Chapter 6
“You should call Scotty,” Therese repeated. “If you don’t, I will. Think about it, Maeve. This is criminal.”
Keith Dunagin cleared his throat and picked up the grocery sack he’d set on the floor earlier.
“There’s something else I need to talk to you girls about,” he said.
“If it’s more bad news, I’m not interested,” Therese said. “Save it, okay?”
Keith reached into the bag and brought out a slightly rusty Chock Full O’Nuts coffee can. “This isn’t bad news. At least, I don’t think it’s bad. In fact, a nice surprise.”
“What’s the surprise?” Maeve asked.
“This,” he said, thrusting the coffee can at his nieces. “Your mom had been saving this for you. Ever since she came to work at the drugstore. Every payday, after her bills were paid, she’d save back a few bucks out of her check. And stash it in this coffee can.”
“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 in and 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 car repaired, 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, Therese studied 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 the V was really a U?
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 his Portrait 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 the first 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.
The entry was from something called Burke’s Peerage.
Geraldine Cressida Fitzhugh, b. 1852. Reggie, Lord Bellentree and Virginia Carnesworth Bellentree, Surrey. Presented at court, 1870. Married Charles, Lord Rossington, 1871. Children: Delia Sophia, b. 1872, Charles Edward Fitzhugh, 1878.
“A debutante,” Therese mused. Lady Geraldine was apparently a grand lady indeed. So how did this aristocrat fit into their family? The one Aunt Bernie described as poor-as-piss billy goat Irish?
That was a matter she’d investigate later. The burning question for now, as far as Therese was concerned, was whether this portrait was the real thing, and more important still, was it really valuable?
She thought she knew someone, right here in Savannah, who could possibly answer that question.
One of her classmates, Wyllona Jackson, had been a stand-out student at St. Mary’s, gone to undergrad at an Ivy League school up north, and had a PhD in art history from Princeton.
The only reason Therese knew any of this was because she’d run into Wyllona’s high school boyfriend Thaddeus tending bar in, of all places, Pinkie Masters, an iconic downtown dive bar.
She’d struck up a conversation with Thad the day of her mother’s funeral, when she’d dropped in for some liquid courage before reluctantly heading out to Blessed Sacrament, the very last place on earth she wanted to be that day.
He’d somehow remembered Therese from one of the Little Theatre productions she’d acted in all those years ago, and they’d had a friendly catch-up.
He and Wyllona still had an off-again-on-again thing, Thad had told her.
They were currently “off” because Wyllona was now living in New York, where she had recently taken a big-deal job with one of the fancy auction houses up there.
Therese hadn’t really run in the same circles as Wyllona, who, unlike Therese, had clearly been a serious student bent on a seriously successful future.
Chatting up Thad was just polite conversation, a way to knock back a few drinks and kill time until Therese’s command performance at her mother’s funeral service.
Now though, she thought, it might be time to catch up with her fellow St. Mary’s classmate. She clicked off some photos of the Lady Geraldine portrait on her phone and grabbed her purse. A drink at Pinkie’s was just what she needed.
She was on the way out the door when she remembered that the Beast’s gas tank was nearly empty, and she was dead, flat broke.
But Maeve’s purse was hanging, conveniently, on the same hook near the front door where their mama had always hung her purse, and her sweater, when she came in the door. In fact, there was Mary Helen’s battered black leather purse, hanging right next to Maeve’s.
Therese sucked in her breath and grabbed her mother’s purse.
Inside she found a handful of wrapped peppermints; a pair of sunglasses with scratched, oversized lenses; a packet of tissues; and a leather billfold.
The billfold held two dollar bills, her mother’s AARP membership card, and a long-faded Mass card from her father’s funeral. Not even a Visa card.
“Shit.”
But Maeve’s stylish coral-colored Kate Spade purse proved more fruitful.
The billfold held a gratifying stack of ten- and twenty-dollar bills.
Therese helped herself to sixty bucks. But then she realized that wouldn’t even halfway fill the Beast’s gas tank.
She took two more twenties and silently replaced her sister’s purse beside her mother’s.
Therese would never miss the money, she told herself.
“Just a loan. An advance against what we make when we sell Lady Geraldine.”