay dirt with the second-to-last box on the shelf. She lugged it into the house and dumped it out on the coffee table in the living room. Sorting through the contents, she recognized her mother’s idea of a filing system. Bills—utility, credit card, even the tuition bills from St. Mary’s—all still in their original envelopesgoing back to the 1990s, were each stamped PAID and bundled together with now-brittle rubber bands.
She felt a familiar twinge of grief as she thumbed through the bundles of condolence cards sent after her father’s death decades earlier. Another bundle held cheerier greeting cards marking birthdays, Mary Helen’s and Maeve’s and Therese’s; Christmas; Easter; St. Patrick’s Day; and Mother’s Day.
Her pulse quickened when she found a bundle her mother had labeled with a paper scrap:Charitable contributions. She found thank-you letters and receipts from half a dozen do-good organizations whose names mostly started with St.—St. Jude’s Children’s Hospital, St. Vincent DePaul, St. Joseph’s Hospital, and of course, St. Mary’s School.
Mary Helen had been nothing if not steadfast, in her faith, as well as her charity. But there were no letters or receipts from Showers of Blessings Cathedral, Brother Jerome’s organization.
With a sigh, she gathered up the bundles and began dumping them back into the box, but at the bottom of the pile, she discovered a slender packet of colorful picture postcards that had somehow escaped her notice.
She flipped over the top card, which pictured the iconic hillside Hollywood sign. She recognized her sister’s handwriting and noted the postmark—from 2015.
Hi Mama. I’m in Hollywood, auditioning for a pilot for an NBC show. Please cross your fingers and rattle those rosary beads so I get the part. Love, Therese.
There was a card showing the lit-up Las Vegas casino strip with a postmark dated three months later.
Hi Mama. Bad news. The TV pilot didn’t work out. Networks suck! But one of the girls I met in LA got me a job at one of the casinos here. I’ll put a quarter in the slot machines for you. Love, Therese.
The next postcard came two months later, from Chicago.
Hi Mama. Thanks bunches for the money order. You’re the best dam mama in the world. Can you believe I’m in a touring company of Guys and Dolls? Man is it cold in Chicago. Guess I know why they call it the windy city. Next stop: Kansas City. I’ll order a big-ol’ ribeye steak in your honor. Love, Therese.
Maeve checked. There was no postcard from Kansas City. After a two-year gap the next one was a postcard of the Empire State Building.
Hi Mama. I got your check for the new headshots, and you are still the best mama in the whole dam world. Everything in New York is soooo expensive. I’ve been staying with four other girls in this gross roach-ridden apartment, and you wouldn’t believe how much it costs. But I’m working at a little diner, so I eat for free, and my new agent has me auditioning all day every day. Good news is I got a callback for a deodorant ad today. Whoo-hoo! Love, Therese.
The last postcard in the bunch was postmarked Miami, November 2021, and featured palm trees and a glowing sunset.
