She gave Joe two
checks and handed the other to Brendan. "This is coming out of the
insurance which I'm supposed to get next week, so if you will hold
these until the first of the month . . . " She smiled. "There's a
stipulation. The money must be spent within one year on something that
makes you feel good."

"That shouldn't be hard," Brendan said.

"Thank you," Joe said. "I really wasn't expecting . . . " The money in
the family had always been Ann's, although his father's paintings had
begun to sell in recent years.

"Additionally, Joe, you are to have this drawing of your mother." She
pointed to a framed drawing that was propped up on the writing table.
"And first choice of any painting in the barn."

"That's very nice," Joe said.

"Your father always said you should have this drawing. It was one of
his favorite pieces from the early years."

"I'll take it with me."

"How long are you going to be staying?" she asked.

"I thought I'd take off the day after tomorrow. I just wanted to see
you and Brendan and . . . "

"I'll be here all week," Brendan said, "if anything needs doing."

"We're not going to have a ceremony. He didn't want one," Ann said. She
looked down at the floor for a moment and then raised her head. "I'm
going to bake something, if you boys will excuse me. Friends are going
to start coming by; I want to have something to offer them."

"Chocolate chips?" asked Brendan. She left without answering and they
finished their wine in silence.

"Might as well pick a painting," Joe said.

Brendan came with him to the barn. When they were inside, Brendan said,
"The old goat!" Joe spotted his father's special stash of Laphroaig and
reached for it.

"To the old goat," he said and took a healthy swallow. He passed the
bottle to Brendan. "You're all right, Brendan."

Brendan drank and cleared his throat. "Yowsir!"

Joe searched through paintings, mostly oils, and chose a small one,
unframed, that had been done earlier that year--a spring scene of the
woods at the edge of the field behind the barn. The leaves were just
out, and his father had captured the delicate early green, chartreuse,
that is gone in a week. The young leaves were modestly and unashamedly
tender. There was nice work with interarching birches among the other
trees and in the meeting of the woods and the field, but the light on
the leaves was the main act.

"A good one," Brendan said.

"Not too big, easy to mail."

"I'll bet